Tighty Whitey Wednesday: Even Elders Need Refinement

The sun has not yet risen.

Morning dew clings to the trees.

Thick fog rises from the ground, laying a foundation for the day.

The halls of Taben Rael are silent.

Sacred spirits roam, peering into dorm rooms with peace in their wings.

In the quiet, Elder Hosea—an adult son of the sanctuary—finishes his night watch.

Tired. Worn. Faithful.

He enters his quarters, disrobes, and steps into the cleansing steam.

The ache softens. The body is restored.

Clothed in white cotton briefs and a tank top—his uniform of rest and readiness—he returns to his room.

He climbs into bed. Silence returns.

Then—

A knock.

Senior Elder Josee stands at the door.

“Good morning, Hosea,” he says.

“I know you’ve just finished your shift. I know you need rest.

But it is Wednesday. And the ritual must be kept.”

Hosea remembers.

He submits.

Josee enters.

The sacred paddle rests on the dresser—a symbol of instruction, not punishment.

Hosea assumes the posture of refinement.

Josee lifts the paddle.

Fifty measured strikes.

Not for shame.

But for structure.

For restoration.

For the covenant.

Hosea’s Reflection

When it is done, Josee speaks:

“May you continue to serve with pride and confidence.

Even leaders need correction.

Even elders need structure.

You are never too old for Tighty Whitey Wednesday.”

Hosea nods, eyes wet but clear.

He does not speak.

He folds his hands.

He remains in posture until Josee leaves.

Then—he rises.

He walks to the mirror.

He sees the marks.

He sees the man.

Not broken.

Not bruised.

Refined.

He dresses slowly.

White shirt. Black slacks.

The waistband of his briefs still firm against his skin.

He walks the halls again.

Not as a watchman.

But as a witness.

He passes younger sons—some still asleep, some preparing for their own Wednesday ritual.

They nod.

They know.

Discipline is not age-bound.

It is covenant-bound.

Intermediate Scene: “The Pause Before the Shift”

He stands alone in the sanctuary courtyard, dusk folding around him like a worn blanket. The ritual has ended, but the silence remains—thick, holy, unresolved.

His hands are empty now. No staff. No scroll. Just breathe.

The elders have retreated to the porch, watching but not speaking. They know this part. The ache before the joy. The stillness before the Spirit moves.

A breeze stirs the dust at his feet. Not wind. Not storm. Just breathe.

He looks up—not with defiance, not with despair, but with a question that doesn’t need words.

And then, slowly, the light begins to change.

It doesn’t burst. It unfolds.

It doesn’t erase the shadow. It dances with it.

His posture shifts. Not dramatically. Just enough.

Enough to say: I am still here. And I am ready.

“The Boy Who Carries Light”

He stands barefoot in the courtyard of the sanctuary, morning sun spilling over his shoulders like an anointing. His hoodie is golden—not stitched, but painted, as if the Spirit brushed it on with trembling hands. Around his neck, a chain of keys: some rusted, some gleaming, each one a door he’s opened or closed in someone else’s story.

His eyes are not solemn. They are wide with mischief and mercy.

He dances—not for spectacle, but for memory. Each step recalls a grandmother’s prayer, a brother’s silence, a storm that didn’t break him. The elders watch from the porch, nodding. They know this rhythm. They once carried it too.

In his left hand: a book of names. In his right: a slingshot made of braided scripture and shoelace. He is not David. He is not Moses. He is the boy who carries light into places where even angels hesitate.

And when he speaks, it is not with thunder—but with laughter that cracks open the sky.

Tighty Whitey Wednesday at Taben Rael