The smell of barbecue drifted through the neighborhood, mixing with laughter, music, and the clink of serving trays. Barbara flipped burgers behind the grill, sweat glistening on her brow in the golden light of late afternoon. Elijah stood nearby, slicing watermelon, while Jeremiah moved from group to group, greeting neighbors with quiet warmth and conversation.
“This is why we do these,” Barbara said to Elijah, handing him a spatula. “Before people listen to you, they need to know you. They need to know you care.”
Elijah nodded. “Yeah. I used to jump straight into scripture. Thought truth alone would win them over. But people aren’t puzzles. They’re people.”
Jeremiah returned with a grin and three sodas. “Devon’s here,” he said. “Grabbed a plate. Said he’s been pulling night shifts.”
Barbara glanced over to the edge of the yard, where Devon leaned against a tree, plate in hand, watching the crowd. She’d helped him with fence repairs a month ago. Elijah had invited him to game night. Jeremiah had quietly shown up at his uncle’s funeral without saying much, just offering presence. They’d been sowing little seeds. Not sermons—just friendship.
“I’m going to say hi,” Barbara said, wiping her hands and grabbing a bottle of water. She approached slowly, casually. “Turkey or beef?” she asked.
Devon smirked. “Turkey. Trying to live longer.”
“Here’s hoping,” she said, handing over the water. “Elijah said you’ve been working nights.”
Devon shrugged. “Yeah. Tired but breathing.”
“That counts. You doing okay otherwise?”
He gave her a look. “You’re not easing into a sermon, are you?”
Barbara smiled. “I’m easing into you, Devon. You matter to me. Whether we talk about faith or not.”
He was quiet a moment, eyes drifting toward the grill. “I’ve just never liked people pushing something on me. I’ve read parts of the Bible. Doesn’t add up. And most church folks just want to argue.”
“We’re not trying to win an argument,” Barbara said gently. “We’re trying to win you. But not with pressure. With truth, when you’re ready for it.”
Devon shifted uncomfortably. “And what if I’m not?”
“Then you’re not,” said a voice behind him. Jeremiah had wandered over. “And we’ll still be here. Still your friend. Still praying for you.”
Devon looked from one to the other. “You all don’t quit, do you?”
“Nope,” Elijah said, approaching with a plate of food. “But we don’t force either. You’ve got to want the truth. That’s your choice. We just make sure you’ve seen what it looks like.”
Devon chuckled dryly. “Looks like burgers and baked beans?”
“Today it does,” Elijah said with a grin.
That night, back at Barbara’s house, the three sat around her kitchen table, quietly processing. The cookout had gone well. People lingered. Devon hadn’t lashed out like usual. But he hadn’t exactly opened up either.
“I always feel heavy after something like that,” Barbara said. “Like I should’ve said more.”
Jeremiah opened his Bible and flipped to Acts 13. “Paul spoke boldly. But when they rejected it, he said, ‘You judge yourselves unworthy of eternal life… we’re turning to the Gentiles.’ He didn’t force anything. He just made sure they heard the truth. That was his role.”
Elijah leaned back in his chair. “So we speak, we live it out, and if they walk away…?”
“We shake the dust off,” Barbara said. “Not out of bitterness. Just in faith.”
“It’s not our job to convert anyone,” Jeremiah added. “It’s our job to love, to speak, and to trust God with the rest.”
And just a few blocks away, Devon sat alone on his porch, eating leftovers and staring at a napkin Barbara had slipped him before he left. A single verse scribbled in her handwriting:
“Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” — John 8:32
He didn’t crumple it. Didn’t mock it.
He just held it, quiet… and curious.