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| The Daughter That Stepped In |
Lorraine, the owner, jumped back, laughing. “Lord have mercy, Naomi! Did you swim here?”
Naomi pushed wet hair off her forehead, catching her breath. “It started pouring halfway down the block! I should’ve brought a canoe!”
Solo barked proudly, leaving paw-shaped water stains on the floor.
Lorraine leaned over the counter, grinning. “And I see Solo has decided to baptize the store. Again.”
Naomi groaned. “I’m so sorry. I’ll clean it up.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Lorraine waved her off. “Y’all come on in.”
The warmth inside the shop wrapped around Naomi like a blanket. Soft gospel music hummed from an old radio. The air smelled of cedarwood, lemon oil, and the comforting age of things that held stories.
Naomi shivered and rubbed Solo’s ears. “I was heading home, but the rain got us.”
“You don’t need to ask,” Lorraine said. “You and Solo are always welcome. Sit a spell. Storm’s not going anywhere for a minute.”
Naomi dropped her soaked purse on the counter and exhaled. It had been a long week. A heavy week. The shop felt like a small sanctuary.
As she looked around, her gaze fell on a mountain of donation boxes in the back corner.
Lorraine followed her eyes and sighed. “That’s my punishment for being too kind-hearted. Folks drop their whole lives in boxes and expect me to magically sort it. You got energy to spare? I could use an extra set of hands.”
Naomi grinned. “Lead the way.”
Solo trotted behind them, leaving tiny puddles on the floor.
Naomi plunged her hands into the first box, laughing as she sorted through the items. "Church hymnals from the Nixon era, glassless picture frames, and enough 'Daily Bread' devotionals to feed a congregation." Her fingers stilled. "Hold on—"
She pulled out a Bible worn to butter-softness, its spine creased with the memory of a thousand openings. Inside the cover: Milton Burrows. Her father's handwriting. Familiar loops and dashes that once signed report cards and permission slips. Her throat closed up.
Lorraine’s smile faded. She stepped closer, voice gentle. “Your father dropped that off a few months ago. Said he wanted it to bless someone else.”
Naomi felt something tremble inside. “He… gave it away? I can’t believe it.”
Lorraine nodded. “He said he was tired, sweetheart. Said his preaching days were behind him. That the Lord had given him enough words for a lifetime.”
Naomi brushed her fingers along the handwritten notes in the margins—scriptures he once preached with fire, prayers he once wrote with conviction.
“I’m taking this home,” she whispered, clutching the Bible. “They broke something in him when they pushed him out of that pulpit.”
Lorraine placed a weathered hand on Naomi’s shoulder. "That Bible's been waiting here, honey. Like it knew you'd find it. First they silence your daddy after thirty years, then they tell you—with your gift—that women aren't meant to preach. Some folks read the Good Book but miss the good in it."
Naomi agreed. It was a sign. And she knew exactly who she needed to talk to.
She walked home through the clearing rain, pressing the Bible to her chest, rehearsing a dozen conversations with her father that all ended in the same place: his pain, her calling, and the space between them. Finding his Bible felt like divine intervention. She was Bishop Burrows’ daughter—perhaps the pulpit was her birthright, even if the church elders couldn’t see it yet.
Ten minutes later, Naomi found her father in his study, the room dim except for the lamp beside him. She stepped in quietly, Bible in hand.
“Daddy, I need to talk to you.”
Pastor Daniel looked up. “Of course, honey. What’s on your mind?”
She placed the Bible in his lap. “I found this. At Lorraine’s.”
His breath caught. “Naomi… I gave it to her. Someone else can get good use out of it now.”
“You had this Bible longer than I’ve been alive.”
He stared at the floor. “Now it’s time I laid it down.”
“Why? Because the church board said so?”
He leaned forward. “Naomi, the last time I preached, I felt empty. People whispered that maybe God was done with me. That maybe someone younger, stronger should lead—and I believed them.”
Tears filled Naomi’s eyes. “Daddy, that’s not true.”
“My voice isn’t what it used to be. My memory slips. And with my health… I’m just not the same. The board isn’t wrong to look for my successor.”
Naomi straightened her spine, feeling the weight of generations who had stood before congregations.
The ticking of the desk clock measured the silence between them.
Then she spoke softly. “What if He didn’t end the calling? What if He shifted it?”
He frowned. “Shifted it? To who?”
She whispered, “To me.”
Bishop Burrows froze.
“Naomi… you’re a woman,” he said gently. “Our church isn’t ready for that.”
Her voice steadied. "The Word doesn't belong to men alone, Daddy. You taught me about Phoebe who delivered Paul's letters. About Priscilla who taught the gospel. About Nympha who hosted church in her home. The Bible you gave me tells their stories too."
“They were called,” Bishop Burrows said.
Naomi nodded. "So am I. Every time I teach youth classes, scripture rises up in me like a tide. When I lead devotionals, it's not just my voice they're hearing. I'm not asking to take your place. But I can't ignore this fire inside me. I just need a chance."
He stared at her—stunned, wounded, conflicted—but moved.
“I never considered… I never imagined…” His voice cracked. “Naomi, I never once stopped to think what He could do through you.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Let’s pray about it. I’m sure the Lord will give us a sign.”
Naomi nodded.
___
Two weeks later, the Lord answered.
Bishop Burrows’ old friend, Reverend Holt, held a revival service to honor his ministry. At the door, he whispered to Naomi, “You can do this for him—prove you can follow in his footsteps.”
The revival swirled with emotion. Naomi sat beside her father, their hands clasped in silent support as the choir’s voices rose and fell like waves.
She stole a glance at her father—his expression flickering between pride, hesitation, a mix of uncertainty, and fear.
When Reverend Holt called her name, Naomi’s heartbeat thundered. She rose, her father’s Bible clutched to her chest. At the pulpit, she placed it down. The pages fell open to Esther 4:14.
Her voice quavered through the first verse, barely reaching the front row. Then, like embers touched by wind, something ignited. The tremble stilled. Her voice found its power, resonating to the farthest corners of the sanctuary.
She spoke with clarity. Conviction. The fire that once burned in her father’s voice now burned in hers.
The congregation swayed, handkerchiefs dabbing eyes, hands raised skyward.
"Amen," they called. "Yes, Lord," they answered.
Bishop Burrows covered his mouth, overcome.
After the last Amen echoed through the sanctuary, Naomi stepped from the pulpit, the Bible pressed close to her chest.
“Daddy,” she whispered, just for him, “this isn’t the end of your ministry—it's the beginning.”
He pulled her into his arms, sobs shaking his frame.
“Naomi,” he cried, “God wasn’t done—He was preparing you.”
“The Word is mine to carry now,” Naomi said, her smile soft but sure, watching tears fall down his face.
He nodded, then looked out at the congregation, arms still around his daughter.
Together, they turned toward the people, as if to say: the torch has been passed, and the light will not go out.
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