The Flicker

Faith isn’t always this mighty roar shaking the heavens.

I choose my seat like someone picking at a scab reflexively, hesitantly, half-expecting pain. Third pew from the left, two rows up from the battered wooden cross that looms over the altar, just beyond the draft that snakes down from the ancient stained-glass windows. They’re more than decoration sagas of color, cracked and fractured, turning Sunday into shards of rainbow. Some days, light splinters across my lap and I feel pinned to a specimen tray. Today, I remain in shadow.

Cornerstone Community Church smells of frankincense and unshed tears. I slip in, a ghost among believers, folding trembling hands in a prayer I can’t quite believe. Pastor Daniels paces the stage, Bible in hand like a conductor’s baton. He drives the congregation with iron words: “GRATITUDE,” “ABUNDANCE,” “FAITHFULNESS.” Each syllable lands like a hammer.

“Are you grateful?”
“Yes, Pastor!”
“For every gift?”
“Yes, Pastor!”
“Even the hardships?”
“Yes, Pastor!”

I move my lips but make no sound. I’m grateful for the side door, for the half-empty parking lot, but not for the hollowness inside me. I study the altar flowers, lilies, baby’s breath arranged by unseen hands as if they might sprout answers.

The sermon softens. “The world will break you,” Pastor Daniels says, “but GOD will restore you. HIS name is balm for every wound.”

I snort under my breath, then shrink into my cardigan. The family in front of me doesn’t turn, but I feel their disapproval like a push.

At the hymn, Great Is Thy Faithfulness, voices knit together, and for one verse, I almost believe. My own voice comes out low, more question than praise.

When benediction falls, people file out with practiced choreography. I stay behind, watching the sanctuary empty, the janitor folding bulletins, toddlers leaving fingerprints on hymnals, widows whispering in the back.

“Have you ever called HIM Jehovah-Jireh,” one asks, “when the pantry’s empty and the check’s still a week out?”
The other wheezes a laugh. “Honey, I’ve called HIM every name in the book. El Roi, too, on nights I thought nobody could see my tears.”

Their words hang like incense. Jehovah-Jireh. El Roi. Passwords to a club I can’t join.

When they slip out, I rise, knees popping, and drift toward the pamphlet rack. Titles pile like prescriptions: Financial Freedom in Christ, Praying the Psalms, Healthy Boundaries for Hurting People. One thin booklet catches me half-buried.

Discover the Name of GOD.

I tuck it into my bag and step into the sun. Windshields glint like fractured glass. Families pack into vans. The elderly wait in the oak’s shade. I slide into my car, the booklet burning against my palm.

At the first red light, I open it. The name stares back: Yahweh.

I trace the letters with my thumb. Not joy, not certainty, just a flicker. A pilot light waiting for breath.

Reflection

Sometimes faith doesn’t roar. It flickers. You sit in the pew, half-shadow, half-exile, watching everyone else clap and shout like they’ve found a secret you missed. You try to mouth the words, but your heart is numb.

Listen: you haven’t been disqualified. His names aren’t reserved for the put-together. They are written for the fractured, the questioning, the ones who wonder if He still sees them.

Jehovah-Jireh. The LORD who provides even when your hands are empty.
El Roi. The GOD who sees even when you feel invisible.
Yahweh. I AM. Present. Here. Now.

Scripture holds when everything else feels like quicksand:

So Abraham called the name of that place “The Lord Will Provide”… (Genesis 22:14)
She gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: “You are the God who sees me.” (Genesis 16:13)
God said to Moses, “I AM WHO I AM.” (Exodus 3:14)

Prayer

GOD, I don’t always feel YOU. Sometimes life is all shadows, and I can’t find the light. But I want to know YOU, not just the GOD people preach about, but the ONE who sees me when I’m quiet, who provides when the tank’s empty, who simply IS when I feel like I’m not enough. Meet me in the cracks. Ignite the flicker. In JESUS’ name, amen.

Thank you for reading The Flicker.

This piece is for the ones who sit in the pews with silence heavy in their ribs, who mouth the words but can’t feel them. Faith doesn’t always come in fire; it comes in the faintest spark, daring you not to give up.

Until next time, ask yourself: What names of GOD do you breathe when the shadows press hardest?

With ache and with hope,
Ms. Maine
Girl, Why|Girl, Yes YESD Confidence