The Refinery – Fine Wine

Laughter, grapes, and the scent of wine — that’s what I had known all my life.
We ran across the fields with wine-stained shirts and piggyback rides on Dad’s shoulders, while Mum laughed without breaks. That was home.

On Sundays, we went to church, served, and basked in God’s presence.
Eliora and I were raised on these seeds of faith. I admired the women in church — how they poured out their hearts in worship and served God without reserve.

Then one Sunday, something shifted.
I couldn’t explain it, but a holy desire had begun to stir.

“Girls, it’s bedtime,” Mum called.

We rushed to our room and lay under the starry ceiling.

“Eliora, I can’t wait to do amazing things for God,” I whispered.
“I want to heal the sick, preach His Word… I want to do His will.”

“I was just thinking the same thing, Raya,” she replied.
“We’re going to do it. I feel it too.”

We smiled at each other and drifted to sleep.

⸻

Two Years Later…

“You’re not worth it! I regret marrying you!”

Glass shattered.
Screams followed.
Sobs echoed.

Tears slid down my cheek as I clutched Eliora’s hand.
We shut our eyes tightly, willing it all to disappear.

Mum walked in, trying to hide her pain.
She knelt beside us, hands on our heads, whispering through her sobs:

“God, these ones will serve You. These ones won’t give up.
These ones won’t go through what I’ve gone through.”

She prayed through the night — eyes swollen, cheeks bloodied, but faith still intact.

But things began to shift.

Eliora grew distant.
Cold. Absent.

She stopped coming to church.
She stopped laughing.

It was just Mum and me now.

Then the bruises came.
The rumors.
The silence.

I barely recognized my sister.

And somewhere in the mess, I asked myself:

Where is God?
Where is the God Grandma Deborah always spoke about?

⸻

I sat at the winepress one day, watching grapes crushed into wine.
Screams filled the air again, but I buried myself in thought.

I looked at Grandma Deborah’s picture — a woman of prayer and boldness.
I wrapped myself in a blanket and whispered a prayer before drifting to sleep.

---

“Come quickly! Israel is under attack again!”

I found myself in a different world.
Israel was desolate.
Fear gripped everyone.

Then I saw her — praying in a quiet house.

Deborah.

Her voice was gentle, but full of power.
Day after day, she sat beneath her palm tree, interceding and advising.

Then the word of the Lord came: victory was coming.

When she declared it, even the commander hesitated.

“I won’t go unless you come with me,” he said.

She agreed — but reminded him:

“This victory will be handed over to a woman.”

She prayed. She led. She warred.
And Israel was delivered.

I walked up to her and asked:

“How did you do it?”

She looked into me and said:

“Prayer is not learned in a classroom but in the closet.
It is the mightiest weapon of the spiritual life.”
— E.M. Bounds

I woke up with purpose.
I knew what I had to do.

I began praying.
Fiercely. Faithfully.
Even when I didn’t see change.

And God moved.

My dad started walking in love again.
My mum smiled with her whole face.
And Eliora?

She’s now preaching the gospel — bold, free, and sold out for Jesus.