For more than a decade, our Sundays were sacred — not for religious reasons, but for pancakes and cartoons. So when my husband suddenly insisted we start attending church every weekend, I never imagined the real reason would unravel everything.
My husband, Brian, and I were together for 12 years, married for 10. We’d never been the religious type.
Not once had we stepped foot inside a church as a couple — not for Easter, Christmas, or even for our wedding.
That just wasn’t us.
I work in marketing for a nonprofit, and Brian is in finance, managing corporate accounts. Our lives were busy, structured, and ordinary.
We have a daughter, Kiara, who just turned nine.
Sundays were sacred in our house — not for scripture but for sleeping in, pancakes, cartoons, and the occasional grocery run if we were feeling ambitious.
It was our little ritual, our family’s version of peace.
So when Brian suddenly and casually brought up going to church, I thought he was joking. He wasn’t.
“Wait,” I said, tilting my head. “Like… actually attend a service?”
“Yeah,” he replied, not even looking up from his eggs.
“I think it’d be good for us. A reset or something.”
I laughed. “You?
The man who once called a church wedding ‘a hostage situation with cake’? That man now wants to go to church?”
He gave a little smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Things change, Julie. I’ve been feeling… stressed lately.
Like I’m carrying too much. Burning out. Work’s been overwhelming.
I just need a place to breathe.”
I studied him for a second. His posture was tense, and he hadn’t been sleeping well.
I thought maybe it would pass. But then he said sincerely, “I feel really good when I’m there.
I like the pastor’s message. It’s positive. And I want something we can do as a family.
Community.”
I didn’t want to be the wife who shuts down a healthy coping mechanism. So, just like that, church became our new Sunday ritual.
The first time we dressed up and went, I felt completely out of place. The building was pretty and clean, and the people were unusually friendly.
We sat in the fourth row, and Brian seemed to know exactly where he wanted to be.
Kiara doodled on a kids’ bulletin while I scanned the stained-glass windows, wondering how long we were going to keep this up.
But my husband seemed peaceful. He nodded along with the sermon. He even closed his eyes during the prayer, as if he’d been doing this his whole life.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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