4338.210 · July 29, 2018 AD
Beyond the Ordinary Path
The Bishop's office door closes behind them. The corridor is the same grey carpet, the same crooked noticeboard — but everything has changed. Inside that room, Noah read a letter aloud from the Area President summoning selected members to a confidential gathering at the Adelaide Temple tonight. No explanation. No disclosed purpose. Just a calling wrapped in secrecy and the weight of divine instruction. Greta and Noah step back into the ordinary Sunday afternoon carrying something extraordinary between them, and the shape of the day bends around it.
Greta knows this corridor. She has sat outside this door beside trembling women and restless teenagers, has passed Noah sandwiches through it during Stake Conference prep, has waited here more times than she can count. But today, she and Noah are the ones being called in.
Bishop Hahn greets them with warmth that carries an edge of gravity. He opens a drawer and slides a white envelope across the desk. Noah takes it with both hands and begins to read aloud. The letter is from the Area President. It speaks of guided revelation, of chosen servants, of a sacred gathering to be convened at the Adelaide Temple — tonight. The purpose is not disclosed. Confidentiality is emphasised. Selected members only.
Greta whispers "That's tonight" before she can stop herself. The date she hadn't been counting forward to is suddenly here, immediate and real. Bishop Hahn confirms that they have been chosen for this gathering. Noah's voice trembles only slightly as he says "Thank you, Bishop." They shake hands. The door closes behind them. And for a long moment, they stand in the hallway, the body trying to catch up with what the spirit has just accepted.
Charles finds them by the drinking fountain. He reads the shift in the air with the quiet alertness of a son who knows when something significant is unfolding, even if no one names it. Noah redirects him gently. Then they step outside into the winter sun and stand together by the car, processing what has happened in the only language that fits — silence.
Noah leans against the bumper and says, with a wry half-smile, "Well, that wasn't in the bulletin." Greta laughs, and something unknots in her chest. They talk about Lehi, about walking without knowing where, about the hymn that now feels less like a song and more like a prophecy spoken before they knew to listen. Greta says faith looks less like certainty and more like choosing to walk anyway. Noah agrees. Then Charles and Jerome round the corner, mid-argument about a forgotten hymnbook, and Sunday reasserts itself — seatbelts clicking, the boot thudding shut, dinner to prepare, a dog to walk. But beneath it all runs the steady hum of what awaits them tonight. The call has been extended. And they have said yes.
