Now, Evan was exactly the kind of problem I didn’t need. Flannel shirt, perfectly tousled hair, stubble that looked ordained by God Himself. He was holding a guitar case like it was Excalibur. He smiled at me, and I swear my knees gave out.

“Hi, I’m Evan,” he said.

“Hi, I’m gay,” I blurted.

Silence.

“I mean,” I coughed, “I’m Spirit. Spirit Deaconson. I direct the choir. The gay thing wasn’t supposed to be part of the introduction, but here we are. Welcome!”

Mildred made a noise like a disappointed crow and stormed out. Evan chuckled, sat down, and pulled out a guitar so shiny it looked like it had been blessed by Joel Osteen’s lighting crew. He strummed a single chord and the room went silent. For the first time in years, Harold, Cheryl, and Ricky actually shut up. The chord rang out like the voice of an angel -- or at least the opening to a John Mayer concert.

“Sorry,” Evan said, grinning. “Was that too loud?”

“No,” I said too quickly. “That was ... divine.”

And just like that, I knew my life was about to get a lot more complicated.

The moment Evan strummed that guitar, the choir went into shock like they’d just heard Taylor Swift was releasing a surprise gospel album. Cheryl the Alto actually hit a note correctly for the first time since Obama’s first term. Ricky dropped his drumstick in awe. Harold pressed his lips to his tambourine like he was kissing the Ark of the Covenant.

I clapped my hands to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, let’s try a run-through. ‘How Great Thou Art,’ page 182.”

Evan strummed the opening chords, smooth and steady, while the choir followed in something that sounded less like heavenly worship and more like a Walmart Black Friday stampede. Evan was calm, focused, practically glowing. The rest of them? Picture a marching band falling down a staircase.

Cheryl immediately stopped singing. “It’s too high! My voice doesn’t go above sea level!”

“It’s C major, Cheryl,” I said. “It’s the people’s key.”

“Well, the people should lower it.”

Meanwhile, Ricky the Drummer decided it was the perfect time to experiment. He launched into a wild syncopated solo that sounded suspiciously like the intro to a Metallica song.

“Ricky!” I shouted over the din. “This is church, not Coachella!”

He shrugged. “Hey, Jesus turned water into wine. Maybe He’d turn hymns into bangers.”

At that moment, Evan chuckled, and it was the worst thing that could have happened. Not because it was mean -- it wasn’t. It was kind, warm, amused. But it was the kind of laugh that made me want to lean in closer just to hear it again.

The choir, however, mistook it as encouragement. Suddenly Harold started shaking his tambourine like he was auditioning for Blue Man Group, Cheryl grabbed a pitch pipe and started blowing random notes, and Ricky went full drummer apocalypse, double-kicking the bass pedal like the Battle of Armageddon had been rescheduled for 7:30 P.M. in the fellowship hall.

I waved my arms like a deranged air traffic controller. “Stop! Stop! For the love of Billy Graham, stop!”

Everything screeched to a halt. Evan sat there, looking perfectly calm, like a man who had just discovered comedy gold.

“Is it always like this?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, wiping sweat from my brow. “This is the joyful noise unto the Lord. Joyful for Him, migraine-inducing for me.”

Before I could recover, Mildred stormed back in, holding a new jar of pickled beets. She slapped it down on the piano with the same force Nancy Pelosi uses with a gavel. “Spirit, you forgot your blessing.”

Evan grinned at me. “Looks like you’re popular.”

I sighed. “I’m basically the Beyoncé of fermented vegetables.”

The choir snickered, and I knew right then: I was in trouble.

Choir practice descended into something between a revival and a natural disaster. Ricky, still high on his imaginary Metallica tour, launched into a drum fill so long we could’ve passed an offering plate twice before he finished. Harold’s tambourine went flying out of his hand, bounced off the wall, and nearly brained Cheryl, who responded by shrieking, “This is why women weren’t meant to submit to percussionists!”

Meanwhile, Evan strummed a few gentle chords, and it was like pouring chamomile tea over a riot. The entire room froze, mesmerized. Even Ricky lowered his sticks, muttering, “Okay, fine, that was smooth.”

I tried to take charge again, raising my arms in what I hoped looked like professional direction but probably resembled a frantic contestant on Wheel of Fortune. “Alright, let’s take it from the top. Nice and easy. Remember: this is worship, not the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.”

They managed to get through half a verse before Cheryl stopped to argue that the hymn “sounded suspiciously Catholic,” Harold collapsed into a coughing fit that sounded like a trombone on its last breath, and Mildred barged back in, this time carrying a crockpot of something green.

“It’s kale stew,” she announced, setting it directly under my nose. “Good for digestion.”

“Perfect,” I muttered. “Because indigestion is exactly what the Holy Spirit needs right now.”

Evan laughed again, and Lord help me, it was the kind of laugh that makes a man believe in predestination. He adjusted his guitar strap and leaned toward me. “You really do handle this circus well.”