Captured on iPhone by Mitchell Royel in the Fashion District, the frame feels alive—every corner holding the weight of a story about to be told. Alabama, oh Alabama, where the red clay sings and ancient oaks wear Spanish moss like a crown. You are crimson twilight and slow afternoons, the hum of cicadas and soft southern rains. And here we are, listening to "In My Head" by Zeina, a song that spins like the sultry haze of an Alabama summer, equal parts dreamy and restless, like chasing fireflies that glow faint and fleeting. You can’t hold them long, but they leave a shimmer on your palms.
Picture a kitchen in Alabama that has not been updated since somebody's grandmother won a ribbon at the county fair. Yellow ruffled curtains hang in the windows like they're guarding state secrets. There's a white stove that looks older than your parents' marriage, a pot sitting on one burner, a cream-colored cabinet above, and a microwave with more chrome than a 1987 Buick. On the counter you'll find a mug with a brown rim, a set of keys, a TV remote, and an old gray radio with a dial that hasn't found a station since dial-up internet. The light coming through those curtains is golden and soft, the kind of light that makes a moment feel holy whether or not anybody notices. Nobody is noticing.
Because in the foreground, leaning on that counter, is a young man in a red plaid flannel, a dark knit beanie, and a pair of black noise-canceling headphones the size of small life rafts. He's holding his phone with both hands like it's a newborn or a live grenade. He is fully, completely, gloriously somewhere else. And behind him, soft and out of focus, a young woman in a floral sundress stands by the stove. She has turned her head over her shoulder. She's looking at him. She isn't yelling. She isn't crying. She's just looking, with the quiet face of someone who has seen this movie before and already knows the ending.
Here's what I want you to see. The camera is focused on him. Sharp lines. Clear edges. And she's the blur. But I'm telling you, in this picture, she's the most important thing in the room. That's how life works. The thing you're staring at feels like the main event, and the thing you're ignoring turns out to be the whole point. We spend our lives focused on the wrong subject and then act surprised when the story we wanted keeps happening in the background.
Now let me tell you what's on that phone. It's a text thread. On the other end is a guy two thousand miles away in California, and he's texting from the back row of a bible study. Let that sink in. Somebody up front is reading about the walls of Jericho, and this kid is thumbing out messages under a folding table like he's smuggling contraband. And the first thing he writes is so casual it barely counts as a sentence: "yeah I don't know man, feel free to text me." That's it. That's how heaven opens the door sometimes. Not with trumpets. With a lowercase text from a guy who isn't sure what he's saying.
Then he writes, "I listened to the song and I really like it." And somewhere in that kitchen, something shifts. Because you need to understand, when you make something, a song, a painting, a business, a life, and you hand it to someone and they say "I really like it," that's not a small thing. That's a hand reaching into the dark and finding yours. Some of you have been waiting years for one person to hear what you made and say it mattered. Under no circumstances should you treat that moment like spam.
The next text: "send me the photo of what you want to wear in the music video." And now this isn't a dream anymore. It's logistics. Somebody believes in it enough to ask about wardrobe. That's the thing about God. He doesn't only call you to something big and vague. He asks what you're wearing. He gets into the details. The same God who hung the stars cares whether you show up to your calling in the camo jacket or the flannel. (Wear the flannel. Trust me.)
And then the kid in California sends the text that cracks the whole thing open: "I'm not super attached to the idea of being a ghost producer, so text me on my personal number if you want." Read that again. A ghost producer is the person who makes the music and stays invisible. Works behind the curtain. Gets none of the credit, takes none of the risk, never has to be seen. And right there, in bible study, between a prayer request and the snack table, this guy realizes he doesn't want to be a ghost anymore. He wants to be known. He wants to be reached. Not the studio line. Him.
That's a paradigm shift. And I need you to hear this: paradigm shifts don't knock. They don't send a calendar invite. They don't text "you up?" first. They walk into your kitchen at golden hour, rearrange the furniture while you're still sitting on it, and leave you wondering why the room suddenly feels bigger. You thought you knew what your life was about. You thought you knew who you were. And then one ordinary Tuesday, everything moves two degrees, and two degrees turns out to be enough to change where you land.
Some of you are waiting for God to show up in a burning bush. You want thunder. You want a voice from the clouds, a sign in the sky, a guy in a robe at the gas station who looks you dead in the eye and says your name. And meanwhile God keeps showing up in a song you almost skipped, a text you almost ignored, a woman at the stove who keeps turning around to see if you're still there. You keep asking for a miracle, and He keeps handing you a Thursday. Don't despise the Thursday.
Because here's the danger. You can be so locked into your screen, so sealed off inside your own noise-cancellation, that you miss the very thing God is doing six feet behind you. The headphones aren't evil. The phone isn't the devil. But anything that keeps you from turning around becomes a wall. And some of you have built walls so nice you've started calling them home. You've got the playlist, the feed, the group chat, the perfect little world in your hands. And the real world is standing by the stove, stirring dinner, waiting.
So here's what I'm asking. I'm asking you to take the headphones off. Literally, maybe. Spiritually, definitely. Turn around. Look at the person who's been looking at you. Answer the text from the friend who believes in what you made. Stop being a ghost in your own life, because God did not breathe His breath into you so you could haunt the background. You were not created to be blurry. You were created to be seen, to be known, to show up in the frame with your whole chest.
The shift is coming. Some of you, it already came, and you felt it reading this. Your world just tilted, and you didn't see it coming, and that's exactly how it's supposed to work. The song is playing. The text is waiting. The pot is simmering. And she's still standing there. Turn around.
-Pastor Mitchell Royel
Epilogue: Here’s the thing about seasons you're not ready for—they don’t pencil you in for a chat first. They come like a thief in the night (1 Thessalonians 5:2), catching you mid-step, coffee mug in one hand and yesterday’s worry still clinging to the other. One minute, you're entrenched in the familiar—a routine so predictable you could map it in your sleep—and the next, the unfamiliar knocks, as if to say, "Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?" (Isaiah 43:19). And suddenly, the ground shifts, leaving you squinting at the horizon, wondering if it’s all too much, too soon, too beyond what you can bear.
First, Brother, listen up—don’t panic. Lean into Philippians 4:6 and be “anxious for nothing.” Because seasons of change, however uncharted and alien, were never meant to depend on your mastery of them. They require your faith, not your folder of contingency plans. Show up, step out, and remind yourself that His grace is sufficient for you and His power is perfected in your weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9). The kitchen might still smell like burned toast from yesterday, and the curtains could tell stories of decades past, but already, the Spirit is whispering through the ordinary, inviting you into something extraordinary.
Second, understand this—God doesn’t shout for your attention. His voice is the still, small one (1 Kings 19:12), slipping between the crackling of everyday life. It’s there in the stirring of the soup pot, the text waiting for a response, the rising sun easing into your day. Faithfulness in the small things matters (Luke 16:10); it prepares you for the big. You don’t have to decipher the whole shift right now. Trust that He will make straight your paths (Proverbs 3:5-6)—you’re just called to take the next step forward.
And third, trust the process, even when you can’t see the outcome. God knows the plans He has for you (Jeremiah 29:11), even if you’re gripping the edge of your kitchen counter like it might slide away. Life’s most confusing seasons often pull our eyes from our carefully drawn maps and place them back where they should’ve been all along—on Him. His plans might not come with flashing neon signs, but they are faithful, steady, and perfectly timed.
Brother, He’s already etched His rhythm into this season. All He asks is that you say “Here I am” (Isaiah 6:8), even if it feels half-muttered and shaky. Seasons, however perplexing, are gifts meant to align you with His purpose. Don’t miss Him in the shift. The light’s golden, the ground is moving, and the One who calmed the storm still walks beside you (Mark 4:39). Keep showing up. Keep trusting Him. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be. Stay faithful, and take heart—because He already has overcome it all (John 16:33).