Come, Lord Jesus (But Not Like That)

Based on Revelation 22:12–21 – The invitation and warning of Christ’s return, and the song by Sydney Carter No Use Knocking on the Window, Standing in the Rain.

They used to say she lit up the church. Mira, always early, always helping. She led the youth Bible study and sang the alto line that held the hymns steady when the organ wavered. People liked her smile—quiet, sincere, the kind that made you feel seen. That’s what made it worse.

The man she trusted—Mr. Duncan, the elder with a booming laugh and a folder of sermon outlines, had touched her in the vestry. She told someone. Softly. As if saying it gently would hurt the church less.

At first, it was a concern. Then doubt. Then sharpness.

“Are you sure?”

“That’s a serious accusation.”

“He’s been here longer than you.”

Eventually, they told her not to come back. For “unity.” For “reputation.” For “healing.”

She watched everything she loved being buried. The pew she used to sit in. The songs she used to sing. Communion without her name called.

But this time, no angel appeared at the tomb.

She stopped believing soon after that. Not out of anger, but because it seemed pointless to believe in a God whose people didn’t. She found other things. Fleeting lovers. Long night shifts. And eventually, a rhythm: waking early, walking the streets, keeping people alive. Soup, bandages, tampons, shoes. A pocket knife when needed. No prayers, but plenty of grace.

The churches were full again. Someone had started preaching that the end was coming. Properly this time. No metaphors. Blood moons, locusts, the whole Revelation bingo card. Flyers taped to power poles: HE IS COMING.

They meant Jesus.

Mira passed the church on Derby Street every evening. The stained glass windows glowed with colour, and the foyer was stacked with end-time books, charts, and checklists. Inside, someone was always rehearsing.

“He’ll come through those doors,” said one pastor. “With glory and power.”

“He’ll separate the sheep and the goats,” another had shouted, two streets over.

Mira just kept walking.

One night, the wind picked up. Leaves scattered in circles. The Derby church had its floodlights on, brighter than usual. A man stumbled out of the shadows, muttering. His face was bleeding. He’d been hit or fallen or both. He couldn’t find his way.

Mira stepped out from under the streetlamp. Quiet as dusk. She touched his shoulder. “Sit,” she said. He obeyed.

She cleaned the wound above his eyebrow with bottled water and cotton from her bag. The streetlamp buzzed behind her and flared—just for a second—into a radiant white. The man squinted up at her, shielding his eyes.

“You okay?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. Just stared. The light behind her cast a ringed glow around her head, catching in her curls and outlining her face.

His lip trembled. “Are you…” he began and trailed off.

“…him?”

She paused, looking at him with something close to pity. Or tenderness. Or maybe nothing at all. Just a shrug.

She pressed a bandage to his head, handed him the rest of the water, and stood up. “You’ll be alright.”

He reached for her hand, but she was already walking.

Down the street, someone rang a church bell. Loud, urgent, expectant. Mira didn’t turn around.

At the corner of the alley, a child sat on a milk crate, knees hugged to chest. Watching. Not blinking.

They said nothing.

Just watched the woman with the scuffed boots and threadbare coat disappear into the orange wash of the streetlights.

They didn’t know what they had seen. Only that it didn’t look like the Second Coming they had been promised.

Come, Lord Jesus (But Not Like That)
(shorter version)

Based on Revelation 22:12–21 – The invitation and warning of Christ’s return, and the song by Sydney Carter No Use Knocking on the Window, Standing in the Rain.

They used to say she lit up the church. Mira, always early, always helping. She led the youth Bible study and sang the alto line that held the hymns steady when the organ wavered. People liked her smile—quiet, sincere, the kind that made you feel seen. That’s what made it worse.

The man she trusted—Mr. Duncan, the elder with a booming laugh and a folder of sermon outlines, had touched her in the vestry. She told someone. Softly. As if saying it gently would hurt the church less.

At first, it was a concern. Then doubt. Then sharpness.

“Are you sure?”

“That’s a serious accusation.”

“He’s been here longer than you.”

Eventually, they told her not to come back. For “unity.” For “reputation.” For “healing.”

She watched everything she loved being buried. The pew she used to sit in. The songs she used to sing. Communion without her name called.

But this time, no angel appeared at the tomb.

She stopped believing soon after that. Not out of anger, but because it seemed pointless to believe in a God whose people didn’t. She found other things. Fleeting lovers. Long night shifts. And eventually, a rhythm: waking early, walking the streets, keeping people alive. Soup, bandages, tampons, shoes. A pocket knife when needed. No prayers, but plenty of grace.

The churches were full again. Someone had started preaching that the end was coming. Properly this time. No metaphors. Blood moons, locusts, the whole Revelation bingo card. Flyers taped to power poles: HE IS COMING.

They meant Jesus.

Continue reading the full story here.