The Revival Preacher
"Evangelist Shirley has preached fire across the South for thirty years. When a musician joins her ministry, she discovers some sermons need accompaniment."
The Spirit speaks through me.
Thirty years crossing Georgia with tent revivals, bringing fire to the faithful. I'm Evangelist Shirley—sixty-one, woman of God, voice in the wilderness.
"You need a piano player."
The man approaches after my Macon revival. Marcus Webb—musician, formerly secular, seeking something new.
"I have a piano player."
"You have someone who plays notes." He sits at the upright. "You need someone who feels them."
He plays—and I feel the Holy Ghost move differently.
Marcus joins the ministry.
His piano transforms my preaching, notes and words weaving together.
"Where did you come from?" I ask after one powerful service.
"Atlanta. Jazz clubs. Empty life." He closes the piano. "Heard you preach on the radio one night. Knew I needed to find you."
"The music or the message?"
"Both. They're the same when you do it."
Ministry becomes partnership.
His arrangements, my words, congregations weeping and rejoicing.
"This is different," my deacon notes.
"Good different or bad different?"
"Powerful different. Like God sent him specifically for you."
"God didn't send me for the ministry."
Marcus's confession comes after a late-night revival.
"Then why—"
"God sent me for you, Shirley." He moves closer. "The ministry just showed me where to look."
"I'm a preacher—"
"You're a woman. A beautiful one. Serving doesn't mean denying yourself."
The kiss happens in the empty tent.
Where thousands sought salvation, I find temptation.
"This is sin," I breathe.
"This is love." He pulls back. "Sin isn't what God gives. It's what we twist."
His cabin near Macon is modest.
"I don't need much," he explains.
"Neither do I." I take his hands. "Except this. Tonight. You."
He undresses me reverently.
"Anointed," he whispers.
"I'm just flesh—"
"Flesh made holy by purpose." His mouth traces my skin. "Let me worship properly."
His worship is complete.
Hands that play my favorite hymns now play me. When his mouth finds its home, I speak in tongues.
"Marcus—"
"Let the Spirit move." He smiles. "However it wants."
When he enters me, we're praising.
"So good," he groans.
"More. Don't stop the service."
"All night. All life."
Afterward, in his simple bed, we reconcile.
"Preach beside me."
"I play piano—"
"You have the gift." I pull him closer. "I've watched you pray. Marry me and preach beside me. We're stronger together."
"Shirley—"
"The Spirit showed me. You're not just my musician. You're my partner in everything."
The joint ministry launches that spring.
Evangelist Shirley and Pastor Marcus—reviving the South together.
"To the woman who gave my music meaning," he toasts at our wedding.
"To the man who gave my words melody," I counter.
We kiss while the congregation sings.
Some preachers stand alone.
Some find their harmony.
And some evangelists discover that the best sermons come from love lived boldly.
Spirit-filled.
Soul-matched.
Forever preaching.