One Sunday morning, I arrived at church the way I always did—ten minutes early, Bible tucked neatly under my arm, purse resting on my shoulder, mind already settling into the familiar rhythm of hymns and prayer. The sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting soft colors across the wooden pews. Everything felt the same as it had for years. Predictable. Comfortable. Proper.
I have attended this church for more than two decades. I know which boards in the floor creak. I know who prefers to sit in the back and who always claims the front pew. I know how the choir sounds when Mrs. Patterson clears her throat before the first note. Church, to me, has always meant modest dresses, pressed shirts, quiet reverence, and a certain way of presenting oneself before God.
