Westhill Church - Auburn & Federal Way, WA

The WEekly Word

A Blog of Encouragement from our Pastors

weekly word – 7/10/2025

"The Call"

- 7/9/2025

It was barely dawn. A salty fog was rolling in off the Atlantic, curling through the narrow alleys of Rockford. The small town was awakening slowly, but the fishmongers were already deep in their daily rhythm: hauling crates, gutting tuna, and arguing prices over fresh halibut.

Enzo Lombardi moved among them like part of the tide, sleeves rolled up, boots soaked, hands red with chill and brine. The docks were loud, pungent, and brutally honest—just like him. He’d grown up in this place, like his father and grandfather before him. A man didn’t leave the docks. Not unless he had a death wish or a miracle happened.

Enzo didn’t believe in miracles. Not anymore.

“Enzo!” shouted Machello, his wiry younger brother, from behind a crate of mackerel. “You going to help me load these or just admire your reflection in the ice?”

Enzo grunted, tossed his apron over one shoulder, and joined him. “You’re welcome to admire my hard work any day, little brother.”

That’s when they saw him.

A man—mid-thirties maybe, jeans, a weathered canvas jacket, worn boots—standing at the edge of the stall. He wasn’t buying. He wasn’t asking prices. He was just standing there watching, calm and still like he wasn’t breathing the same frantic air as the rest of them.

“You need something?” Enzo asked, brushing scales from his hands.

The man looked him in the eye—really looked, like he saw past the sweat and the sarcasm.

“I was looking for you.”

Enzo blinked. “For me?

“You selling something?”

“No,” said the man, smiling gently. “I’m here to ask you something.”

“Ask me what?” said Enzo

“To follow me.”

Enzo laughed, loud and abrupt. “To follow you?

“Yes, to follow me.” the man said.

“You some kind of preacher?” asked Enzo.

“Something like that.”

“Look, man,” Enzo said, grabbing a crate, “I don’t have time for religion. Church is fine for people who got room for guilt and free time. I work. Every day. This stall doesn’t run on faith.”

“I know,” the man said. “But I’m not calling you to religion. I’m calling you to a purpose.”

Enzo hesitated. “A purpose? What’s that supposed to mean?”

The man walked closer, stepping over melting ice and coiled hoses, his boots making soft thuds on the concrete. “You cast nets every morning,” he said, motioning to the mounds of fresh catch. “But I want to show you how to cast something deeper. I want to teach you to fish for men.”

Machello snorted. “Fish for men? What is this, a cult or something?”

But Enzo didn’t laugh.

As the man turned, His eyes fixed on Enzo, again, and something in Enzo’s chest stirred—uneasy and electric. The last time he’d felt that was the day his father died, and a voice inside him whispered he was meant for more than just this.

“I don’t even know your name,” Enzo said quietly.

“You know my name”, the man said.

For a long second, the noise of the docks quieted. Ezra heard seagulls crying over the harbor. Then the rumble of the delivery trucks, the clanging of dock chains, and the chaos of the docks were back. But underneath it all—beneath the life he’d known—was a steady hum, like something ancient awakening.

“You really think I could do that?” he asked. “Fish for men?”

The man nodded. “You were made for it.”

Machello was watching now, his eyebrows high. “Enzo—don’t tell me you’re buying this.”

Enzo didn’t answer. Instead, he wiped his hands on a rag, set it down on the edge of the stall, and looked around. It was all here—his life. His family. His sweat. His story.

And yet…

He stepped around the stall.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Everywhere,” the man said. “But we start in here in this town.”

“Doing what?”

“Bringing light. Healing what’s broken. Telling people they’re not forgotten.”

Enzo shook his head, half in disbelief. “Man, I sell fish. That’s all I know.”

“Then you’re ready,” the man said.

Enzo looked back at Machello. His brother looked scared, even hurt, but he didn’t say anything.

“I’ll come back,” Enzo promised.

Machello only nodded.

They walked away together, the man and Enzo, the morning sun piercing the fog. Their steps echoed against graffiti-marked walls and weathered bricks.