The Storm and the Shelter (chapter)

The thunder came low and steady at first—more a warning growl than a threat. By the time Clyde swung the church’s side door shut behind them, the sky had split full open. Sheets of rain hammered the tin roof like it had something to prove.

The power had flickered twice during the evening men’s gathering, and Ted had called it early, shooing everyone out before the worst of it hit. Everyone except Clyde and Tyler, who’d stayed behind to gather chairs and clean up—same as always. Familiar rhythm. Shared silence. And now, the storm.

“Guess we’re waitin’ it out,” Clyde muttered, glancing toward the windows streaked with water.

Tyler didn’t answer at first. He was watching the lightning flash behind the stained glass—Christ the Shepherd lit up in flickers of blue and gold. “Not a bad place to get stuck,” he said softly.

They settled into the little room off the back hallway—part storage, part prayer nook. A loveseat sat against one wall, old and sunken in places, and a shelf of dusty devotionals lined the opposite wall like forgotten psalms.

Tyler sat first, curling one leg under him. Clyde followed, stiff at first. The air smelled of wood polish and rain.

Neither spoke for a while.

The thunder moved closer.

Tyler’s voice came quiet. “Storms used to scare me. When I was a kid.”

Clyde looked over. “Me too.”

Tyler gave a faint smile. “Not the thunder. Just… the feeling like something was comin’ for me. Like the house couldn’t quite hold.”

Clyde nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

The silence returned, but it wasn’t empty.

Then Clyde said, voice low and unsure, “There’s nights I still feel it. That ache. Not just for someone beside me… but for someone who sees it all and doesn’t flinch.”

Tyler didn’t move. Just listened.

Clyde went on. “I spent half my life tryin’ to shut that down. To be a man nobody had questions about. And I was good at it, mostly.” He gave a rough breath of a laugh. “Guess the trouble came when I stopped wantin’ to be unseen.”

Lightning lit the windows again, and the thunder came close behind.

Tyler reached over—just a hand on Clyde’s knee, quiet and steady. Not pulling. Not asking. Just… there.

Clyde looked at it. Then at Tyler. His voice shook a little. “I still want it sometimes.”

Tyler held his gaze, warm and unswerving.

“But not as much,” Clyde whispered, “as I want it to be holy.”

Something passed between them then—heavier than want, lighter than fear. Like grace threading through the air.

They both leaned back into the worn cushions, shoulders touching now–warm and steady. Tyler let his hand fall away, but the closeness remained, no longer needing to ask for space.

“We’re not wrong for needing,” he said gently. “But we’re free to choose what we do with it.”

They sat there, the storm drumming above like it was testing the roof. Clyde let his eyes close for a moment.

When he opened them, he said, “Would you pray?”

Tyler nodded once, then bowed his head—not in performance, but in offering.

The words were soft. Just enough to be heard above the rain.

“Lord, be near. In the ache, in the waiting. Make this bond more Yours than ours. Keep it steady. Keep it clean. Amen.”

They didn’t speak after that.

Just sat together as the storm ran its course.

Two men under one roof, shoulder to shoulder.

Choosing peace.

Choosing light.

(Chapter from Held Fast, from the Tyler and Clyde series. Contact me if you want to read the whole story!)