Bradley Johnson had been editing a cover version of "Lullaby" by The Cure when his world changed forever. The sixty-two-year-old guitarist and music producer was hunched over his mixing board in his cramped music room in Nashville, adjusting the reverb on his vocals, when the temperature in the room suddenly dropped twenty degrees and the air itself seemed to shimmer with otherworldly light.

The angel that materialized before him was nothing like the cherubic figures from Renaissance paintings. This being radiated authority and power, standing nearly seven feet tall with features that seemed to shift between human and something far more magnificent. When it spoke, the voice resonated not through Bradley's ears but directly into his consciousness.

"Bradley Johnson, servant of the Most High through music, the Lord requires your service. You will go to Dallas, Texas, and create a band to accompany His prophet John Foster during his ministry to the nations."

Bradley's hands froze over his equipment. He had been a session musician for forty years, a competent guitarist with a small but devoted YouTube following of eighty thousand subscribers who appreciated his covers of alternative rock and post-punk classics. His gray hair, expanding waistline, and gregarious personality made him more of a musical craftsman than a star, but he took pride in his work. He attended church sporadically—Christmas, Easter, and when guilt overcame his Sunday morning laziness.

"I... I don't understand," Bradley stammered. "Who is John Foster?"

"A man called back from death to deliver God's messages to the faithful remnant. Your music will carry his words to hearts that need healing. Pack your instruments. You leave tomorrow."

Before Bradley could ask another question, the angel vanished, leaving only the lingering scent of something like frankincense and the absolute certainty that he would be on a plane to Dallas within twenty-four hours.

Now, thirty-six hours later, Bradley stood in the foyer of an impressive North Dallas house, his guitar cases and recording equipment surrounding him like the baggage of a musical refugee. The house was magnificent—soaring ceilings, polished hardwood floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows that flooded the space with Texas sunlight.

Anthony Foster, a sharp-dressed attorney who carried himself with typical lawyerly arrogance, shook Bradley's hand warmly. "Mr. Johnson, welcome to Dallas. I'm Anthony Foster, John's eldest son and legal counsel for the ministry. I trust your flight was comfortable?"

"Please, call me Bradley. And yes, thank you. This house is incredible."

Anthony smiled. "We wanted to ensure the band had proper accommodations and workspace. You're welcome to choose any bedroom upstairs—you're the first to arrive. The living room has excellent acoustics and should serve well as your rehearsal and recording space."

Bradley nodded, still processing the surreal nature of his situation. "Anthony, can I ask you something? Your father... is he really...?"

"A prophet of God who died and returned to life with a divine commission? Yes, he is. I know how it sounds, but I've witnessed things that defy any other explanation." Anthony's expression grew serious. "You'll meet him soon, and you'll understand."

Within an hour, Bradley had claimed the master bedroom and set up his equipment in the spacious living room. His Fender Stratocaster, Martin acoustic guitar, Yamaha keyboard, mixing board, amplifiers, and recording gear transformed the elegant space into a professional music studio. He was testing his microphone levels when the doorbell rang.

The young woman Anthony ushered in looked barely old enough to drive, but she carried herself with the confidence of someone who had been performing since childhood. Her short-cropped auburn hair and slight build contrasted with the obvious strength in her arms and shoulders—the build of a serious drummer.

"Bradley Johnson, meet Shaina MacLeod from Manchester, England," Anthony announced.

Shaina's accent was thick with Northern English inflections as she extended her hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Bradley. I'm guessing an angel told you to come here too?"

Bradley laughed despite himself. "That's exactly what happened. You?"

"I was in my garage working through the rhythms of 'Kashmir' when this massive glowing figure appeared and told me I'd be joining a band in Dallas to support some bloke named John Foster. Thought I was having a breakdown until I found myself booking a flight the next morning." She gestured toward the equipment truck visible through the window. "My entire drum kit's in that lorry. Seven-piece Pearl setup with Zildjian cymbals. I mainly do classic rock covers on YouTube—the more challenging the better."

Before Bradley could respond, another vehicle pulled into the driveway. The man who emerged moved with the careful deliberation of someone in his seventies, but his silver hair and faded tour tee shirt suggested he hadn't entirely surrendered his rock and roll past. He supervised the unloading of bass guitars, amplifiers, and other equipment with the skill of someone who had done this professionally for decades.

Anthony made the introduction. "Ron Waterman, from Glasgow, Scotland. Ron, meet Bradley Johnson and Shaina MacLeod."

Bradley nearly dropped his coffee cup. "Ron Waterman? From the band Waterman? You wrote 'Highland Storm' and 'River's End'!"

Ron's weathered face creased into a wry smile. "Aye, before the bastards kicked me out of me own band for being too old and too traditional. Been playing session work and teaching music in Glasgow ever since."

"An angel visited you too?" Shaina asked.

"Right in the middle of recording a bass line for 'Nightingale'—one of my older compositions that never got the recognition it deserved. Seven-foot-tall being with wings that filled my entire studio told me to pack my gear and come to Dallas to support God's prophet. At my age, you learn not to argue with direct divine intervention." He paused. "Haven't been to church regularly since my Mary passed five years ago, but I've always believed."

As Ron's equipment was being moved into the house, a final car arrived. The young woman who stepped out was petite and Asian-American, probably in her early twenties, but she moved with the fluid grace of a trained performer. Her long black hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and she wore jeans and a t-shirt that read "Music is Math."

"That would be Yasmine Sun from Modesto, California," Anthony announced as she approached.

Yasmine's smile was radiant as she shook hands with each band member. "Yasmine Sun, multi-instrumentalist and YouTube content creator. And yes, before you ask, an angel told me to come here. I was in my home studio working on a cover of Billie Eilish's track about self-acceptance when this incredible being appeared and told me I was being called to serve God's prophet in Dallas."

Bradley stared. "Just appeared while you were recording?"

"Scared me half to death. I was laying down keyboard tracks when suddenly there's this seven-foot angel in my studio. My neighbor probably thinks I'm crazy—I was screaming for about five minutes after it disappeared." She laughed nervously. "I do mostly contemporary pop covers on YouTube. Twenty-three thousand subscribers who are probably wondering where I disappeared to."

Ron chuckled. "What instruments do you play, lass?"

"Piano, guitar, bass, violin, mandolin, and synthesizer. Flute and saxophone if I have to. I also compose and arrange." Yasmine's modesty was genuine despite the impressive list. "My parents wanted me to be a classical pianist, but I preferred learning modern pop songs and indie tracks."

Shaina whistled appreciatively. "Bloody hell, we've got ourselves a proper supergroup here. Ancient rock legend, seasoned session musician, prodigy multi-instrumentalist, and whatever I am."

"You're the backbone," Bradley said warmly. "Every great band starts with a solid drummer."

As the afternoon progressed and equipment was set up throughout the living room, the four musicians began to understand the magnitude of what they had been called to do. Each had been specifically chosen—not just for their musical abilities, but for reasons they couldn't yet understand. None of them were particularly religious; they were Christians in the cultural sense, believers who attended church occasionally but focused primarily on their musical careers.

Anthony provided them with details about John Foster's upcoming ministry events. Nine countries, six-day events in each location, massive stadiums filled with people hungry for spiritual truth. The music would need to support, enhance, and carry divine messages to audiences in the tens of thousands.

"When do we meet your father?" Yasmine asked as they concluded their first impromptu rehearsal—a bluesy arrangement that had practically arranged itself as the four musicians intuitively found their parts.

Anthony checked his watch. “In two days. He's been in prayer and preparation, but he's eager to meet the band God has assembled for him. Get acquainted with each other and get ready to work hard.”

That evening, as Bradley lay in his comfortable bed in the ministry house, he reflected on the extraordinary chain of events that had brought him to Dallas. Three days ago, he had been a middle-aged session musician with modest YouTube success, someone who believed in God but rarely thought about Him beyond Sunday morning guilt trips. Now he was part of a divinely assembled band preparing to tour the world in support of a resurrected prophet.

The thought should have terrified him. Instead, he felt a strange peace, as if pieces of his life he hadn't even known were missing were finally falling into place.

Soon, he would meet John Foster and begin what the angel had called the most important work of his life. As he drifted off to sleep, Bradley offered a prayer—the first real prayer he'd said in years—thanking God for the angel who had disrupted his ordinary existence and called him to something extraordinary.

In rooms throughout the house, three other musicians offered similar prayers, each understanding that they were no longer just performers covering other people's songs—they had been chosen for something far greater than anything they had previously imagined.