I laughed. “You? The man who once described a church wedding as ‘a hostage situation with cake’? That guy?”
He smiled — but his eyes didn’t.
“People change,” he said. “I’ve been overwhelmed lately. Work’s intense. I feel like I’m burning out. I need somewhere to breathe.”
I studied him. He had been tense. Restless. Not sleeping well.
Then he added, more sincerely, “I feel calm there. I like the pastor. It’s positive. And I want something we can share as a family. Community.”
I didn’t want to be the spouse who rejected a healthy outlet. So just like that, church replaced pancakes.
The first Sunday we went, I felt like an imposter. The building was spotless. The people overly welcoming.
We sat in the fourth row — exactly where Brian wanted. Kiara doodled on the children’s bulletin. I stared at stained glass, wondering how long this phase would last.
Brian looked… peaceful. He nodded during the sermon. Closed his eyes during prayer like he’d done it forever.
And every week, it was identical.
Same church. Same seats. Same handshakes. Afterward, he lingered, chatting with volunteers, helping move donation boxes.
It seemed harmless.
Odd, maybe — but harmless.