Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Holy cow, this girl is gorgeous! She’s got delicate features, complete with winsome brown eyes that stare at the cross mounted above the altar and a perfectly delicious pink pout. I watch she lifts a piece of tissue paper to her cheeks while continuing to weep.
Suddenly, I have my work cut out for me because a beautiful parishioner is clearly in need, and I’m just the man to help.
3
Mira
Being inside the Village Church is peaceful, especially since there’s no one here right now. After all, it’s a weekday and most people are probably at work right now, chained to their desks.
The silence washes over my frame and I already feel more calm, kneeling in this pew. It’s important to me to go to church because I’ve always felt that God is with me. As a result, one of the first things I did after landing in New York was find a church to attend. My first instinct was to go somewhere similar to my church back home, but something about all the ones I visited didn’t feel right.
They were all traditional settings with traditional people, which was a surprise given that this is New York City. I wouldn’t say there was anything particularly wrong with them, but they weren’t for me. Maybe it was because that was the kind of place I would go with my family, and, without my mom and dad there, it was just different.
So I went on a mini-mission to find the perfect place. Jessie came along with me sometimes, seeing that religion is important to her as well. It took us some time, but we eventually came across the Village Church, and it felt like I was home. As a born and raised Southern Baptist, I had never done non-denominational, but being around all kinds of people with all kinds of backgrounds, and every last one of us worshipping together in harmony, is absolutely amazing.
I found myself a little community in this big city, and have grown to love it.
Honestly though, the main draw is the two pastors, Jordan MacKinnon and Jason Vanderbilt. They’re not your average pastor, that’s for sure. First, they’re towards the younger side. They’re likely only in their late twenties or early thirties, seeing that they graduated from divinity school relatively recently. Also, they’re completely accepting of their flock, whether gay, straight, trans, male, female, black or white. All they care is that you are God’s child. And did I mention that they’re hot as well? Pastors Jason and Jordan look like movie stars, and there are quite a few ladies like myself who can’t help but stare at them during sermons.
It’s a little weird, I know, but at the same time, their good looks make sermons so much easier to enjoy. Jason and Jordan are both six three with black hair and penetrating blue eyes. Plus, these guys work out. They must lift weights, given their athletic, muscular builds.
But then again, we are all God’s children. I shouldn’t be so shallow, even if Pastors Jason and Jordan were just given a little more in the looks department than most men.
But right now, it’s not about men or love or looks. It’s about finding peace after being bullied at school. I just need some comfort from God.
I kneel in the pew, looking down at my clasped hands, my body exhausted from all the nonsense. I mean, it doesn’t feel like nonsense; it feels like sheer unmitigated pain. I know what’s going on with Cindy shouldn’t affect me so much, but for some reason, it does. I should be able to brush it off as her problem, but her insults always manage to cut so deep.
I don’t know what else to do with myself because it’s not just about her, it’s about years of feeling like I’m worthless. Of feeling like I’m a rag doll that people don’t care about, and can just throw around however they wish.
Tears flow down my cheeks. I feel like such a dumb little girl, crying over the mean girls saying things about my weight. But the bigger concern is why? Why is this happening to me? Why am I living a repeat of middle school?
Did I do something so wrong? Could this be some form of karmic justice? We’re always told God doesn’t give us more than we can handle, and I really want to believe that, but today, it feels like the edge is near. I’m not sure how much more of this I can handle without going absolutely crazy.
“Please,” I silently pray to God. “Please make this better.”
Tears continue to flow down my cheeks when suddenly, a deep voice startles me.
“Hey sweetheart. Are you okay?”
I almost jump out of my seat, hearing the baritone tones. Did Jesus sound like this? No, I must be going crazy. Hastily, I wipe the tears from my face, not wanting anyone to see how pathetic I am feeling.