Thomas gently broke the news: they weren’t missionaries—they were scammers. He told her to stop sending money and called her daughter, asking her to keep a closer eye on her mom’s finances.
At first, she looked embarrassed. Ashamed. But by the end of the conversation, she didn’t remember much at all. She tried to offer Thomas a few crumpled dollar bills for his time. He refused and waited with her until her daughter picked her up and thanked him for the call.
A third woman, who served as one of the church’s most avid members, leaned forward in her chair like she was sharing a secret.
“I just think someone needs to talk to her about it, that’s all. I mean of course, I love her like any good Christian woman would, but goodness Chaplain, people know she goes to our church. It’s bad enough about the divorce, but her new companion in our pews? –”
Mrs. Shellston, please. We really don’t make it a habit of monitoring the private lives of our members…you know, the whole ““Do not judge, or you too will be judged” thing.”
“Well, yes, I mean, I’m certainly not judging, only concerned for the reputation of our church. It’s because I care.”
“Your care and concern for the church is certainly noted.”
She left unsatisfied and still ignorant of her own hypocrisy.
Thomas leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
This is what faith felt like now.
Small. Petty. Exhausting…Hopeless.
A knock came at the door.
Soft. Hesitant.
The boy who quietly slipped into the pews before the morning service stood in the doorway, sleeves pulled over his hands.
What Faith Remains
Editor’s Note:
The following story is a work of fiction, inspired by the real experiences of chaplains, pastors, and faith leaders who quietly serve their communities through grief, doubt, crisis, and the everyday weight of other people’s pain. It is written in recognition of those who continue to show up—not because their faith is easy, but because their love for others demands it—often becoming the steady presence people need long before they realize it.
6:35AM
Thomas woke before the alarm. Not abruptly. Far from rested. Just… awake.
Gray light pressed gently through the blinds, flattening the room into soft shapes and shadows. The air felt still, like the world hadn’t started yet and wasn’t sure if it wanted to. He knew the feeling.
He lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the ceiling fan. In the past, this hour had been sacred to him. A place where prayer came easily, and where the day felt like possibility.
Now it left him waiting, and wanting.
On the nightstand sat a closed Bible, a glass of water from the night before, and his phone.
The phone began buzzing softly against the wood nightstand.
Mom Calling.
The vibration seemed too loud for the room.
Thomas couldn’t help but watch it ring.
The voicemail clicked on.
“Hey, honey. It’s Mom. I just wanted to call and say good luck today. First day back. Me and Dad are so proud of you. Bridget would be too. Ok, well, call me when you can.”
A pause.
“We love you.”
Hearing the name stung.
Thomas sat up slowly and rubbed both hands over his face.
He stood up and began the quiet routine of getting dressed. Relying on the same auto pilot that he had been for months.
He went to open the top drawer of his dresser instinctively but hit a sharp pause when he saw and remembered the folded American flag in the top drawer. He closed the drawer quickly and quietly, as if he did it quietly enough, he would forget he opened it at all.
He opened the next drawer down and grabbed a pair of thick black socks, moving through the motions as if hoping to stay just ahead of the sting he felt in his body and mind.
Outside, the morning air was cool and flat. The world felt awake but not yet kind. Begrudgingly beginning it’s day.
7:15AM
The bell above the corner shop door jingled too brightly as he stepped inside.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The place smelled like burnt coffee and disinfectant.
A television mounted in the corner filled the room with the noise of morning news. Voices overlapped each other while a banner of headlines crawled endlessly across the bottom of the screen.
Footage flickered past too quickly to settle on—crowds shouting over one another, a shaky video of someone being pushed in a street, commentators talking over the images with sharp certainty. Words like crisis, outrage, and tragedy flashed and disappeared before they could mean anything.
No one in the store was watching. But the noise filled the room anyway.
Thomas glanced up just long enough to feel the weight of it without really seeing it, then looked back down at the counter, already tired of a world that seemed to be speaking too loudly for anyone to hear.
He grabbed a bottle of water, a banana, and an energy drink without thinking. Survival choices.
At the counter, a young cashier smacked her gum and stared at her phone beside the register.
“Morning,” Thomas offered gently.
She didn’t look up. “Twenty-three fifty.”
He handed her cash and stood there for a moment longer than necessary, waiting for eye contact that never came. He nodded in defeat and grabbed the bag off the counter.
On the way out, he held the door open for a man entering the shop.
The man walked through the door and past Thomas as if he were a ghost. No thanks. No nod. Not even so much as a glance.
Then, seizing the opportunity, two teenagers rushed past him, bumping him on their way inside, laughing at something the other said. Completely oblivious to the world around them.
Thomas stood there for a moment, hand still on the door.
A feeling much like anger but too close to sadness filled his chest. He continued forward with a silent hope the day might get better from here.
Thomas moved through his disheartened disbelief and continued towards the church.
Down the sidewalk, near the curb, a man sat wrapped in a blanket. Head bowed into his chest. Still.
Thomas slowed.
He almost stopped.
A year ago, he would have.
But he didn’t.
A year ago, he would have gone back inside, bought another banana, and sat down next to the man to ask his name.
Today, he lowered his eyes and kept walking. Ahead of him, the church began to creep into view.
The brick rose tall and steady, the cross catching the morning light like something eternal. Beautiful. Mighty. And somehow, it made his chest tighten.
7:30AM
He slowed again before reaching the doors, keys already in his hand.
Morning light filtered through the stained glass, painting color across the empty pews. Blues and reds stretched across the floor like something living, moving quietly with the rising sun.
Thomas walked to the front and rested a hand on the pulpit. The wood felt familiar beneath his palm, like a place his body remembered even if his spirit did not.
“Well now,” came a familiar voice, warm and worn like an old coat. “If it isn’t the man I’ve been keeping the pulpit warm for.”
Thomas turned to see Senior Chaplain Eli making his way toward him, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his slacks, a small smile resting under his gray mustache.
“I was starting to think I might want to come out of retirement permanently after these last few months,” Eli said. “But my knees were filing formal complaints.”
Thomas smiled faintly.
“Thank you,” he said. “For stepping in.”
Eli waved it off like a passing fly.
“Gave me something to do besides argue with daytime television,” he said. “I’d forgotten how much I missed slow mornings here”
He came to stand beside Thomas, both of them facing the sanctuary now.
They didn’t speak for a moment.
Eli let the silence do its work.
“Does it feel different?” he asked quietly.
Thomas took a breath through his nose.
“Yeah,” he admitted.
Eli nodded slowly, eyes scanning the pews.
“Well,” he said gently, “no rule says you have to be the same man who walked out of here a few months ago.”
Thomas glanced at him.
“I’m just glad you were the man who walked back in.”
The words settled between them.
Eli clapped a light hand against Thomas’s shoulder — not heavy, not ceremonial. Just steady.
“And for what it’s worth,” he added, “I’m glad you’re here. The place feels more like itself already.”
He turned to head back toward the hallway, then paused.
“And Thomas?” Thomas looked up.
“If today feels heavier than you thought it would… my door is always open. Retirement hasn’t made me hard to find.”
A small, grateful breath escaped Thomas.
“Thanks, Eli.” Eli smiled.
“Welcome home, Chaplain,”
Eli called back with a smile, disappearing into the hall.
Just then, a side door creaked softly, and Thomas turned his head just enough to notice.
A teenage boy slipped inside and sat in the very last pew. Hoodie up. Backpack resting at his feet. He didn’t pull out his phone. Didn’t look around.
Just sat.
He had only taken a step towards the boy when a familiar voice split the moment like an alarm bell.
“Chaplain Thomas! Welcome back. Oh my goodness, we weren’t sure if we’d ever see you again! Thought we ran you off.” She said with a well intentioned laugh.
The first of the regulars began to arrive.
Each seeing Thomas and offering a similar sentiment.
“Oh, Thomas, it’s so good to see you back.”
“We’ve missed you.”
“You look well.”
Hands squeezed his shoulder. Eyes softened in that way people do when they want to show care but don’t know where to put it.
The hallway grew warmer. Louder. Smaller.
By the twentieth welcome back, his chest felt tight and the air felt thin.
He excused himself and quickly slipped down the side hall and into the men’s room, locking the door behind him.
He gripped the sink with white knuckles and breathed like the room was rationing the oxygen.
When he looked up at his reflection, he felt as though he was watching someone pretending to be him.
An imposter.
He splashed water on his face and stood there until his breath finally yielded and began to slow.
When he stepped back into the hallway, Mrs. Finch and Alice Jampton stood near the water fountain, speaking in hushed voices that weren’t hushed enough.
“I just don’t know what I’d do if that were my son.”
“I would be mortified.”
“And I hear he’s one that is quite…flamboyant.”
A quiet, sympathetic sigh.
“We’ll pray for them.”
A soft laugh followed. Not malicious. Just careless enough to be cruel.
Thomas stopped.
They turned, surprised, as if two children caught with their hands in the cookie jar.
“Oh! Chaplain Thomas, we didn’t see you there.”
His voice was calm. Level. He gave them a gentle smile.
“You two should get to your seats.”
“You wouldn’t want to miss today’s sermon on John 13:34–35
He held their gaze a moment longer.
“Love one another. As I have loved you. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples…”
The words landed. Both women went red in the cheeks and began towards their seats.
Thomas stood there for a moment after they left.
His jaw tight.
Not angry.
Disappointed.
More tired than before. And perhaps, a little angry.
Not at the gossiping whispers, but at the nastiness of the world that seemed to have infiltrated every crevice of the world, including the very place he use to feel safest.
8AM
The sanctuary filled steadily, as did the nervousness in his stomach.
The hum of conversation softened as he stepped up to the pulpit.
He looked up into the crowd and to all the familiar smiling faces.
Waiting. Expecting.
Trusting.
He opened his notes and looked down, squinting at the notes that seemed to have become hieroglyphics.
His throat tightened.
He began anyway.
“We live in a world that asks us to choose, every day, who we’re going to be…”
His words sounded shaky in the air.
They didn’t feel like his.
Halfway through the next sentence, his words tangled. His stomach twisted. His knees felt weak.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
He stepped down from the pulpit and moved quickly through the side door. He had not prayed in weeks, but the state of his stomach had him contemplating a quick prayer to make it to the outside church bushes before the contents of his stomach exercised themself from his body.
A murmur spread through the sanctuary behind him.
Eli quickly made his way to the front of the room and continued the morning service without missing a beat. The way only a true seasoned professional could.
The cool morning air pressed against his face as he stood there, hands on his knees, breathing hard, and staring at the gravel like it might tell him how to stand back up.
When he finally did, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and walked quickly toward the chapel office.
He closed the door behind him and sank into the chair, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose between them.
The muffled sound of the service carried on through the wall without him.
Then after, a gentle knock. The door opened and Father Eli stepped in quietly.
He didn’t ask questions right away. He simply pulled a chair over and sat across from Thomas, giving him space to exist without performing.
A few moments passed, each feeling longer than the next.
“I don’t know how to be here,” Thomas said finally, staring at the floor.
Eli waited.
“Hate. Suffering. Indifference. I see it everywhere. Not just on the news. In people. The church. The places I used to find… something good.”
He exhaled sharply like a pressure cooker being released.
“People don’t even see each other anymore. And with everything that’s happened this year…I’m afraid I’ve lost my faith.”
Eli stayed silent.
“How can I lead these people who trust me when I’ve lost my faith?”
Eli leaned back slightly.
“Faith, by its nature, is meant to be tested—like steel forged in fire. The ones who endure that testing are the ones who shape the faith of the world. This place was never meant to be a museum of goodness,” he said quietly. “It’s a hospital for the broken and the weary.”
Thomas doesn’t respond.
“Don’t aim for faith,” Eli added. “Aim for people. Sit with them. Listen to them. Love them. See where that leads you.”
Thomas nodded, not entirely sure if in agreement, or obedience.
Eli squeezed his shoulder once and left.
The rest of the morning moved like thick air.
Thomas left the hideout of the chapel office with Eli’s words still sitting somewhere in his chest, not heavy enough to lift him, but not gone either.
Aim for people.
He wasn’t sure what that meant yet.
He just knew the day wasn’t over.
11AM
His first counseling session of the day sat across from him like a mirror of small frustrations.
A young couple preparing to marry sat across from him, bickering back and forth about nothing big but everything small.
They didn’t look at each other. They looked at Thomas like a referee, demanding a winner.
He listened. He nodded. Offered words about patience and communication. The man seemed to have not heard him while the woman seemed annoyed to not have inherently won the match.
Thomas felt tired.
An older woman came in next.
“They said they’re missionaries, and that their accounts were frozen. I didn’t want them to go hungry. I know God is leading me to be generous, but my savings have gotten low.”
“I don’t have an appointment.”
“That’s okay,” Thomas said. “Come in.”
The boy hesitated, as if debating sitting down or running out the door. Finally, he sat on the edge of the chair, like it was a plan B escape.
Thomas intentionally softened his spirit and gave a gentle smile.
“What’s your name?”
“Chris.”
“How can I help you, Chris?”
The boy shrugged.
The silence settled.
“Did you kill someone?”
He looked startled and confused.
“What–no!”
“Are you in any trouble with the law?”
“I mean, no.”
“Get a girl pregnant?’
“Oh my god dude, no!”
Thomas chuckled, successfully cutting the tension in the room. Chris seemed to soften slightly.
“School’s just… hard I guess.”
A pause.
“The kids don’t leave me alone.”
Thomas nodded.
“Yeah. Kids can be real assholes.”
The boy looked up, surprised by the frankness of the response.
Thomas leaned back slightly.
“I got teased a lot when I was your age.”
The boy squinted at him.
“You?”
Thomas smiled faintly.
“I was quiet. I spent a lot of my time reading rather than playing sports. Easy target. At first it was just small stuff. Passing comments. Pranks no one thought were funny. But once they think you’ll take it, well, it gets worse. I’ll never forget when Jonny Brevits broke my nose sophomore year. Only problem for him was, I had an older sister who was a senior at the time.”
The boy leaned in beckoning for more of the story.
“She saw it happen. Walked straight over and broke his nose right back.”
The boy’s eyes widened.
“She got suspended. And that same day, she taught me how to throw a punch.”
A small grin tugged at the boy’s mouth.
“She told me, ‘“Don’t ever let someone else decide what you’re worth. And you protect that worth at all costs.”
“So, what you’re saying is…”
“You should absolutely learn how to throw a punch.”
The boy blinked.
“But your first line of defense is knowing who you are. Confidence. Integrity. Self-worth.”
A pause.
“No one can make you feel small without your permission. Cheesy. But true.”
The boy nodded slowly, as if choosing whether to believe the sentiment or not.
“Thanks.”
Thomas smiled and felt a small spark of purpose ignite in his chest.
“No problem. Stop by anytime. No appointment needed. And if it ever stops being ‘hard’ and starts being dangerous—you tell me. Or tell someone.”
Chris nodded and stood to leave, perhaps just a little taller than when he arrived.
And for the first time all day, Thomas didn’t feel so tired.
2:35PM
Later, he decided to step out for some lunch at the local Thai place down the street. It had always been one of his favorites.
But when he did, the world met him with noise. Not the normal hustle and bustle of main street at lunchtime. But the noise of panic. Chaos.
Thomas noticed a crowd gathered near the food shops down the block. People stood still, phones out, voices raised in confusion. Thomas spots at least five black unmarked SUVs lined on the street.
The chaos started moving up the street as patrons and employees from the shop began to scatter. A man looked back for only a second, but enough time to stumble into the street in front of him. Three men, dressed all in black and face coverings, grabbed the man, pulling him towards one of the SUV’s.
He called out for help.
People filmed.
People stared.
But they didn’t move.
And neither did Thomas.
Eyes wide. Feet heavy. Stuck to the very spot he stood.
Time seemed to slow.
He watched himself not move. Did he want to? His feet felt too heavy to run away from the chaos, but what other option was there?
Then, a woman with wide frantic eyes, clutching a little girl’s hand, emerged from the crowd, looking for anywhere but here.
Where would she and her baby be safe?
Something inside him snapped awake.
He stepped into the street to meet the woman.
“Come with me, you can come to the church.”
He looked around and began to find the strength in his voice.
“Sanctuary! Come to the church!”
He pointed a few people in the direction of the church and helped others in the area to where they would be safe.
4:45PM
Back at the church, the hallway filled with new, scared faces. Men, women, and children.
Thomas handed out water, juice, peanut butter crackers and blankets. It was busy, and heartbreaking. But somehow, this was the first time the church had felt like home in a long time.
The woman and little girl approached him.
“Thank you,” the woman said.
She spoke quickly in Spanish, eyes full of tears. The little girl translated.
“She says she will pray to San Miguel to watch over you. Because you are a true warrior of God. And a protector of his people.”
The woman grabbed his hands and said softly in broken English:
“You… miracle.”
Thomas blinked. He could feel his cheeks go red.
And something in his chest loosened for the first time in months.
For a moment, he felt ashamed for wanting to flee the chaos for the safety of the church. But as he looked around, pride replaced it. That one small choice had allowed him to share not only safety, but love, community, gratitude, purpose… and Jesus.
Thomas wondered if the woman had any idea that she and her daughter were the miracle he needed that day.
Eli’s voice broke through the room.
“Thomas.”
He turned to see Chaplain Eli with a furrowed brow and concern in his eyes.
“There’s a call. You need to take it.”
On the other end of the call was Chris, and Thomas could tell something was seriously wrong.
“I didn’t know who else to call.”
Chris, sounding frantic and dangerously close to traffic, began to cry. Not everything he was saying made sense, but Thomas gathered enough to know he was on the St. Michael’s bridge, and that he was in danger.
St. Michaels Bridge. 3.6 Miles.
“Go, we’ve got everything covered here,” said Eli with a nod.
Thomas hung up the phone and began to run.
5:04PM
His lungs, knees and hips were on fire.
He arrived out of breath, only to see the boy with a fresh black eye, sitting safely on the inside of the railing.
A flood of relief washed over Thomas.
“Did you run all the way here?” Chris asked, surprised.
His eyes were puffy but he seemed to have calmed down since his call to Thomas.
Thomas put his hands on his knees and silently begged for his breath to return.
“You just ran like, 4-minute miles.”
“I ran cross country in high school,” Thomas panted. “Had better knees back then though.”
The boy almost smiled. “I thought you didn’t do sports?”
“Well, to be fair, the jocks didn’t really accept cross country as a sport.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Thomas motioned toward Chris’s eye.
“Nice shiner. What happened?”
“I didn’t have an older sister to teach me how to not get my ass kicked, I guess.”
Thomas sat, resting his back against the cold railing, watching the traffic pass.
“When I lost my sister, I didn’t know how to keep going. She made the world feel safe. She made me feel strong. So when she died, I felt small for the first time in years—like the world was pressing down on me and I didn’t know how to push back. But when you wake up each day inside that kind of chaos, the world starts to teach you a new normal. New ways to move. To survive. And, eventually, new ways to find the things we are always searching for—friends, love, happiness. All of it asking you to endure.”
Thomas looked out over the traffic.
“I think real courage is being willing to feel it all,” he said. “Fear. Sadness. Embarrassment. All of the ugliness. And being willing to endure it all for a purpose.”
A pause.
“How do you figure out what your purpose is?
Thomas took a second to reflect on his question.
“You don’t. You just decide to believe you have one… and keep showing up until it finds you.”
The boy nodded slowly.
“What happened to your sister?”
“She died 4 months ago. Serving her second tour in Iraq.”
Chris sat silently for a moment.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
Thomas gives him a soft smile, as thankful for the space to talk as he is the space to influence.
Thomas hopped up and motioned for Chris to do the same.
“Come on, get up.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re going to learn how to throw a punch.”
The boy blinked and then smiled.
An informal lesson followed. Thomas showed him how to stand, how to hold his hands, how to ball his fists and how to follow through. All the same lessons his sister took the time to arm him with.
“Alright, now turn with your hips and follow through–”
The boy’s left hand landed square in Thomas’s eye.
“Shit,” Thomas muttered.
“Shit, Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”
Thomas laughed, holding his eye.
“Don’t be, that’s a mighty southpaw.”
They both laughed and it’s clear the lesson was over, with great success.
Thomas ruffled the boy’s hair as an older brother might.
He slowed his steps and turned to him, his expression gentle but intent.
“Try and be the miracle first. If that doesn’t work… then become their deliverance.”
They shared a sly smile and began their walk back towards town.
The Following Sunday
The following Sunday, the chapel was fuller than Thomas had ever seen it. Folding chairs scraped against the floor as more filed in, some standing along the back wall. A few unfamiliar faces mixed in with the regulars filled the pews. Including the mother and daughter who had helped restore Thomas’s faith.
Quiet murmurs moved through the room.
“I think,” he began gently, “most of us have prayed at some point for a miracle.”
A few shifted in their seats.
“The desperate kind. The kind you pray for when you’re tired, or scared, or hurting in a way you don’t have words for anymore.”
He looked up, meeting their eyes one by one.
“The kind where you beg God to step in. Fix it. Change it. Make the pain stop. Make the situation different. Make you different.”
A pause.
“What if, more often than we realize, God’s answer to those prayers is not something that happens to us…”
He let the thought hang.
“…but something that happens through us.”
Thomas scanned the room once more, and spotted Chris, seated near the first few rows. Chris gave him a small smile, which Thomas returned, both sporting matching black eyes.