Page 161 of Divine Temptations

“I can’t save you,” I whispered. “But I can wait. I can make a place that doesn’t hurt. I’ll be here when you decide you’re not a sin.”

The words hung in the dark, softer than prayer, heavier than sleep.

After hiding under the covers for the last few days, I forced myself to go to the weekly service at the temple. I was lighting the last candle on the altar when Sarah appeared beside me, holding two cups of coffee.

“You look like you got mugged by your own feelings,” she said, handing one over.

I huffed out a laugh that tasted more like a sigh. “What gave it away?”

“You’ve been a ghost for the past week. You missed Wednesday’s outreach meeting, you ignored my texts, and Mama Jo told me you looked like something the cat coughed up.”

“She’s not wrong.” I took a sip, grimaced at the bitterness. “I’ve been sleeping too much. Or not enough. Hard to tell.”

Sarah hopped up to sit on the edge of the stage. “This is about Jimmy, isn’t it? The one who ran out of your house like it was on fire.”

“I’ve been watching videos of his father’s ministry,” I sighed. “Non-stop. It’s so depressing.”

“Poor kid,” she murmured. “Growing up in that kind of cage does things to you.”

“Yeah.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “He’s probably there now. Repenting. Praying for forgiveness for what we almost did.”

Sarah’s voice softened. “Or maybe he’s figuring things out for himself, and he’ll surprise you.”

Before I could answer, people began filing in. The old bar filled fast—every chair, every corner. The candlelight spread like a tide over the faces of our little congregation, this patchwork family of misfits and survivors who’d come to trade shame for sanctuary.

Sarah slid off the stage, squeezing my arm as she passed. “You don’t have to be perfect tonight,” she said. “Just be honest.”

I nodded, then I stepped up to the microphone. The crowd quieted instantly, their faces soft and expectant in the glow. I should’ve felt comforted by them—their trust, their warmth—but I just felt… tired.

“Welcome, everyone,” I said, my voice steady even if I didn’t feel it. “Tonight I want to talk about freedom that doesn’t come easy. The kind you have to pry out of the jaws of guilt and fear with your bare hands.”

The room went still. Candlelight flickered against faces that looked too much like my own—tired, hopeful, searching. I kept going.

“Some people learned that obedience equals love. That if we just bowed our heads low enough, or swallowed the right words, or hated the right parts of ourselves, we’d be safe.” I paused, feeling the truth scrape my throat. “But safety isn’t the same thing as peace. Peace is when you stop apologizing for the sound of your own heartbeat.”

A soft murmur rippled through the crowd. I smiled, but it didn’t reach my heart. “So if you’re here tonight wondering whether it’s okay to want what you want—to be who you are—remember this: the chains they put on you were never holy. They were just heavy.”

Jimmy.

I wondered where he was, if he was safe, if his father had found out anything. I wondered if he’d eaten, if he was still trying to pray away something that wasn’t a sin. An image of his face after I kissed him—the flicker of courage before fear took over — filled my mind.

And then I saw him.

At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. A shape in the shadows, near the back wall, just beyond the last row of people. But then he lifted his head.

Jimmy.

My heart stuttered. He stood there in the half-dark, hands shoved deep in his pockets, wearing that same soft blue shirt. The sight of him hit me like a rush of air after being underwater too long.

“We all stumble,” I said, eyes fixed on the back of the room. “Sometimes we run from the very thing that could save us. And that’s okay. Running doesn’t make you lost—it just means you’re not ready to be found yet.”

A few heads nodded, but I wasn’t speaking to them anymore. “What matters,” I went on, pulse hammering, “is that when you come back—when you walk through the door again—you know there’s someone here who still sees you as whole.”

I didn’t dare look away then. He was still there, half-shadowed, hands buried in his pockets, watching me like every word I said was both a wound and a balm.

When the service finally ended, people stood and began to mingle, hugging, laughing, lighting more candles. Normally I’d stay to talk, shake hands, answer questions. Tonight, I didn’t have the patience for any of it.

“Lucien!” someone called. “Great message tonight!”