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| Twenty-Four Hours |
He was out of time—faith worn thin, hope nearly gone. But in the stillness around midnight, a presence intervened. Sometimes, all Heaven needs is twenty-four hours. Let the story speak to your heart — scroll down to begin.
Warm amber light filled the sanctuary as the hymn faded. Priscilla Dobbins clutched her Bible and offered a quiet 'Amen’. Her husband Paul’s hand rested beside hers. Every Wednesday evening, they came as a family—front row, three children nestled between them, voices lifted in worship.
But even as the final prayer was spoken, Paul’s thoughts drifted. The unpaid mortgage. The bank account hovering near zero. The fourth rejection email that afternoon.
Thirteen years at the Rosemont accounting firm, and he’d been let go without warning after the merger. Severance gone. Savings drained. Interviews drying up.
Headed toward the vehicle, he barely heard Priscilla say, “We needed that word tonight.”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, opening the car door for her.
She looked at him, sensing the hollowness in his response. “We’ll keep praying, Paul. God hasn’t forgotten us.”
He nodded, but deep down, doubt was growing louder than faith.
That night, while the house slept, Paul sat in the living room, the blue light of his laptop casting shadows across the walls. A spreadsheet glared back at him—debts, bills, late fees. No income coming in.
He’d spent the last week calculating something he never thought he’d consider. He still had a keycard to Rosemont. He knew the alarm code, the layout, the location of the safe and archived client checks. It wasn’t a fortune—but it was enough to cover the mortgage and buy time.
He rubbed his face, exhausted.
“I’m doing this for them,” he whispered to himself, glancing at the family photo on the shelf. “Just until things turn around.”
The next night around midnight as the city slept, Paul’s footsteps echoed softly in the stairwell of the office building. His gloves were on. His breath was shallow. Every step forward chipped away at what he used to believe about himself.
He reached the archive office door and swiped his keycard. The lock clicked. He stepped inside.
Then—
"So... this is where your lack of faith has taken you?"
The voice wasn’t loud, but it pierced like thunder.
Stunned, Paul spun around.
A man stood in the shadows, calm and steady, his eyes lit with something that made Paul freeze.
“Who are you?” Paul asked, voice shaking.
The man stepped forward. He wore a blue janitor’s uniform. He appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties, with dark curly hair. His name tag read the name “Alex” and the sleeve bore the words “Caldwell Services”
“I’m someone who’s seen what faith can do,” he said softly. “And what happens when it’s abandoned.”
Paul backed away slightly. “You don’t understand. I’ve done everything right. Church, tithes, prayer. I’m a good man. But nothing’s changing. We’re drowning.”
The man’s gaze didn’t waver. “And now you’re willing to sink further—by stealing what isn’t yours?”
“I’m not stealing,” Paul snapped. “I gave them thirteen years , working day and night. They tossed me aside like worn-out shoes.”
His eyes welled. “I’m doing it for my family. I don’t see another way.”
“There is another way,” the man said gently. “Wait twenty-four hours. That’s all you have to do.”
Paul looked bewildered. “Twenty-four hours? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about one day. If you have even a small amount of faith, step aside and trust God to handle what happens next.”
Paul’s voice cracked. “Why didn’t you call the police?”
The man gave a slight smile. “I can tell you don’t truly want to do this. I’m just here to remind you. Go home, Paul.”
The room fell silent.
Silence. Paul blinked; he was gone. He picked up the duffel bag and walked out."
An hour later, he was sitting in the dimly lit living room, the encounter's impact still palpable. His thoughts whirled—questions, uncertainties, and a flicker of long-absent hope.
As the clock ticked away the minutes, Paul's gaze drifted to the family photo on the shelf. His children beamed back at him, their innocent eyes filled with trust and love. How close he had come to tarnishing that trust.
The words of the mysterious janitor echoed in his mind, a gentle yet firm reminder of what truly mattered. Could he find it within himself to let go of his desperation and place his faith in something beyond his understanding?
Priscilla entered the room, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She stopped when she noticed him.
“Paul?” she asked gently, kneeling beside him. “What’s wrong?”
He opened his mouth, but no words came.
She placed her hand gently on his. "Did you have a nightmare?”
He shook his head slowly. “No… I was awake.”
She waited.
"I was on the verge of doing something tonight," he murmured softly, "something from which I could never return.”
Priscilla’s breath caught, but she didn’t let go.
“And then someone stopped me,” he said. “He just… appeared. He knew everything. My thoughts. My fear. Told me to wait. Just twenty-four hours.”
Paul looked at her, eyes wide, vulnerable.
“I think… I think I saw an angel.”
Silence settled between them, reverent and raw.
Priscilla didn’t question him. Instead, she drew his hand to her heart.
“Then we wait,” she said softly. “And we trust.”
All he could do was nod.
That night, Paul hardly got any sleep. He lay next to Priscilla, staring at the ceiling with his mind racing and heart filled with questions.
What if it had all been in his head?
What if he’d walked away from the only chance he had to keep them afloat?
But beneath the fear… a flicker of hope had been reignited. A fragile thread of faith, too stubborn to break.
The morning sunlight slowly moved over the hardwood floor while Paul sat at the kitchen table, sipping on a cup of coffee that had grown cold. His gaze repeatedly flicked to the clock. 7:48… 8:02… 8:17…
At 9:13, the phone rang.
Paul jumped and grabbed it. “Hello?”
"Good morning, am I speaking with Mr. Paul Daniels?" a woman asked in a calm tone.
“Yes.”
"This is Christine Boatright from Mitchell & Bright Attorneys. I'm reaching out regarding your uncle, Tristan Beaumont. I regret to inform you that he has recently passed away.”
Paul swallowed hard. “I didn’t know.”
“He left you a small inheritance—just under fifty thousand dollars.”
Paul’s voice cracked. What? Are you sure?”
"We're certain. You can expect the official documents later this week. We'll reach out to you soon.”
He hung up, stunned.
Just as he was about to comprehend the call, his laptop chimed with a notification. It was an email from Mark Jennings, a friend from college he hadn't spoken to in years.
“Heard you're between jobs. I’ve got some clients looking for a freelance accountant. Flexible hours. Good pay. You interested?”
Paul blinked, heart pounding.
Priscilla stepped into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
Paul turned, barely breathing. “You’re not going to believe this.”
She met his eyes with quiet strength. “Try me.”
Six months later, Paul Daniels Accounting opened its doors. It was modest, featuring a compact office, a recycled desk, and a homemade sign crafted by his daughter. Yet, it was entirely his own, founded on faith rather than fear.
One evening, Paul made his way back to the Rosemont office building and headed to the front desk.
"Hi, I'm looking for an employee of Caldwell Janitorial. He’s Caucasian, probably in his late thirties or early forties, about six feet tall, slender, with dark curly hair. His name is Alex.”
The receptionist looked puzzled. "We do work with Caldwell, but we've never had anyone call Alex."
Paul stared. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. I handle the staff rosters.”
He walked out, feeling the warmth of the setting sun on his face.
So… this is where your lack of faith has taken you?
Paul shook his head, tears stinging. The stranger’s statement still seared in his mind.
“Not anymore,” he whispered.
And walked back to his office.
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