September 5th,
I was excited to visit the fellowship today. I thought it would feel like home. Like church. Like warmth and truth and passion. But instead… it felt cold. Not empty, just cold. And that scares me more. Because when there's noise without fire, performance without presence — something is wrong. Deeply wrong.
***
Tony and I walked into the fellowship center just before 5:00 PM. The sun was beginning to set, casting gold streaks through the old stained-glass windows. The building wasn't very large — just a medium-sized hall with plastic chairs, a small platform, and a dusty keyboard in the corner.
I expected to feel excited.
Instead, my spirit pulled back.
A group of students stood on the platform, rehearsing worship songs. The music was… nice. Harmonies, riffs, beautiful runs. But that was all it was — nice. There was no weight. No glory. No stirring in my spirit.
Tony leaned in and whispered, "Tell me I'm not imagining it."
"You're not," I whispered back. "There's no fire."
We sat through the rehearsal quietly. A guy named Dayo introduced himself as the fellowship president. He was tall, wore designer glasses, and smiled too much. His words were smooth, polite — but they didn't carry depth.
"We're glad to have you both here," he said after the meeting. "We need fresh energy, especially from passionate young people like you."
I smiled, but it didn't reach my heart. Something about his tone felt… shallow. Like he knew how to say the right things but didn't believe them anymore.
There were other members too — a girl with perfect makeup named Tracy, who led worship but never looked anyone in the eye. Another guy named Kelvin, who kept checking his phone during prayer. They were polite. Welcoming. But spiritually dull. Like candles coated in wax, but unlit.
As we walked out of the hall, Tony shook his head. "This place is sick, Sandra."
"I know."
"It's worse than I thought. These people aren't cold. They're lukewarm. And that's more dangerous."
I stopped walking. "I kept hearing something in my heart all through rehearsal."
Tony turned. "What?"
"'Ichabod.' The glory has departed."
He exhaled deeply. "So what now? Are we going to join this?"
"No," I said slowly. "We're going to stay. Because if there's no light in a place, then that's exactly where it's needed most."
That night, I went back to my room and found Anita on her bed with her AirPods in. She didn't even glance at me when I walked in. Her corner was messy — clothes half-unpacked, shoes scattered, makeup brushes on her pillow.
But something about her still tugged at my spirit.
I sat at my desk, opened my Bible, and began to pray in a whisper.
"Father, raise a fire on this campus. Not performance. Not lukewarm worship. Real fire. Let it start with me. Use me, Lord. Use Tony. Use whoever is willing. But please — don't let us get swallowed in this deadness."
I didn't realize I had tears in my eyes until one hit the page.
***
This campus isn't just spiritually dry. It's choking. There's religion without relationship. Songs without surrender. And so much distraction. But I still believe revival is possible. That the same God who set altars on fire in Scripture can still do it here. This time, not with lightning — but with obedience. And if He needs a vessel, I'm right here.