The Church Mother's Confession

First Baptist Church of Sweet Auburn has been my home for four decades.

I was baptized here at twelve. Married my husband Marcus here at twenty-two. Buried him here at fifty-four. Now, at sixty-two, I'm the head of the Mother Board, the choir director, and the unofficial keeper of everyone's secrets.

Sister Bernice, they call me. The pillar. The rock.

If they knew my thoughts lately, they'd call me something else entirely.

Pastor Young arrived six months ago.

Fresh from seminary at Howard, full of fire and the Holy Spirit. The church needed young blood after Pastor Reynolds retired, and the congregation adored him immediately.

So did I.

Lord forgive me, but I noticed things a church mother shouldn't notice. The way his suits fit across his shoulders. The way his voice dropped low during the call to worship. The way his hands moved when he preached—strong, expressive, capable.

He's thirty-five.

I'm sixty-two.

And I've been having decidedly unholy dreams.

"Sister Bernice, can I speak with you?"

It's after Wednesday night Bible study. The sanctuary is empty except for us.

"Of course, Pastor Young."

"Please." He smiles, and something flutters in my chest. "Call me David."

He sits beside me in the pew, closer than necessary. I can smell his cologne—subtle, sophisticated.

"I've been wanting to talk to you," he says. "About starting some private prayer sessions."

"Private?"

"For members dealing with... personal struggles." His eyes meet mine. "Things they might not want to share in group settings."

I should have said no.

Should have recommended Sister Thompson or Deacon Williams. Should have remembered I'm sixty-two years old and the head of the Mother Board and bound for heaven if I can just keep my thoughts clean.

"What kind of struggles?" I hear myself ask.

"All kinds." His voice drops lower. "Loneliness. Grief. Desires that don't match our circumstances."

"Pastor Young—"

"David."

"David. What exactly are you asking?"

He's quiet for a moment. Then his hand covers mine on the pew.

"I'm asking if I'm the only one feeling this."

I should pull away.

Should remind him of his calling, his position, the congregation that trusts us both. Should be the pillar they expect me to be.

"You're not the only one," I whisper.

His exhale sounds like relief. "Sister Bernice—"

"Bernice. Just Bernice." I turn my hand over, interlacing our fingers. "We're not in service right now."

"No." He lifts my hand to his lips, kisses my knuckles. "We're not."

He leads me to his office.

Locks the door behind us.

And then he kisses me.

Lord have mercy.

This man kisses like he preaches—with passion, with purpose, with his whole soul. His hands frame my face, tilting my head to deepen the angle.

"I've wanted this since my first Sunday," he admits against my mouth. "You were sitting in the front row, hat perfectly tilted, and I forgot my sermon."

"I remember. You recovered well."

"I was thinking about you the whole time." His hands slide down to my shoulders, my waist, my hips. "Thinking about what you'd look like without that church dress."

"David..."

"Can I find out?"

I haven't been naked in front of a man since Marcus died eight years ago.

But David undresses me like I'm precious, like each revealed inch is a gift. He removes my suit jacket, unbuttons my blouse, unhooks my bra with fingers that don't fumble.

"Beautiful," he breathes.

"I'm sixty-two. I'm—"

"Beautiful," he repeats firmly. "Every line. Every curve. Every year."

He kneels before me, unzips my skirt. It pools at my feet with my pride and my pretense.

"May I worship?" he asks.

Like I could say no.

His mouth on me is a revelation.

I've had one man my whole life—Marcus was good, faithful, adequate. But David... David eats me like I'm communion. Like I'm the body and blood he's been hungering for.

"Oh—oh Lord—"

"That's right." His voice vibrates against my flesh. "Call on Him. I'll give you plenty of reasons."

My hands grip his head, pressing him deeper. My legs shake. My voice makes sounds it hasn't made in decades.

When I come, I swear I see heaven.

"Your turn," I manage.

He stands, and I reach for his belt. He lets me, watching with dark eyes as I free him.

Marcus was adequate.

David is blessed.

"Lord have mercy," I breathe.

"That's what I should be saying." He strokes my cheek. "You sure about this, Bernice?"

I answer by taking him in my mouth.

He groans like I've saved his soul.

I'm rusty—it's been years—but muscle memory is a powerful thing. I work him with my mouth and hands, remembering what Marcus liked, adjusting to what makes David gasp.

"Wait—wait—" He pulls me up. "Not like that. Not the first time."

"First time?"

"This is going to be a regular session, Sister Bernice." He backs me toward his desk. "Didn't I mention?"

He lifts me onto the desk where he writes his sermons.

The wood is cool against my bare skin. His body is warm as he steps between my thighs.

"Ready?" he asks.

"I've been ready for six months."

He slides inside me and we both moan.

He fills me completely.

Stretches me in ways I forgot I could stretch. And when he moves—slow at first, then building—it's like being reborn.

"So good," he groans. "So perfect. Bernice—"

"Don't stop. Please—"

"Never." He grips my hips, drives deeper. "This is ours now. Every Wednesday. Every Sunday afternoon. Every moment we can steal."

"People will talk—"

"Let them." He kisses me hard. "I don't care. I've been alone my whole calling. I'm done being alone."

The second orgasm hits me like the Holy Spirit at a revival.

I cry out—too loud, probably, but the church is empty and I can't help it. He follows minutes later, pulling out to spill on my stomach, marking me as his.

We collapse together, breathing hard.

"This is insane," I say.

"This is divine," he counters. "God brought us together, Bernice. I truly believe that."

"The congregation—"

"The congregation will survive." He kisses my forehead. "Besides, they've been praying I'd settle down. Find a good woman."

"I'm twenty-seven years older than you."

"You're exactly what I need."

We clean up carefully.

Fix our clothes, our hair, our composed expressions. When we leave his office, we're Pastor Young and Sister Bernice again—professional, appropriate, above reproach.

But I feel his eyes on me as I walk to my car.

And I know I'll feel him inside me until Wednesday.

"Sister Bernice, you're glowing!"

Sunday morning, and Sister Thompson is eyeing me suspiciously.

"Am I?"

"Like you got a secret." She leans closer. "You got a man you're not telling us about?"

I glance at the pulpit where David is preparing for service. He catches my eye and winks—subtle, quick, just for me.

"Something like that," I say.

"Well, good for you! It's about time you lived a little."

If only she knew.

The prayer sessions continue.

Every Wednesday, without fail. Sometimes Sunday afternoons. Once, memorably, in the baptismal changing room after an evening service.

I should feel guilty.

I don't.

I feel alive. I feel seen. I feel like the woman I forgot I was hiding beneath the church hats and choir robes.

Six months later, Pastor Young announces from the pulpit:

"Church family, I have some personal news. I've asked a wonderful woman to marry me, and she said yes."

The congregation gasps, cheers, cranes necks.

I stand from my pew and walk to join him at the altar.

The gasps multiply.

"Sister Bernice?"

"She's old enough to be his—"

"Well, I never—"

"God works in mysterious ways," David says calmly, taking my hand. "Sometimes love doesn't look like we expect. But love is love. And I love this woman."

He kisses me, right there in front of God and everybody.

The wedding is in three months.

Half the congregation is scandalized. The other half is secretly jealous.

But as I stand in David's arms in his office after service, the door locked, my dress hiked up while he shows me exactly how he feels about me—

I don't care what anyone thinks.

Some sins are worth the consequences.

And some loves are worth the wait.