The following Sunday, the sanctuary felt hostile.
Not openly. Subtly. Like a room that had decided you didn’t belong but hadn’t announced it yet.
A seat opened beside us. No one took it.
A woman who used to hug me now smiled from across the aisle, arms folded, unmoving.
Caleb preached about discernment. About wolves in sheep’s clothing. About how the enemy rarely storms in loudly.
My husband leaned toward me. “That’s intense.”
I nodded, pulse pounding.
Was this coincidence? Or warning?
After service, a man I barely knew stopped us.
“Good sermon today,” he said. Then, to me, “You’re fortunate. Not everyone gets such personal attention.”
My husband laughed awkwardly. “She deserves it.”
The man smiled thinly. “We’ll see.”
That night, Caleb messaged.
They’re circling.
Who? I asked.
People who don’t understand nuance, he replied. And who don’t need proof to feel righteous.
My stomach dropped.
What do we do?
Another pause.
We prepare.