Charlene Woods ♀

29

You had been in love with Margaret for years—not that she ever noticed. She was the kind of girl who was always surrounded by friends, always laughing at some joke you wished you’d told. And you? You were good at making others feel comfortable, at welcoming newcomers to church, at befriending the ones who hung at the edges. It was easier that way—less pressure, less chance of saying something stupid. Then came Charlene. You’d gone to the same college, though you’d never been close. After service one Sunday, you approached her, mentioning the familiar halls, the late-night coffee spots. She was new here, and you wanted her to feel welcome. Maybe a bit too welcoming. The next thing you know, Charlene started seeking you out. Every Sunday, every college fellowship group meeting—always there, always eager to talk. You didn’t think much of it. Just being friendly, right? Then one evening, it happened. Several of us gathered in the dining hall, playing board games, joking around. Margaret was there, glowing under the soft yellow lights. And then, out of nowhere, she said it. “You and Charlene would make a cute couple.”

Kat Andrews ♀

31

Katherine Andrews stood at the back of Grace Community Church, her posture steady but her thoughts restless. The soft hum of voices filled the converted warehouse, bouncing off its exposed brick walls and metal beams. She’d been an usher here for years, slipping between rows of chairs, greeting newcomers, and handing out bulletins with a warm smile. Today, though, her duties felt like a chore rather than a calling. The scandal had left its mark on everyone. The treasurer’s betrayal—embezzling thousands meant for outreach and renovations—was bad enough. But the pastor and board’s attempts to bury the truth had been the final blow. Their resignations came too late to stop the wave of anger, disappointment, and doubt that swept through the congregation. Katherine’s eyes scanned the crowd as she gathered stray bulletins. People still showed up, but the unity that once defined Grace Community was gone. Conversations were quieter, smiles strained. Even the building felt different—its stained glass windows and colorful banners no longer radiated hope but served as reminders of broken trust. As she listened to the interim pastor’s message, Katherine wrestled with her emotions: anger, sadness, and a deep sense of betrayal. For over a decade, this church had been her home. She’d raised her children here, prayed through her darkest days, and celebrated life’s greatest joys. But now, she wasn’t sure if it could ever feel like home again. After the service, Deacon Thompson approached her, his face kind but lined with worry. “Katherine,” he said softly, careful not to draw attention. “We’re forming a team. A small group to figure out what’s next for the church. We need to rebuild—trust, leadership, everything.” Katherine’s interest was piqued. She wanted to be part of the solution, to help her church recover and emerge stronger. “I’m in,” she said, without hesitation.

Esther Cooper ♀

9

For eleven years, Grace Community Church had been her spiritual home, and for the past five, the worship team had become her family. Saturday rehearsals, Sunday mornings, and countless hours of shared songs had created bonds that ran deep. But now, things felt different. The financial scandal had rocked the church. The treasurer’s embezzlement and the leadership’s attempt to cover it up had left wounds that weren’t healing quickly. Attendance had dropped, and the once-tight community felt fractured. Still, Esther stayed. She couldn’t imagine walking away, even when trust felt hard to come by. “Hey, Esther,” came a voice from the stage. Chris Matthews, the team’s bass guitarist, slung his instrument over his shoulder and made his way toward her. His easygoing grin hadn’t changed, even after everything. “Hey, Chris,” she said, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “You heading out?” he asked, nodding toward her bag. “Not yet. Just need a moment.” She glanced at the sanctuary, its stained glass reflecting faint colors onto the concrete floor. Chris nodded, leaning against the wall beside her. “Weird, isn’t it? How different this place feels now.” “Yeah,” she admitted. “But I think we’ll get through it. Eventually.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “You always find the silver lining, don’t you?” “It’s not about the silver lining,” she said softly. “It’s about faith. God’s still here, even if people messed up.” Chris tilted his head, studying her. “You’re stronger than most of us. That’s why I asked you out—multiple times,” he teased. Esther laughed, rolling her eyes. “And I said no—multiple times.” “Didn’t stop us from being friends.” “True,” she said, smiling.

Leilani Kapua ♀

6

The church sanctuary was quiet as Sarah Kim, our Director of Outreach, stood at the podium. Her usual confident tone was softer, tinged with emotion. On the screen behind her were images of the fires that had ravaged Lahaina. “This is personal for me,” she began, her voice steady but raw. “My aunt and cousins live in Lahaina. They lost everything—their home, their business, their sense of security. They’re safe, but so many others are struggling. That’s why we’re organizing this trip. This isn’t about charity; it’s about standing with the people there and helping them rebuild.” Sarah’s eyes swept across the room, pausing on each of us. “For those interested in coming, this isn’t a trip for sightseeing. You’ll cover your own airfare, and take time away from your jobs and lives, but the church will arrange housing and food. You’ll be clearing debris, distributing supplies, and assisting the people who’ve lost everything.” I felt a tightness in my chest. The images on the screen—of blackened landscapes and tents serving as makeshift shelters—tore into my soul. I knew then that I would go. Two weeks later, I arrived in Lahaina with a small group from our church. The air was hot and dry, and the smell of smoke lingered faintly, even after all this time. We were greeted by Kalani Ikaika, the local coordinator. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early fifties, with a salt-and-pepper beard and deep lines etched into his sun-weathered face. His voice carried the quiet authority of someone who had lived through hardship. “Thank you for coming,” he said, his tone firm but kind. “But let me be clear—this isn’t about saving anyone. This is about standing alongside people who’ve been through more than you can imagine. Listen before you act, respect the land, and treat everyone you meet with aloha.”