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by monique alvin
09/01/25
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Chapter 2: The Lonely Pew

If church trauma were a sport, I’d have a trophy, a gold medal, and a Bible verse engraved on both.

It wasn’t always like that. There was a time I actually liked church.

Thought the stained glass was pretty.

Thought the choir was fire.

Thought the pastor really heard from God.

(Spoiler: he mostly heard from the deacons.)

But after the funeral incident?

Yeah. Things got awkward.

People stopped looking me in the eye.

Hugs turned into handshakes.

Handshakes turned into holy side-eyes.

But to be honest…

I was never really “one of them.”

I didn’t come from one of the big tithing families.

Didn’t shout. Didn’t sing.

Didn’t know how to fake the Holy Ghost dance on cue.

They didn’t call me gifted.

They didn’t call me called.

They called me “Zariah’s boy,” and that was the only reason I even got a seat.

The funeral just gave them permission to say out loud what they had always whispered—

That I was strange.

Unsettling.

Too much.

---

I started sitting alone.

In the back.

Second pew from the sound booth.

You know, just far enough away to be forgotten,

but still close enough to prove I was trying.

They called it “the overflow section.”

I called it “spiritual exile.”

The youth group stopped inviting me to lock-ins.

(Which honestly felt like a blessing, because sleeping on a church floor surrounded by hormone-riddled teens and stale Doritos was never my calling.)

One time, during prayer circle, someone actually moved their hand off mine like I was contagious.

I remember thinking, “Cool, now I’m leprous.”

I laughed on the outside. Shrugged it off.

Told Mama I was fine.

But deep down, I was cracking.

Because you can only be treated like a problem for so long before you start believing you are one.

And I wanted to believe in God, I really did.

But every Sunday I sat in that lonely pew, it got harder.

Not because I didn’t feel Him—

But because I did.

And that made it worse.

Because how could I feel God…

and still feel so unwanted in His house?

---

I still dressed up every Sunday.

Polished shoes. Pressed pants.

That one button-up shirt that screamed,

> “I don’t have a lot of options, but my mama raised me right.”

It became a ritual—

not out of devotion, but survival.

If I looked the part,

maybe they’d forget I was the weird kid

who saw church ghosts and talked in his sleep.

Spoiler:

They didn’t.

One Sunday, Pastor Devon preached a whole sermon about “false prophets and strange fire.”

He never looked at me directly,

but the way Sister Claudine kept nodding in my direction?

Felt real personal.

I remember thinking:

Is this my villain origin story?

But I stayed.

Because Mama needed me to.

Because part of me still hoped someone would explain what was happening to me—

why I could feel people’s pain before they opened their mouths.

Why sometimes, during worship, I saw things moving in the shadows behind the pulpit.

But no one asked me how I was.

They asked me to hand out fans.

Pass the offering plate.

Smile more.

So I smiled.

And I kept my dreams to myself.

---

But I remember one night in particular.

I was twelve.

I knelt beside my bed and prayed harder than I ever had before.

> “God… I don’t want to be like this anymore. Please. Just make me normal.”

I wasn’t asking for money.

Or fame.

Or power.

Just peace.

Just rest.

Just silence.

The next morning,

the dreams were louder.

That was the day I stopped praying out loud.

---

At night, I’d stare at the ceiling and whisper to God like we were old friends who hadn’t talked in a while.

> “Hey, it’s me again. Just wondering if You actually made me this way, or if I’m on the wrong spiritual Wi-Fi.”

Silence.

Then the dreams would come.

The colors. The voices.

Sometimes Scripture.

Sometimes shadows.

Sometimes I woke up sobbing and didn’t know why.

I stopped telling Mama.

She already looked tired enough.

She still believed I was chosen—her little prophet-in-training.

Said God had marked me.

But marks feel a lot like targets

when people are aiming holy suspicion at you.

---

Eventually, I stopped lifting my hands in worship.

Not because I didn’t believe—

But because I didn’t want to be noticed.

I learned to look busy during altar call.

How to clap just enough.

How to blend in.

It became a game I played with myself:

> “How invisible can I be while still being present?”

Turns out,

I was really good at it.

But God?

God wasn’t playing the game.

Because even in that back pew,

where rejection wrapped itself around me like a too-tight choir robe…

I could still feel Him watching.

Not in a scary way.

In a

> “I see you, even when they don’t”

kind of way.

And that made me angry.

Because why would He still show up

if I wasn’t even sure I wanted Him to?

---

It happened during Youth Sunday.

The choir was off-key.

The ushers wore matching T-shirts that said “Next Generation for Christ.”

And the sermon was being delivered by a 17-year-old

who said “like” every four words

and kept calling Jesus his “ride or die.”

I tried to focus.

Tried to nod.

Tried to act like everything was fine.

But then—it happened again.

Not the full shift like before.

Just a flicker.

A shadow behind his eyes.

The way his voice dropped an octave mid-sentence.

How the Scriptures he quoted got twisted—sharp like barbed wire,

wrapped in charm, but laced with something else.

It wasn’t him.

I knew it.

There was something standing behind him.

Something whispering while he preached.

And I felt the room shift—just a little.

Like the Spirit was holding its breath.

> A spirit was moving.

Not the Holy One.

And I should’ve said something.

I wanted to.

But I remembered the funeral.

The way they looked at me.

The way Mama dragged me out before they could throw me out.

So I said nothing.

Even when my chest got tight.

Even when my hands started shaking.

Even when I felt the same pull from that day—

when Sister Janine floated above the choir stand with hungry eyes.

I said nothing.

---

I bent forward in the pew, pretending to tie my shoe.

But really, I was trying not to pass out.

Or scream.

Or both.

I don’t remember the rest of the sermon.

I don’t remember the altar call.

I just remember slipping out the side door while everyone else had their eyes closed.

Sat behind the building next to the dumpster and tried to breathe.

Tried to pray.

But the words got stuck.

So I cried instead.

Not loud. Not ugly.

Just… enough.

Enough to let it out.

Enough to feel human again.

And when I looked up, the sky was gray.

Not stormy. Just… indifferent.

And I remember whispering:

> “God… I don’t think You like me very much.”

That was the first time I said it out loud.

Didn’t feel brave. Didn’t feel holy.

Felt like admitting something I should’ve kept buried.

But it was the truth.

And in that moment,

truth was all I had.

---

So I wiped my face.

Dusted off my pants.

And walked home.

Not with God.

Not without Him.

Just…

alone.

---
End of Chapter 2.

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