A Quiet Surrender

Late summer dusk settled over Ted’s porch, golden light stretching shadows long across the boards. Ethan leaned against the railing, watching Ted tinker with a loose step—a nail here, a tap there. The air was warm, still, a quiet Ethan used to fight. Now, with Ted, it felt right.

Ted reached for his screwdriver, and Ethan passed it without a word. Ted didn’t look up, just nodded slightly. “You’re getting good at that.”

Ethan smirked. “What, handing you tools?”

“Readin’ people,” Ted said, tightening the screw. “Not everybody pays attention.”

Ethan took a sip of water, unsure how to take that. He had been paying attention—to Ted’s steady hands, his plain words, the way he never grasped or rushed. A year ago, silence would’ve driven him nuts. Now, it was where he found himself.

Ted sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag. Ethan exhaled slowly, watching the trees sway. “You ever think about how things line up?” he asked, quieter than usual.

Ted tossed the rag aside. “What do you mean?”

Ethan hesitated. “Like… if I hadn’t come here. If I hadn’t met you. Or if I had, but I wasn’t paying attention.”

Ted studied him, eyes thoughtful. “You ever hear about Elijah in the cave?”

Ethan shook his head.

Ted stretched out his legs, leaning against the railing. “Prophet, scared outta his mind. Runnin’. Thought he was alone, hidin’ in a cave, waitin’ for God to show up big—fire, storm, somethin’ loud.” He glanced at Ethan. “But God wasn’t in any of that.”

Ethan frowned. “Where was He?”

“In a whisper,” Ted said, voice soft.

Ethan sat with that, the words pressing in a way he couldn’t explain. Ted let it linger, then added, “Sometimes we’re so busy lookin’ for answers in the noise, we miss Him whisperin’ the whole time.”

Ethan swallowed, throat tight. His whole life, he’d seen faith as rules—church on holidays, prayers before meals, a script you followed. It’d never been real. “I didn’t grow up like this,” he said, staring at his glass. “Mom dragged us to church sometimes. We said grace. But it was just… what you did.”

Ted didn’t speak, just listened.

“I always thought faith was about following the rules,” Ethan said, a faint laugh escaping. “And I was never good at that.”

Ted’s voice was steady. “Maybe what you had wasn’t faith.”

Ethan glanced at him.

“Maybe it was just religion,” Ted said—not an accusation, an invitation.

The words hit hard. Ted talked about God like He was here—real, close. Like he wasn’t alone. Something flickered in Ethan’s chest—small, undeniable.

Ted looked at the sky, last light fading to blue. He exhaled slow, posture relaxed but face soft. Ethan had changed him too—stirred gratitude he hadn’t expected. For his own road through fire. For the whisper that’d reached him. For it reaching Ethan now.

Ethan’s grip tightened on his glass. “Maybe I was looking for you,” he said, barely above a whisper, then stopped, unsure what he meant.

Ted turned, meeting his eyes—not surprised, just knowing. “Maybe,” he said simply.Ethan exhaled shakily. For the first time, he didn’t want to run from it—whatever this was. Ted gave a small nod, like he understood. In his heart, he murmured two words: Thank You.

(Chapter from Narrow Road Together in the Ethan & Ted series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story)