The Gospel Singer's Encore
"Sister Marlene hasn't sung solo in twenty years. When a record producer rediscovers her old recordings, she discovers some voices never truly retire."
I sang for God.
Twenty years in the choir, but never solo. Not since my voice broke at thirty-five and I retreated to harmony. I'm Sister Marlene—fifty-seven, background voice, hidden in the chorus.
"This is you."
The man plays a recording on his phone. My voice—young, powerful, soaring through "His Eye Is on the Sparrow."
"Where did you get that?"
"Estate sale. Tapes from a church recording session, 1987." Marcus Webb—gospel producer, looking at me like he's found treasure. "Your voice was incredible. Why did you stop?"
The story is painful.
A vocal injury, a doctor's warning, fear that silenced what I loved most.
"That woman doesn't exist anymore," I say.
"I heard her Sunday." He steps closer. "In the choir. Holding back, but still there."
"You were at my church?"
"I came to find you. And I did."
He wants to record me.
"I can't—"
"Your range has changed, not disappeared." He plays another clip. "Mature voices have depth young ones lack. I want that sound."
"Why?"
"Because gospel needs authenticity. Because your voice carries pain and faith in equal measure." His eyes hold mine. "Because I haven't been moved like this in years."
The sessions are careful.
My rebuilt voice, learning its new limits. Marcus patient, encouraging.
"There," he says after one take. "You feel that?"
"Feel what?"
"The Holy Spirit." He smiles. "It never left you."
Recording becomes more.
Late nights, conversations, his hand steadying mine when doubt creeps in.
"Why do you believe in me?" I ask.
"Because I recognize calling." He touches my face. "Yours and mine. They're connected now."
The kiss happens in the recording booth.
Holy space, unholy thoughts.
"We shouldn't," I breathe.
"We should trust what's given." He pulls me closer. "This is grace, Marlene. Accept it."
His apartment has gospel everywhere.
Albums, plaques, a lifetime serving the music we share.
"I haven't loved anyone since my divorce," he admits.
"Neither have I." I take his hand. "Maybe we've both been waiting."
He undresses me reverently.
"Anointed," he whispers.
"I'm just—"
"You're chosen." His mouth traces my curves. "Let me worship properly."
His worship is complete.
Voice that spoke encouragement now speaks pleasure. Finding notes I forgot I had.
"Marcus—"
"Sing for me." He settles between my thighs. "Just let me hear you."
When he enters me, I do sing.
"So good," he groans.
"Don't stop. This is the verse we needed."
"Every verse. Every chorus. Forever."
Afterward, in his arms, I feel resurrected.
"The album releases next month."
"I'm terrified—"
"And excited." He pulls me closer. "Both are faith."
"And us?"
"Us is the song I've waited my whole life to produce." He kisses my forehead. "Marry me, Marlene."
The album goes platinum.
Sister Marlene's Encore—twenty-two years in the making, worth every moment of wait.
"To the woman whose voice changed everything," Marcus toasts at the release party.
"To the man who heard it," I counter.
The wedding is in my church.
Where I hid for decades, where I'll sing again—this time with a husband beside me.
We kiss while the choir rejoices.
Some voices fade.
Some are found.
And some gospel singers discover that the best encores come from someone who believed when you couldn't.
Notes risen.
Faith restored.
Forever singing.