Hey, I know you don't want to talk to me, but we don't have to talk. I wrote this worship song and it needs a girl vocal on it. Will you come sing it please? He asked.
Sure. But no talking.
I'd just recorded the lead vocals and he walked into our makeshift booth to sing his harmony over it. As he began to sing, my mind froze for a moment in time. I logged away every detail of that moment.
The black boom stands that held the microphones, bent at just the right angle for his stance. The fuzzy walls we rigged up to keep the outside sounds from hitting the microphones. The picture frame he joking hung one night. This could be a picture of our future baby girl, he said in half jest.
No. No it was most certainly not going to be.
I remember him hitting the highest note of the song when I made the decision. Like something straight out of an unconventional fairytale.
There wasn't an accompanying angelic choir or glitter descending from the heavens, or even a feeling. It was a decision.
He loves God fiercely. I love God desperately.
He sings. I sing.
His heart is for the Church. My heart is for the Church.
He loves compassion ministry and I love compassion ministry.
He loves me. Adores me even. And I can't shake the feeling that I might love him too.
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