(Vol. 1, Issue #004) "The Voice in Savannah"

Savannah wasn’t where I expected to find peace—it’s where I went trying to survive it all. The days were heavy then, one bleeding into the next, and I just needed somewhere to catch my breath.

The church sat quietly off the main road, a small white building surrounded by open fields and the soft hum of crickets at dusk. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but from the moment I walked in, I felt something different—something I couldn’t name yet. The people smiled, not out of habit but from a place that felt real. The building only held thirty or forty members, most of them big families who had always known one another, but they made room for me anyway.

It was small enough that there was nowhere to hide, yet safe enough that I didn’t need to.

Every Wednesday night, we gathered for Bible study, reading a book called Hope Island. I was new to all of it—new to studying scripture like this, new to speaking out loud in rooms where my voice might tremble. I would sit quietly, praying they wouldn’t call on me, hoping my silence didn’t make me look uninterested. When my turn came to read a paragraph, I did it softly, heart racing, then exhaled when it passed.

Back at our old church, I had volunteered for puppet theater and potlucks, but even there I kept myself small, tucked behind service so I wouldn’t have to be seen. But Savannah was different. Something about this little church—the gentle hum of the lights, the soft carpet underfoot, the simple fellowship hall with its concrete floors and rows of folding chairs—invited me to stay a little longer each week.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was filled with care. You could feel the love of God in the air, even if you didn’t recognize it right away.

Melanie and Linda led most of the lessons. They had an ease about them, like they’d walked this road long enough to know when to listen and when to nudge. Melanie, especially, had a warmth that filled every corner of the room. She was the kind of woman who saw you before you even knew you wanted to be seen.

She started something called SWAP—Sisters With A Purpose—a mix of crafting, conversation, and scripture. Somehow, it didn’t feel intimidating. It felt like an invitation.

Week after week, I found myself showing up. Listening. Laughing. Letting walls down I didn’t know I’d built so high.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but that’s where the voice started to grow louder—not booming from the heavens, but whispering in the kindness of others, in the stillness of a Wednesday night, in the way Melanie’s faith seemed to flow through everything she touched.

It wasn’t that I suddenly found God in Savannah.
It’s that He finally had the quiet space to speak—and I was finally learning how to listen.

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The Journal

Volume 2: The Call to Adventure

Issue #004— "The Voice in Savannah"

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