The morning rose like a hymn. Sunlight filtered through the slats of the old barn, slicing the air into ribbons of gold that danced in the hay dust. Lanterns swung gently on their hooks, casting a warm glow over rows of rough-hewn benches, where neighbors and kinfolk sat shoulder to shoulder. The praise band struck up—fiddle, guitar, a mandolin strumming clean—and the voices swelled, rising against the timber beams until the whole place seemed alive with sound.

Ryder sat near the front, his ...