SUNNY WEDNESDAYS: IVIE (IV)

Ivie Thomas came expectant. She hadn’t come all this way, physically and emotionally, just to spectate. If she wasn’t serious about meeting with the God her Personal Assistant, Rita Adedeji, spoke of with childlike certainty and unwavering passion, then why had she come at all?

The usher who greeted her at the door was a small-framed woman with a bright scarf and a smile that lit up her entire face. Her energy was warm, almost disarming, and before Ivie could overthink it, she found herself being gently guided to a seat in the third row. She obliged with a soft nod and a careful, deliberate step, one hand instinctively resting on her protruding belly for balance.

As she lowered herself into the seat, she took a moment to soak in her surroundings. The church was not what she had expected. No gaudy chandeliers or intimidating religious symbols. Instead, the space was defined by simplicity and airiness. The concrete ceiling slanted in elegant angles, forming a concave canopy that curved overhead, giving the sense of being tucked into the palm of something sacred. A soft breeze filtered through cleverly placed vents, carrying with it the scent of fresh blooms.

Each row of seats was graced with tiny vases, clear glass filled with water, each holding a few freshly plucked flowers. Daisies, hibiscus, and baby’s breath in charming disorder, bringing life to the otherwise bare, cream-colored walls. It was serene. Unpretentious. Rita didn’t exaggerate after all, Ivie thought. This place is quite decent. She made a mental note to tell her, but more than the aesthetics or the surprising comfort of the space, Ivie reminded herself of why she was really here.

She was here for God.

ππππππ

Rita Adedeji could barely contain the surge of joy that rose in her chest the moment her eyes landed on the tall, familiar figure walking through the church doors.

Her boss—Ivie Thomas—was here, here, at Living Fountain Springs.

A thousand thoughts raced through her heart like a silent prayer on repeat. This was the very sanctuary where her own life had taken a new turn. The place where she first locked eyes with Tunde, her now-husband. The altar where she surrendered her will and vowed to be a vessel for God's use, to be a light wherever she was planted. And now—now her boss, the woman she had faithfully served and silently interceded for, had stepped into this same house of God.

She remembered the day before her interview at Ivie’s startup, a day etched into her memory like scripture. Kneeling by her bedside, hands clasped tightly, she had prayed with conviction burning in her chest. She hadn’t known all the details then, but deep within, she sensed it: God was planting her in that company for a reason. She was to be more than an employee, she was to be a light, a catalyst for change. But never in her wildest imagination did she picture this moment—where the very woman who signed her paycheck, polished and poised, would one day walk into her church in search of something deeper. She hadn’t envisioned becoming a spiritual bridge… leading her boss toward the light.

Ivie looked striking, even in her quiet approach. The black sequined bùbá she wore shimmered subtly under the sanctuary lights, flowing gracefully over her heavily pregnant form. Her face, though lightly made up and partially concealed behind dark designer sunglasses, held a certain softness Rita hadn't seen before, a gentler version of the sharp, composed woman she worked with every day.

Rita instinctively reached out and tugged at Tunde’s arm, eyes wide with wonder, “That’s my boss, babe,” she whispered, pointing toward the third row where Ivie had just settled in.

Tunde followed her gaze, squinting slightly, though he could only see the back of the woman his wife was motioning toward. Still, he smiled—a knowing, reassuring kind of smile, “Finally,” he said softly, chuckling. “You’ll let me rest now. I told you to relax, didn’t I? She’s here. Now focus on the service, don’t miss what God has for you too. I’m happy she came.”

Rita playfully pouted, a glint of laughter in her eyes, but she nodded. Her gaze lingered on Ivie for just a moment longer. It wasn’t about her anymore. This was God's moment. She turned her attention back to the pulpit and bowed her head. Her lips moved, forming no words that could be heard, but her spirit poured forth a familiar plea: Lord, speak to her heart. Let this not just be a visit. Let her encounter You—deeply, personally. Let this be the beginning of something eternal.

Silently, earnestly, Rita prayed that God would minister to Ivie Thomas like never before.

ππππππ

The Apostle, a tall man with gentle eyes and a commanding yet peaceful presence, stepped onto the pulpit with a warm smile that radiated calm. He didn’t waste time on pleasantries or introductions. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his voice both tender and firm as it echoed through the sanctuary.

“God is good,” he began, pausing briefly as a few murmured ‘All the time’ trickled from the congregation. Then he continued, “The message the Lord has laid on my heart this beautiful Sunday morning is simple, but weighty: True Worship. Let us open our Bibles to Psalms 22 verse 3.” There was a rustle of pages, a flicker of screens, and then silence. “We make room for God,” he said slowly, “and the amount of room we make… is the amount of who God is that He will fill into it.”

His voice rose gently in rhythm, swelling with the cadence of deep truth. Scriptures rolled from his lips with clarity and conviction, beginning with John 4:20-24. As he spoke, his words cut through the air like a sword, not harsh, but precise—dividing thought from spirit.

“There are different types of worship,” he explained, his eyes scanning the room, “and not all are acceptable to God.” The screen behind him illuminated with the first point.

1. Vain Worship — Matthew 15:7-9:

“The kind that clings to rituals and traditions, ignoring the heart and desires of God. Worship that is empty—lip service, detached from spirit.”

2. Ignorant Worship — Acts 17:22-23:

“The worship of the unknown. Offered in absence of revelation. Worship that lacks truth. You must first know God to truly worship Him.”

3. Will Worship — Colossians 2:20-23:

“Self-imposed religion. Worship that leans on man-made rules and burdens. ‘Everyone must bow.’ ‘Everyone must cover their hair.’ But God is not pleased by compulsion; He desires relationship, not regulation.”

"And finally... True Worship".

He paused. His tone softened, grew intimate.

“John 4:23-24 tells us... that the Father seeks true worshippers. Not impressive ones. Not loud or perfect ones. True ones.” He repeated, slowly, deliberately: “Worship the Father.

The Father.

The God who is Spirit… but who has a heart. A will. A voice.”

Then came the question—unassuming yet seismic.

“Do you know the Father?”

The words struck Ivie like a quiet storm. She blinked slowly, her breathing shallowed. Her fingers pressed into her lap as a stirring began deep within her chest. I don’t know the Father.

She felt it before she could form it into thought. A soft flutter. Then another. Her babies kicked—twice, like a nudge from within. Her hands instinctively moved to cradle her round belly, a gentle rub of reassurance. But the unease wouldn’t go. She stared at the Apostle, her vision blurred by emotion.

I want to know the Father.

Her lips trembled as she whispered it. Not to anyone around her. Not even to herself. She whispered it to the One she hoped was listening, “I am here… to know the Father.”

In that moment, the sanctuary melted away, the crowd, the music, the bouquet-lined aisles. It was just her… and a God she didn’t yet understand but longed desperately to meet. She had never been one to be called a Christian. Her life hadn’t been shaped by precepts or church pews. But somehow, in this moment, that didn’t matter. She knew, deep in her bones, that God was reaching for her. That He would receive her, broken edges and all.

So when the Apostle gently extended the altar call, Ivie didn’t hesitate, with the weight of three growing lives inside her and a heart cracking open from within, she stood, slowly, trembling, and walked toward the light that had found her.

ππππππ

She was gently ushered to a side corner of the sanctuary by a woman wearing a soft lavender scarf and a radiant, reassuring smile, the Head of the Altar Call Unit. Her voice was calm, each word deliberate, like a balm against Ivie’s still-thudding heart. After a brief exchange of pleasantries and a short prayer, the woman handed her a form and helped her fill it out: name, contact details, preferred follow-up date. Ivie could barely focus; her hands moved on autopilot, but her spirit felt light, like something long buried had been awakened.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Rita waving excitedly, her hand fluttering like a flag caught in the wind. Ivie gave her a slight nod, subtle but assuring 'I see you'.

Just behind Rita, a tall man stood with a quiet confidence, his posture relaxed yet watchful. He looked like the kind of man who knew how to make people feel at ease without trying too hard. As Ivie turned to return to her seat, the light-skinned man who had spoken to her earlier, tall, lean, and with glasses that magnified his warm eyes, smiled at her again.

“Thank you, Ma. We hope to see you again on Wednesday, at our midweek fellowship,” he said, his voice low and respectful. Ivie gave a soft smile. “I hope so too,” she replied, the weight of her words heavier than they sounded.

She chuckled inwardly as she struggled to ease herself back up from the pew, only to realize he had already stepped forward, his hand outstretched to help. “I guess I’m deceiving no one in this buba gown,” she muttered wryly. He smiled, bowing his head slightly. “Happy Sunday, Ma.”

As she made her way toward Rita, the emotions that had been swelling since the altar call found their way to the surface. Rita stood at the aisle, eyes glistening with unshed tears, her lips trembling with the effort to hold it together.

Ivie smiled gently, her voice teasing but tender. “Thank you for inviting me. Oh no, please don’t get teary-eyed on me.”

Rita shook her head, swiping quickly at her cheeks, but the tears came anyway, warm and unbothered by her restraint. Then the tall figure beside her stepped forward fully, his voice deep and kind. “Please pardon my wife’s emotional state,” he said with a warm chuckle, “She’s been looking forward to this moment for so long. I’m Tunde Adedeji. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ma.”

Ivie turned to him and took in his presence properly now—dark-skinned, slightly chubby around the cheeks and waist, with eyes that gleamed with sincerity. He extended a slim but firm hand. “It’s lovely to meet you too, Mr. Tunde,” she replied, shaking his hand. “I know how Rita can get… but I’m happy I came.”

Tunde’s smile broadened. “We were wondering… if we could interest you in lunch? Nothing fancy, just something homemade. We’d be honored to have you in our home, if that’s not too much to ask.”

Ivie let out a light, unexpected laugh. She glanced at Rita, who was now furiously dabbing at her tears with a pink handkerchief, her shoulders shaking slightly. “I would love that,” Ivie said, grinning. “And I suppose by then, Rita may actually be able to speak.”

Tunde let out a hearty laugh that made those around them turn briefly with fond smiles. “I sure hope so too.” 

As Tunde guided Ivie toward the exit, his hand gently cradling her elbow for support, Rita followed behind, quiet for once. She said nothing, did nothing, only stared at her boss, now her sister in Christ, with eyes that overflowed with joy and gratitude.

Her heart whispered as her steps fell in sync with theirs, God, thank you. Thank you for this miracle.