He sat alone beneath the weary church lights, the sanctuary emptied of every voice but his own ragged breathing. The psalm lay open before him, no longer a script to perform but a mirror he could not avoid. Each line pressed against his defenses, not to condemn his wanting, but to invite it into the light. He saw that holiness was not a life without ache, but a life where ache was allowed to speak its true name. The memory of her question in the car no longer felt like a threat, but a missed visitation. He had mistaken invitation for danger, reverence for repression. Slowly, he let the long-avoided words rise: what he wanted, what he feared, what he might yet become. In that fragile honesty, he sensed it at last—the whisper he’d been running from was not ruin, but the beginning of being fully, painfully, beautifully alive.
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