Echoes of Faith: The Broken Promise| Short Fiction

 

The Broken Promise

Terence had the talent, the promise, and the chance to rise—until pride pulled him back to the streets. One broken promise nearly cost him everything. But when grace shows up in unexpected places, even a cracked court can become holy ground.—scroll down to begin.

Terence Brooks hated the nickname “Teabag,” but it stuck from childhood when Spider, Machetti, and Ice teased him until he wore it like a badge. They were his boys once, more like brothers than friends.

But life had shifted.

When Terence’s father died two years ago, and his mother disappeared into her own world, it was his grandfather, James Brooks, who took him in. A praying man. A steady man. A man who pulled Terence out of the old neighborhood and moved him across town to give him a chance at something better.

Basketball became Terence’s world. At sixteen, he had real skills, the kind that had scouts whispering. His grandfather reminded him daily: “God’s given you a gift, boy. Don’t waste it chasing shadows.”

Terence’s phone buzzed on Friday night. Spider’s voice came through the speaker, loud and mocking.

“Yo, Teabag, you still alive? We hittin’ a spot tonight. Don’t be soft. Roll with us.”

Terence hesitated. He already knew what his grandfather would say. “Nah, I can’t.”

Spider laughed. Then Machetti cut in, sharp: “Man, you think you better than us now? Just ‘cause you dribblin’ a ball? Prove you still one of us.”

The words dug deep. Pride clawed at him.

When Terence told his grandfather about the call, James’ eyes hardened. “Leave that life alone, Terence. You hear me? Those boys ain’t your future. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Terence muttered.

But later, when the house was still and his grandfather’s snores drifted down the hall, the old pull of the streets grew louder. The need to prove himself drowned out the promise. Terence slipped out into the night.

Spider’s beat-up car idled at the corner, bass shaking the windows. Terence climbed in, greeted with nods and smirks.

They tore through the streets, laughter and cursing filling the car. At a red light, a ragged man shuffled across the crosswalk — layers of rags hanging from his frame, beard wild, but eyes startlingly clear.

“Get out the street, old fool!” Ice shouted, tossing a cup out the window.

Spider honked. Machetti yelled something cruel.

Terence stayed quiet. His eyes met the man’s for a moment, and a chill danced along his spine. The man didn’t flinch, didn’t even glance away. Instead, his gaze locked on Terence’s like he saw straight through the skin and into his soul.

Then Terence heard it — not with his ears, but somewhere deeper, like wind whispering through his bones: Go back home.

He blinked. “Y’all hear that?”

“Hear what?” Spider scoffed, gunning the engine as the light turned green.

Terence turned his head, watching the man fade into the shadows behind them. But the voice echoed still: Go back home.

He shivered.

But he ignored it.

Twenty minutes later, Spider killed the headlights in front of a mansion tucked behind iron gates.

“Cutty G’s crib,” Machetti whispered, eyes gleaming. “Rap star’s on tour. We about to eat.”

Terence’s chest tightened. “Nobody said nothin’ about breakin’ in.”

Spider slapped him on the back. “Don’t sweat it, Teabag. Quick grab. You in or you out?”

The promise to his grandfather thundered in his memory. Pride kept him rooted.
“I’m in,” he muttered.

Spider’s crowbar popped the door. Inside, shadows swallowed the halls. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a shout in Terence’s ears.

Then—footsteps. Slow. Steady. Like someone was waiting.

A man stepped from the dark. Not panicked. Not surprised. His eyes locked on Terence, calm and steady. Something about him felt familiar—not in face, but in presence. Like déjà vu soaked in silence.

“You boys picked the wrong house,” he said evenly. His phone was in his hand. “Police are on their way.”

Spider cursed. Machetti bolted. Ice stumbled after him.

Terence froze. The man’s gaze burned into him. And in the dim light, Terence saw it: the faintest smile. Not mocking. Knowing.

Then sirens wailed. Red and blue lights washed the walls. Squad cars boxed them in.

They walked outside to the police waiting for them.

Hands grabbed Terence. Metal cuffs clamped around his wrists. His heart pounded so hard he thought it would break his ribs.

The holding cell stank of sweat and fear. Spider joked to cover his nerves. Machetti cursed the cops. Ice stared at the floor.

But Terence shook, staring at the cracked tiles, replaying the man’s gaze in his mind. And behind it, the whisper from the red light: Go back home.

I should’ve listened. God, why didn’t I listen?

Hours crawled until the door clanged open. A guard shoved another man inside. Ragged clothes, weathered face. Terence’s heart lurched—it was the same homeless man from the street.

Spider snorted. “Yo, old fool, you followin’ us?”

The man didn’t answer. He slid onto the bench beside Terence, calm, unmoved. His lips barely moved, but Terence heard him—clear as a bell in his chest.

“The warning was given. The path is yours now. But He’s still watching.”

Terence couldn’t speak. His friends laughed. But he didn’t.

Not anymore.

Morning came, gray and still. The cell door opened, and a guard called Terence's name.

He stepped into the hallway, heart thudding. His grandfather stood just beyond the processing desk, eyes heavy with both sorrow and prayer.

They didn’t speak at first. Just a long, searching silence. Then James gave a quiet nod. A signal: let’s go home.

The car ride was wordless. Tires humming, the city passing by like a faded memory. Only when they reached the porch did James finally speak.

Terence sank onto the steps, the morning sun barely breaking the horizon. His voice cracked.

“Grandpa, I’m sorry. I promised you. I promised, and I—”

James raised a hand. His voice was steady, sharp as truth.

“That man you saw at the light. And again in that cell. Son, he wasn’t just some drifter. He was your warning. Your way out. God sent him, and you ignored it — twice.”

Tears blurred Terence’s eyes. “How was he an angel? He looked like nothing—just a homeless man.”

“No,” James said firmly. “The Word says angels come in ways we don’t expect. And God spared you. Cutty G isn’t pressing charges. That’s mercy, not luck.”

Terence’s voice cracked. “But I messed up everything. Basketball… scouts… my future…”

James gripped his shoulder. “God’s not finished with you, boy. But don’t waste this scar. Let it remind you every time pride whispers. Let it be the limp you walk with. The one that reminds you who you are.”

Days later, Terence was back on the court. The ball thudded against the hardwood, sneakers squeaked, but it all felt different now. Every shot carried the memory of cold steel cuffs, his grandfather’s quiet strength, and the man’s eyes in that dark hallway.

During a break, Terence sat at the edge of the court, towel draped around his neck, breathing hard. He looked up at the ceiling, eyes stinging.

“I should’ve been done,” he whispered. “But You didn’t give up on me. Not when I ran. Not when I fell.”

He pressed his hand over his heart.

“Thank You for giving me another shot. Help me use it right.”

He stood, picked up the ball again. The court looked the same, but he wasn’t. He carried a scar—invisible, but real. A scar that whispered of mercy undeserved, of grace quietly given, and of a God who sends angels in rags to pull lost boys home.

And sometimes, just at the edge of the court, Terence would see a shadow move or feel eyes watching—and he’d smile, not in fear, but in faith.

Because now he knew: God had always been there. And He still was.

🕊️ An Echoes of Faith Story

Sometimes the quietest warnings echo the loudest.

Echoes of Scripture: Joseph in Prison | Faith Behind Bars| Genesis 40

 

Joseph in Jail

The prison walls were damp and dark, yet Joseph carried a light within him that no chains could silence. I remember the day our dreams bound us together — his words shaped my fate, and in time, they would shape a kingdom. I was Pharaoh’s cupbearer, and this is what I saw.

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The air in Pharaoh’s prison clung to a man like regret. Stones sweated. Torches coughed. Men muttered prayers to gods who did not answer. I had known the brightness of the court—the gleam of gold, the fragrance of crushed myrrh as I poured wine for the king. Then came the accusation, the swift judgment, the iron gate. My hands, once trusted to guard Pharaoh’s life, now wrapped around cold bars.

He arrived some days before the dreams, a Hebrew sold by his brothers, they said. Joseph. He wore chains like other men, but he did not carry them like we did. He moved with a steadiness that defied the stench and the shouting. When men cursed, he listened. When despair swelled, he served. The warden seemed to lean on him, as if the very order of that pit depended on Joseph’s quiet competence.

I watched him as he passed out rations, his eyes searching faces. He did not look away from pain. He met it. “Peace,” he would say, almost as if it were a thing a man could hand another, like bread. I hated that word, yet I wanted it.

_

The night before the dreams, sleep tangled me in a net of sorrow. In it, I held a cluster of grapes, three round and full, heavy with promise. I squeezed them into Pharaoh’s cup and placed it in his hand, and the warmth of favor—ah, I knew that warmth—returned to my bones. I woke with tears on my face.

The baker slept near, his snores a bitter rhythm. By morning, the dream had made my heart raw. The baker, too, looked hollowed out, hands shaking as if he still felt the weight of the baskets he spoke of—three white baskets on his head, birds descending as if he were a field, their beaks pulling what was not theirs to take.

Joseph noticed. He always noticed. “Why are your faces downcast?” he asked, leaning against the post as if he had time for us both.

“We have dreamed a dream,” I said, “but no one can tell it.”

Joseph’s answer was simple, but it cut through the fog. “Do not interpretations belong to God? Tell me, I pray you.”

I spoke first, my words tumbling. “In my dream were three branches. It was as though they budded and blossomed, their clusters ripening in my hand. I pressed the grapes into Pharaoh’s cup, and I placed the cup in Pharaoh’s hand.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, not to retreat but to listen—truly listen, as if Someone stood near in the shadows. Then he opened them, and hope, like the scent of rain, filled the cell.

“This is the interpretation,” he said. “The three branches are three days. Yet within three days shall Pharaoh lift up your head, and restore you to your place; and you shall deliver Pharaoh’s cup into his hand, after the former manner when you were his cupbearer.”

Restore. The word cracked something in me, and light leaked out. I reached for his arm. “When it is well with me, remember me,” he said quietly. “Show kindness, I pray you, and make mention of me to Pharaoh, and bring me out of this house. For indeed I was stolen out of the land of the Hebrews, and here also have I done nothing that they should put me into the dungeon.”

“I will remember,” I promised. My voice sounded strong; I wanted it to be.

The baker stepped forward then, emboldened by my hope. “In my dream,” he said, “I had three baskets of white bread on my head. In the uppermost were all manner of baked goods for Pharaoh; and the birds ate them out of the basket upon my head.”

Joseph’s face did not harden, but it grew careful. “This is the interpretation,” he said slowly. “The three baskets are three days. Within three days shall Pharaoh lift up your head—from you—and shall hang you on a tree; and the birds shall eat your flesh from you.”

Silence fell like a blade. The baker’s eyes emptied. My stomach lurched. How could the same God who restored one decree judgment on another? Joseph did not flinch, nor did he gloat. He stood in the tension I could not bear, somehow certain that truth—even when sharp—is mercy when it comes from the hand of a righteous God.

_

It happened just as Joseph said. On the third day, Pharaoh celebrated his birthday and made a feast. We were summoned—two trembling men dragged into the brightness. The court above us swirled with music and sweet smoke. My name was spoken. I was lifted. They cleansed me, dressed me, pressed the familiar cup into my palm. When I turned, Pharaoh’s eyes found mine—not with suspicion, but with recognition. “As before,” he said, and the breath in my chest returned to me.

They led the baker away. I could not watch.

In the rush of favor and the relief of restoration, memory can become a windblown thing. The day lengthened, and light fell across polished floors. I told myself I would speak of Joseph. I told myself there would be a better moment. I told myself many things. Days hardened into weeks; weeks dissolved into months. Joseph faded like a dream at noon.

_

The night Pharaoh woke the court with his cries, fear ran like water through the corridors. He had dreamed of cows—seven sleek and fat devoured by seven gaunt and ugly who remained as empty as before. He dreamed of ears of corn—full and good swallowed by blasted ones, as if plenty itself could be consumed. No magicians could interpret it. Their words were smoke. The king’s anger was a storm looking for trees to split.

It was then the gate within me broke. Guilt, that patient snake, rose and spoke with my own voice: I forgot him. I forgot the man in the pit who carried light. I felt the weight of my promise to Joseph drag against my ribs.

I stepped forward, the scent of fear and incense thick in my throat. “I do remember my faults this day,” I said, and the court turned as if a wind had shifted. I told Pharaoh about the dungeon, about our dreams, about the Hebrew who had listened and interpreted, and how everything he said had been fulfilled—one to life, one to death—exactly.

Pharaoh’s eyes narrowed, but not at me. “Bring him,” he said.

_

They shaved him. They dressed him. Chains fell. Joseph walked into the court as if he had been made for light all along. I watched from the place where I once failed him, my pulse loud in my ears.

“I have dreamed a dream,” Pharaoh said, “and there is none who can interpret it: and I have heard say of thee, that thou canst understand a dream to interpret it.”

Joseph did not bow to himself. He bowed to God. “It is not in me,” he answered. “God shall give Pharaoh an answer of peace.”

The magicians whispered. I held my breath. Joseph did not flinch. He listened again—the way he had listened in the pit—and then he spoke, not as a prisoner guessing but as a man who had heard.

“Seven years of great plenty. Seven years of famine that would eat the memory of plenty. Appoint a wise man. Store a fifth during abundance. Prepare for the lean years, that the land may not perish.”

The court fell silent. The gravity of the words settled like stones into a foundation.

Pharaoh rose, the bands of his fear broken. His voice carried across the hall.

“Can we find such a one as this is, a man in whom the Spirit of God is?”

He swept his hand toward Joseph. “Forasmuch as God has showed you all this, there is none so discreet and wise as you are. You shall be over my house, and according to your word shall all my people be ruled. Only in the throne will I be greater than you.”

I have poured wine for kings, but I had never tasted a moment like that. I saw the dungeon and the throne aligned by a single, faithful hand. The same God who had been with Joseph when iron bruised his ankles now dressed him in linen and gold. The same voice that had steadied me in the dark steadied a nation in the light.

_

Later, when the court had settled and the servants began to move as if a new river had been cut through the palace, I found a place along the colonnade where the breeze could reach me. I thought of the baker and trembled. I thought of my vow and burned with shame. I thought of the God Joseph trusted—the God who interprets dreams, who appoints seasons, who does not forget.

Joseph passed near, surrounded by officials eager to measure his steps. For a heartbeat his eyes found mine. Recognition flickered there, not accusation. He inclined his head, a small mercy that felt like absolution. I could not speak. My throat carried too many words—the apology I owed, the gratitude I felt, the awe that flooded me.

What shall I say of a man whose chains could not chain him? What shall I say of a God who writes straight lines through crooked corridors? I was a cupbearer restored. But more than that, I was a witness. I saw that even behind bars faith walks free. I saw that the pit is not the end when God is the one who holds the pen. I saw that a single faithful heart, surrendered to the Lord, can become a storehouse for nations.

And I remembered at last.

                                                            🕊️ An Echoes of Scripture Story

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