Sunday came faster than I was ready for.

 

Not because I didn’t want to go — but because promises feel lighter at night, wrapped in love and good intentions, than they do in the morning when you’re forced to stand in them. Last night it all made sense. The Bible. The prayer. The way Stacey looked at me like hope had finally found somewhere to land. But daylight has a way of stripping intentions down to truth, and the truth was… I didn’t know what I was walking into.

Or who I was expected to be once I got there.

 

Stacey was already awake, moving through the house like this day had been circled on her spirit long before we ever spoke it out loud. She hummed softly while she got dressed — that quiet joy sound, like she was stepping back into something familiar. I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling my socks on slow, buying myself time to breathe through the weight pressing on my chest. This wasn’t nerves like a first date or a meeting that could change your career. This felt deeper. Like standing at the edge of something that could either change me… or expose me.

 

I kept telling myself I was a good man. I had always been a good man. I loved my woman. Handled my responsibilities. Stayed out of trouble. I wasn’t out here breaking hearts or wrecking lives. So why did this feel like a test? Why did walking into a church feel heavier than walking into any boardroom or courtroom I’d ever faced?

 

Maybe because those places never asked me to surrender anything.

 

They only asked me to perform.

And that scared me.

 

I didn’t know how to give God pieces of myself without worrying He’d ask for all of me. Didn’t know how to pray out loud without feeling foolish. Didn’t know how to sit in a space where I couldn’t control the narrative or the outcome. All I knew was Stacey believed this mattered — and loving her meant I had to at least try, even if my faith still felt like borrowed shoes that hadn’t molded to my feet yet.

 

When she stepped back into the room, dressed and glowing, she smiled at me like she could already see the future. I grabbed my keys and followed her to the door, still unsure if I was walking toward God… or just trying not to lose the woman I loved.

 

The church parking lot was already half full.

 

Sunday morning energy hit different out here. Women stepped out of cars like the sidewalk was a runway — dresses pressed, heels clicking, hair laid. Men in suits and fresh fades, kids tugging at collars, grandmothers posted up in wide-brim hats like they owned the block.

 

Everybody looked ready. Like this moment had been rehearsed.

Stacey stepped out first.

 

And damn.

 

She wasn’t overdressed — she was intentional. Soft cream dress, heels low but elegant, hair pulled back clean, face glowing without effort. She looked like peace. Like purpose. Like someone returning home after being gone too long. When she reached back for my hand, her grip was confident, reassuring. She walked a little faster, like she didn’t want to be late for whatever God had waiting on her.

 

Me? I felt like I stuck out even though I knew I didn’t.

 

Button-up, slacks, clean shoes — nothing wrong on the outside. But inside, I was clocking everything. The nods without smiles. The eyes that lingered just long enough to make you wonder what they were measuring. Who belonged. Who didn’t. Who looked saved… and who looked like a project.

 

A greeter stopped us at the door, smiling wide, grip firm.
“Good morning, brother. Glad to have you.”

 

“Morning,” I said.

 

Stacey squeezed my hand, beaming. I could tell she wanted this moment to land for me the way it landed for her.

 

Inside, the sanctuary buzzed low — music playing, laughter mixing with prayer. We slid into a row halfway back. Stacey bowed her head immediately, whispering something under her breath. I sat with my hands clasped, eyes open, scanning the room like I was supposed to learn something just by watching.

 

The service started with prayer.

And it wasn’t short.

 

Heads bowed. Eyes closed. The pastor’s voice moved from gratitude to repentance to praise. People murmured “Yes, Lord” and “Thank You, Jesus” like punctuation. I shifted in my seat, glanced up once, then lowered my head again. I wasn’t uncomfortable — just unfamiliar. Like being dropped into a conversation that started long before you walked in.

 

Then the music.

 

The choir sang like rent was due and heaven was listening. Stacey lifted her hands, eyes closed, lips moving. She looked free. I stood when everyone stood, clapped when they clapped, followed the rhythm even though my heart hadn’t caught up yet. I felt Stacey glance at me — not judging, just checking in. Watching. Hoping.

 

I wanted to give her what she was looking for.

The sermon came next.

 

“Today,” the pastor said, “we’re talking about surrender. Not the pretty kind. The real kind. The kind that asks you to stop performing and start transforming.”

 

My jaw tightened.

 

He talked about men who thought being decent was enough. Men who handled business but avoided intimacy with God. Men who loved their women but kept parts of themselves locked away, untouched, unhealed.

Every word felt aimed.

 

Stacey leaned forward, locked in, nodding like the message was confirming something she already knew. I wondered if she thought this was for me. Or for us.

 

Then he said, “Church attendance doesn’t equal alignment. Sitting in a pew doesn’t mean your heart is surrendered. God isn’t impressed by proximity — He’s moved by obedience.”

 

That one hit harder than I expected.

 

Because I was here. I showed up. Didn’t that count for something?

Old feelings crept in — not memories, just secondhand baggage.

 

Barbershop talk. Family jokes. Half-serious warnings. Church folks who could shout all Sunday but judge you by Monday. Rules stacked higher than grace. Love with conditions. Always feeling like you had to perform just to belong.

 

I hadn’t realized how much of that had been sitting in me. How much I’d kept God at arm’s length and called it being solid. Truth was, I wasn’t rejecting faith — I was dodging the disappointment I’d been told came with it.

 

When the altar call came, the room shifted again.

 

“If you’re ready to let go,” the pastor said, “this space is open.”

People stood. Walked forward. Some crying. Some steady. Stacey stayed seated, but her hand found mine — gentle, present, not pulling or pushing.

 

I stayed where I was.

 

From the outside, I probably looked aligned. Willing. Committed.

Inside?

 

I was realizing this wasn’t about checking a box or keeping a promise made in a quiet living room.

 

This was deeper than I thought.