Two golden pan-fried fish flipped nimbly in the wok. Sister Li lifted the iron pan and slid the fish onto a light green plate on the stove. She turned on the faucet, rinsed the pan clean, wiped it until it gleamed, then lit the flame to dry it. When the oil was sizzling hot, she poured it over the fish laid with scallions, ginger, and garlic—sizzle!—the main dish of the evening was done.
There was no time to savor the moment. Two young sisters had come from afar. Opening the fridge, Li saw green, yellow, red, and white ingredients loosely packed into three compartments. Her heart warmed as she thought of the elderly believers who had brought the vegetables. She quickly whipped up a cold dish with chili sauce without much thought. In S city (a southern city), after the rains of May, a meal would not be complete without the cool crunch of cucumber.
Wind blew in from the harbor, lifting the strands of hair stuck to her neck. She focused on the chopping board, stove, fridge, and shelf. The sounds of slicing and simmering carried to the main hall. It had been a long time since this fishing village church received visitors.
The village lies by the sea—and also in the mountains. On the coastal border, a 700-meter tunnel leads into the hills. The mountains are dense, thicker than usual, and so close they don't seem to stand—they seem to sit right beside the car. The national road carefully winds around suitable slopes, rarely in straight lines. The car weaves through the angles between two peaks, heading deeper into the mountain's interior.
The road dives further in, circling from the west peak to the east. Then suddenly, the sea appears. Driving toward it, the path dips to its lowest point, becoming bumpy and pitted. Earth at the roadside shows marks of digging. The car passes two temples under construction. With the smell of fish in the air, it stops in front of a mudflat. This is where the village's location pin appears on the map app.
"Look up—you'll see the cross. Just follow the stairs up," said Brother Ye, his local accent evident. He is Sister Li's husband and usually serves at another rural church twenty minutes away by car. A month ago, he fractured his left foot and has been recuperating at his wife's place.
Next to the mudflat, a 30- to 40-meter-high hill rises. Houses and the church cling to its slope. Over two thousand hearths are scattered on the hill. Besides a few horizontal and vertical stone-paved lanes, new shortcuts emerge as people tread paths from their front and back doors. Sister Wang, who worships at the church, guided guests up the most accessible route. Except for a short section of stone steps at the base, the path mostly sloped. With three turns to the left and four to the right, she entered a courtyard—greeted the neighbors as usual—then out a side door, into a narrow lane, and the church was there.
From no angle can the whole church be captured. The mountain seems built of blue-grey stones. Houses cluster tightly, rising and falling with the slope, just two people apart. Step out of one door, and one can be at the neighbor's. Look up from the threshold, and the two-story church gives the illusion of towering into the sky. On the door hangs a faded red banner from Christmas. Worn little triangular flags still stick to the iron gate's upper grille.
To the left of the door is a recently posted notice listing the church's administrators—clean and unspotted, with names of the person in charge, the treasurer, and the deacons clearly printed. Regulations like these have become increasingly common in the past six months.
Brother Ye leaned on a crutch against this wall and greeted the guests. "Most people here are over sixty. Folks like us are considered young." He's in his fifties, with rough skin but bright eyes.
Smooth skin and bright eyes are now rare in the village. Men fish, women mend nets—the rhythm of the seasons never changes. During open-fishing season, they go to sea. During the ban, they do light harvesting in the inner bay. Along with women keeping the household, they can make a few thousand yuan a month. One year, the national road reached the village. Policies then strictly prohibited off-season fishing. In the city, a month's work can easily earn five or six thousand. People had no reason to stay. Brother Ye and Sister Li, from a neighboring county, also left around 2000 to work in Huzhou. "Only those with no way to leave stayed behind."
Next to the church is a half-open door, an old black-and-white TV playing a vintage drama. A gray-haired elder hunched in a chair. At the foot of the hill, a few grannies chatted. Granny Wang sat in a wheelchair. Auntie Li ran a seafood stall. They are the ones who were left behind.
As net-mending women, few of them had a chance at schooling. Brother Ye noticed that though many women in Huzhou also missed out on compulsory education, they were literate. In Huzhou, the belief was: "It's fine if boys don't study, but girls must—otherwise they'll suffer when they marry out." But in this village, the saying goes: "Girls will marry out anyway, no point in schooling." Better to be nimble with the nets—earn fifty or sixty yuan a month. "No one's sending you to school."
In 2024, Sister Li was hired by the village church. She realized these elderly women would be her primary ministry group.
"Your wife must be from out of town?" people often joked with her husband. In this region, every ten miles the dialect changes. She had to first learn the local tongue. The villagers didn't understand Mandarin—neither would they during worship.
Their son, Xiao Ye, was born in Huzhou and speaks northern-accented Mandarin. He now serves at a large church seventy kilometers away. Sister Li's advice to him: set aside opinions, and learn the local dialect well.
Sixty years ago, the promotion of Mandarin began beyond the mountain coves. The wave reached the fishing village, then was carried back out to sea by the fishing boats, leaving little trace behind in the village. Like language, worship practices also remain steadfast. In the ground-floor hall stood three dark red wooden round tables, another one stacked with stainless steel bowls in a triangular pile. Sunday lunch fellowship was a tradition in the S city's churches. But when Sister Li began small groups in April, preparing fruit and snacks and wiping tables clean, elderly believers objected, "Worship is not for eating and drinking."
In one of the city's churches with two to three thousand members, a few years ago they rebuilt the sanctuary. Disagreements arose about where to place the LED screens. After careful discussion by the representative assembly and the elders' council, it was decided that screens would only be hung on the left and right sides of the sanctuary; the central wall would still bear a cross, made from dark wood. "The front of the sanctuary must always show the cross," the leader explained. Despite the large numbers, the church did not offer multiple services. The local tradition holds that Sundays are wholly for the Lord—multiple services wouldn't stop believers from staying all day.
There is reverence in tradition. Sister Li understood. She quickly replaced snacks and fruit with tea. The group now sits to sip tea and discuss Scripture. The elderly accepted this. But they rarely spoke. Since last July, it's mainly been Sister Li doing the talking. Her small group began with learning to read and reading the Bible.
In their stammering reading, she felt thankful. The church was built brick by brick by these brothers and sisters. During fishing seasons, Christmas, and Lunar New Year, younger people return from the cities and bring their offerings. But the wages for full-time workers like Sister Li still rely mainly on the "old savings." Like the fish, cucumbers, bitter melons, and potatoes they now share, the church lives on the love of the older generation.
But they will gradually pass away. "Memorial services have become a major task for rural pastors," said Brother Ye. In 2022, his church sent off 64 believers. In 2023, 46 passed away. In 2024, there were 41. As of May this year, 11 more elders had gone.
Their daughter, Ye Ling, served in the same church with Brother Ye. In 2023, the family of four finally found time for a trip to Beijing. Back when Xiao Ye (their son) studied there, the parents did not have the chance to visit. This trip was meant to make up for that regret. But just as they were about to go, Ye Ling was held back.
An elderly believer was near death. The doctor said it was a matter of days. Ye Ling needs to offer end-of-life prayers. Five days passed, the old man was lucid. A week went by, Ye Ling considered going to Beijing and returning in time. But she hesitated, afraid the old man would die. She kept waiting. The elder held on for another month.
Not long after the old man passed, Ye Ling fell ill and died that summer.
"Ministry is full of these little fragments." Sister Li recalled the regret—not quite able to explain it—tinged with sorrow, even laughter.
"Sis, your brother misses you," Xiao Ye wrote on his social media on the first anniversary of her passing, recalling her past encouragement, "When every experience reminds me to ask, 'What does the Lord Jesus want me to learn from this?'—then there's nothing I can't endure."
Asked how he viewed the reality that pastors' salaries are still often inadequate, Xiao Ye quoted his sister, "If you serve full-time, don't think about wages. That way, whatever you receive feels like grace."
A church leader at the table added, "Those who serve shouldn't be petty. The church must consider every angle."
Someone introduced a girl to Xiao Ye. Sister Li didn't have much to say—just hoped the woman wouldn't be too delicate. A pastor's wife is bound to have a harder life.
Sister Li and Brother Ye had also met through an introduction. Over twenty years ago, they attended a Bible training course. Their classmates were all young volunteers from churches. Today, outside the two central churches in the city, few churches still have members under forty. The Bible course continues, but now most enrollees are young people with nowhere else to go. Not long after the new semester began this year, the course had to dismiss two students.
Ye Ling and Xiao Ye entered ministry in their twenties. Brother Ye couldn't hide his pride, "I'm grateful both of my children chose this path."
"Joshua said, 'As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.' That verse moved me. Later, as I grew in faith, I understood—whether you have millions or billions, in the end it's just the flesh enjoying a little more comfort. When you're gone, you're forgotten. But when you do eternal work, you'll be remembered. So our whole family chose this path," he said.
A few years ago, the village's only kindergarten closed. The village grew quieter. Sister Li noticed the incense at the temple burning more brightly.
When guests visit, she often takes them on a walk through the village. Closest to the sea is the "Southern Gate," a temple to the sea goddess. The incense burner never cools, and ash piles up thickly. With luck, you might see a canopy erected in front of a house—for a Daoist ritual. At the village entrance, a newly built ancestral hall stands.
The most beautiful spot is the viewing platform on the eastern end of the harbor—two stories, with a rainbow-colored staircase connecting them. From there, looking down on the village, you see the community center painted blue like a ship, and the health clinic in white with a red cross. In front of the two buildings, wooden signs point toward the various "scenic spots" of the village.
Years ago, local leaders planned to develop tourism in the fishing village and invested heavily. Then leadership changed, and the project stalled.
To bring the believers back, Sister Li often goes out to visit them. She walks past half-painted blue houses, walls two-thirds white, heart-shaped selfie spots with only half-left slogans. She recalls how in Brother Ye's town-center church, small groups fell through because the leader didn't approve.
But the village church still stands. Sister Li's footsteps have not ceased.
Fittingly, the couple's names each contain a word: Min and Xi—compassion and hope.
The rain had stopped. The wind fell still. The air held its breath. In this suspended fishing village, Sister Li stepped onto the stone path. Her visits continue, sixty people, eighty, one hundred.
(All the names of places and people are pseudonyms for safety reasons.)
