Hallowed Sister

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This tale is based on a true story of Halloween tensions within a church youth group. These events expose the possibility of sibling romantic love within a sincere Christian faith context. This is not a rehash of any story you’ve read on Lit before. In the story’s context, “hallowed” is a double entendre, referring to the spooky holiday as well as the struggle for holiness when both society and the church would cast stones at one’s “sin.” If you’re patient enough for some build-up between brother and sister, you’ll be rewarded. Enjoy!

*

“I’m sorry, Steve — I just can’t support it!”

Shelly’s voice had a catch in it as she rose from our living room couch, turning her back to me.

Lord, help me! I thought. It was a sincere prayer, not just an expression of vexation. There were multiple reasons for my momentary divine conversation. I needed wisdom to defuse the situation with my sister. And I needed strength to overcome my temptation to gawk at the lusciously rounded derriere she had so innocently posed, accented by a quirk of one hip in my direction.

I had been an evangelical Christian for nearly five years now, after my “come-to-Jesus” moment as a wayward fifteen-year-old. But that experience is a story for another day. Suffice it to say, as a matter of faith and family, I truly cared about my sister, and I felt tremendous pangs of guilt at my long-time infatuation with her.

I knew from life-long experience that Shelly was now very close to tears. As she turned back to face me, her luminous emerald eyes began to well up, and her chin began to quiver.

Shelly’s tears had never moved me in the early years as we were growing up. In fact, they had annoyed me. But in recent years, her emotional well-being had become dear to me. And now, gazing at her angelic face, sprinkled with a dash of cinnamon freckles, I’d do just about anything to keep her happy.

Anything to bring a smile to those lush, unintentionally pouting lips. Anything to bring a sparkle to those beautiful pleading eyes. Anything to lower the arch from that neatly trimmed coppery eyebrow, raised at me in anger and frustration.

Well, almost anything. At that moment, my sense of responsibility kicked in and my resolve dug in its heels. There were other things at stake here besides her happiness. I rose from the recliner.

“Aw, Shel — why do you have to be such a spoil sport?” I asked.

At that, her tears flowed freely. Not the right way to phrase the question, Alex, I thought in a “Jeopardy” flashback moment. Leave it to me to make my sweet, smart, conscientious, and incredibly sexy (Did I say that?) sister cry.

Shelly looked toward the floor, drops of misery falling from her eyes. I moved toward my sole sibling as the sobs wracked her, shoulders heaving. I wrapped her in a hug, pulling her against my shoulder and pressing her close. She tensed up, her body silently declaring the hurt I’d inflicted upon her.

“It’s okay, Sis,” I soothed. “I’m sorry to be such a dweeb. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

She relaxed into my embrace, still sobbing. Within seconds, I could feel the moisture from her tears soaking through my green 100% cotton “Legend of Zelda” t-shirt. I hugged her closer. After another sobbing ten-count, her sniffling began to slow.

Moments later, Shelly pushed back to look up into my eyes. Though she was tall at 5′ 10″, her face was a good six inches below mine, as I stood at 6′ 4″ and 220 pounds. Her slender frame was athletically muscled but still carried about 85 pounds less than mine.

The stricken look in her gaze made a lump form in my throat, but I was determined not to mirror her tears.

“I have the whole y-y-y…,” she stammered, as tears began to flow again. I waited patiently, squeezing her hand gently as she stopped to compose herself.

She squeezed my hand back.

“The whole y-y-youth group… is against me, Steve,” she managed. “I just can’t take it if you’re against me, too.”

She straightened up, shoulders square, chest out in defiance. I tried not to notice the way her improved posture stretched the fabric of her wool sweater, the way her jutting breasts called out to me like mythic sirens inviting me to founder on the rocks.

Lord, have mercy! I thought, though this was more caveman reaction than silent prayer. Shelly’s defiant pose accentuated the perfection within her 34-C cup bra. Yes, I took regular turns doing the family laundry, and I had seen the tag.

“Aw, Sis, it’s not like that,” I said. “I’m not against you. I just don’t get why you’re making such a big deal about something so innocent.”

Shelly glared at me.

“I honestly don’t see it the same way,” she said. “It actually is a very big deal to me. I can handle having the rest of the group upset with me. Just not you, my dear but clueless big brother.”

Shelly was a senior in high school and an active member of our church’s youth group, for which I was one of the volunteer assistant leaders. She’d just missed the cutoff date for starting school in an earlier cohort of students when she was a kid, so even though we were just over 2 years apart in age, I had always been three grades ahead in school.

I’d graduated high school a couple of years plus a summer ago. I opted to attend a community college rather than head south to Georgia Tech — much to Mom’s dismay. She had wanted her boy to fulfill his great potential, and I’d been offered an academic scholarship to join the Ramblin’ Wreck at the “MIT of the South.” I guess I felt like Mom and Shelly needed me closer. Dad’s fatal heart attack three years earlier – just at the start of my senior year – was still an open wound for the three of us.

“I’m not upset with you, Shel,” I replied. “I just don’t get why you’re choosing to draw a line in the sand on this. A haunted house is just an opportunity to have some fun and raise some money for the youth group.”

She frowned and shot me a look that told me in no uncertain terms that I was a doofus.

“We can raise money another way — bake sale, car wash, something like that,” she said. “We don’t have to do a haunted house. There’s no reason to actively promote evil in order to raise funds for our youth mission trip next summer.”

“It’s not promoting evil,” I countered, “Everyone knows it’s not real. It’s just some innocent fun. And we can probably raise three times as much money with a haunted house as we can with those other fundraisers!”

Halloween. Derived from the phrase “All Hallow’s Eve.” The evening before All Hallow’s Day – that is, All Saints’ Day. And the irony of it all — not just due to her objections to Halloween, but in every way that mattered – was that my sister was truly a saint. Some might call her a “holy roller,” but she wasn’t a self-righteous bitch like the image that that phrase conjures up. She was the real deal. A sincere believer who understood and embraced the concept of grace. A person of principle who cared as much for others as for herself. Shelly was truly my hallowed sister.

But her love for others also meant protecting them fiercely when she thought they were being led astray.

“Agree to disagree,” she said, “It’s not innocent fun. The Bible is pretty clear that evil spirits exist. And the way I see it, Halloween is a way of glorifying them, even if that’s not the group’s intent.”

I let out a deep, disheartened sigh. She could surely read the frustration in my body language. I needed to choose my words carefully here.

Instinctively, I reached out and pushed a stray lock of her long auburn hair behind her ear. To my surprise, she flinched and gave me an unsettled look. I’m sure I must have blushed in response as I moved my hand away.

“C’mon, Shel. I respect your views. Really, I do. It’s just…”

I paused, not wanting her to feel like I was piling on. I hoped she could see the depth of caring in my eyes.

Shelly broke the silence. “Arguing with me about it doesn’t feel like respect,” she said quietly.

I sighed, trying not to show my exasperation.

“It’s just that all the other kids see it differently…” I began, but she cut me off.

“Hold it right there, mister! We aren’t kids — we’re youth. If you want to get technical, I’m an adult. A woman.”

She was right about that. She was physically all woman. And she’d turned eighteen a few weeks ago, shortly after the school year started in early September. Birth date cutoffs for entry into our school system were based on the school year rather than the calendar year, and Shelly was one of the oldest in her senior class.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “The other youth see it differently. They see an opportunity to exercise their creativity, have a little fun, earn some money for summer missions, and build camaraderie among the group while they work together toward a common goal. Your protest against the haunted house for Halloween is actually tearing down the fellowship rather than building it up.”

Shelly’s drying tears gave way to something else. Her jaw became set rather than tremulous. Her green eyes gleamed with simmering indignation. I’d always thought I could see fire in her eyes at times like this. Green fire. Her nostrils flared. Thankfully, no fire there, though I could imagine it.

“Not my fault,” she said quietly, maintaining my gaze. “The youth leaders need to study the scriptures and then show a little backbone.”

Her comment clearly had me lined up in its sights. When she refused to blink or look away, I feigned taking a dagger to the heart in an effort at some comedic relief. She didn’t bite. And she didn’t smile. Her comment had been heartfelt and serious.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I promise I’ll take a closer look at the Bible references you gave me, and then I’ll talk with Pastor Ralph and maybe some of the other youth leaders.

“Good,” replied Shelly. “I’ll hold you to it.” She continued to hold my gaze for several seconds. Her expression softened, with a somewhat wistful look as her head tilted a little to the side.

Finally, she smiled, like a ray of sunshine breaking through black clouds at the end of a storm. I almost expected to see a rainbow. Her smile gave me a stir of butterflies in my stomach — or, perhaps, my heart. I refused to acknowledge that I was feeling it lower down.

“C’mere, kid,” I said, both arms outstretched for a hug.

“Not a kid,” she laughed, and fairly jumped into my arms. I couldn’t resist a tight squeeze, and I tried hard not to enjoy the warmth of her embrace too much. Or to let my mind dwell on the oh-so-supple but not-too-subtle mammary pressure of her full-frontal hug against my chest. Or to let her feel the burgeoning tumescence pressing from within my jeans against her lower stomach.

* * * * * *

“Hey, Ralph — thanks for meeting me,” I said. I stood up from the table to shake Pastor Ralph’s hand. He was our full-time youth and music ministries leader. After releasing my grip, he took his Red Sox jacket off and hung it on the back of the chair opposite from me.

“Can’t turn down a good cuppa java,” Ralph smiled. He had agreed to meet me on Thursday afternoon of the following week at our local coffee shop. The topic of discussion: Shelly’s protest.

Ralph took his seat. The café was noisy and crowded, so I raised my voice.

“I’ve been doing a lot of research over the last week,” I began. “Even learned what the word ‘hermeneutics’ means.”

“Good for you!” Ralph replied. “So have you been applying it to our current situation?”

“The haunted house? Yeah, well there’s not a lot directly related to that in the Bible.” I frowned and shook my head solemnly.

“Exactly why you need hermeneutics,” he answered, “to know ways to interpret what it says. Then you need ‘exegesis’ to best explain what it means and apply it to a new context.”

“I don’t know about all the fancy terminology,” I said, raising both hands as if in surrender. “I just honestly want to know what’s right and what’s wrong.”

“And the Bible can help you know that,” Ralph said, “Even if it doesn’t speak directly to the issue. You have to look for recurring themes, not isolated passages. Plenty of people have been known to make the Bible say what they want it to say, by ripping passages out of their context.”

“What kind of context do you mean?” I asked.

Ralph smiled. “Well, the context of the culture of the time or the historical background,” he said. “Like when the apostle Paul said for women to keep quiet in the church, it was to deal with a specific problem in a specific congregation at a specific point in time. You have to recognize the difference between contextual issues and eternal truths.”

“So – you think Shelly’s concerns about the haunted house are really just based on a contextual issue from way back when?” I queried.

“That’s a tough one,” Ralph said. “I personally don’t have a problem with a haunted house, any more than a water slide or a basketball game or Harry Potter World at Universal Studios. They’re all forms of entertainment. But I think your sister is genuinely concerned about what she sees as eternal truths rather than contextual issues. And sometimes people’s perceptions about what the truth is are as important as the truth itself. I think that’s why Paul wrote in the book of Ephesians about ‘speaking the truth in love’.”

“What does that have to do with haunted houses?”

“It has to do with balance. Some people — and church leaders are notorious for this — gleefully spout off ‘truths’ with no regard to how they’re relating to other people in the process. If you’re going to do it right, you have to care just as much about the relationship with the person as you do about the truth. Just as much – not more, not less. It’s a balancing act.”

The relationship, I thought. That’s pretty complicated.

“Yeah, well, I’ve already made her cry over this one,” I said.

“But you let her know you love her even though you disagree, right?” Ralph asked.

Love her? Yes, I do. More than I care to admit. She absolutely knows that I love her. But she doesn’t know how much, or in what ways. I can’t speak that truth, no matter how much it’s done in love. No matter how much I’m in love….

Ralph cleared his throat to elicit a response from me. I snapped out of my reverie.

“Eventually, yes, I let her know – after the tears began to flow,” I replied. “But I pushed her to change her mind first…”

“Well, that’s about my speed with my wife,” Ralph said. “Thankfully, I’m learning. That’s what they call ‘sanctification.’ Sinners saved by grace, but continually in need of improvement.”

“Yep,” I said. “I’m certainly glad that it’s God’s grace and not our perfection that makes us right with Him. I’d certainly be in a world of hurt otherwise.”

You’re definitely a sinner, my conscience told me. Starting with having the hots for your sister.

I prayed – somewhat figuratively and somewhat literally – that Pastor Ralph couldn’t detect the depth of the familial bonds that were driving my questioning of biblical answers, in hopes of making my beloved sister happy.

“Steve, there may be more to it than what you’re sharing,” Ralph said.

What? Had Ralph read my mind? Had God rejected my semi-prayer on the spot?

“Not sure what you mean, Ralph,” I mumbled.

“It might be about more than speaking the truth in love, Steve. It might be about conscience,” he said.

Conscience. Was he wanting me to share about my guilty conscience? My sense of wrong about loving my sister that way?

“C-C-C… Conscience?” I asked.

“Yeah, conscience,” he continued. “It might not matter so much whether a haunted house is right or wrong as a universal truth. The issue here might be about your sister’s conscience.”

“You mean – she did something wrong?”

Pastor Ralph laughed, almost a whinny. A couple of curious patrons at a nearby table looked our way in search of the horse.

“No, no, no, Steve!” Ralph snorted. “I mean that the whole haunted house thing might be about your sister’s belief that it’s wrong, whether or not it’s actually wrong. Paul’s deal about ‘not causing your brother or sister to stumble’.”

“Stumble on what?” I asked.

“Meat that’s been offered to idols,” Ralph said with a grin.

“What’s meat got to do with it, and how is my sister going to trip over meat?”

Ralph suppressed the whinny and settled for a somewhat girlish giggle.

“I figured you might ask,” he laughed, nodding. “You remember that passage in First Corinthians about idols? The one where Paul says they’re not gods, and there is but one God?”

“Sorta,” I said, sounding as tentative as I felt. I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

“Well, anyway, the whole gist of it was that Paul was comfortable eating meat that had been sacrificed to idols, because he knew that idols had no power. But not everyone agreed. Many in the church felt that it was wrong to eat such meat. Paul understood that other believers who didn’t sense the same freedom that he did might be led to sin in other areas of their lives if they thought he was freely doing something sinful.”

Ralph looked at me expectantly, as if I should get it. I didn’t.

“Yeah?” I answered, with all the simulated astuteness that I could muster.

“So what’s the application?” Ralph asked. “How does Paul’s situation apply to your sister and the haunted house?”

“Um…” I continued my awesome display of feigned astuteness.

“Maybe, just maybe,” explained Ralph, “even if you see nothing wrong with a haunted house fundraiser at the church, you should support your sister’s decision not to participate.”

“But what about the other youth? I don’t want her to ruin it for them.”

“Let me worry about them,” Ralph said. “You need to think about Shelly. She already knows you love her. Maybe she needs to know that you respect her decision.”

Respect. Tough word. I didn’t agree with her position, but did I have to win the argument?

* * * * * *

After securing a refill, I left my late afternoon coffee break with Pastor Ralph, still unsure what to make of his advice. I arrived at the school to pick up Shelly a little before 5:00. She needed a ride home after volleyball practice. I decided to wait inside for her and finish my coffee while I watched her practice wind down.

I could hear the squeaking of sneakers on the gym floor as I walked down the hallway. Pushing my way through the double doors with one shoulder while trying not to spill my coffee, I hung a left and climbed the bleachers. As I took a seat and turned to look down on the court, I did a double take.

Shelly was about to serve the volleyball over the net. She held the ball in her left hand, preparing to toss it up and strike it overhand with her right. She stepped back with her left foot, bending at the waist to get leverage and power. Nothing remarkable, right?

Oh, but the tight little black shorts that she wore. Tight little black shorts – filled by a tight little athletic butt. A luscious, squeezable, kissable butt. Pooching out enticingly due to that crouch before the serve.

Let me back up. Shelly is a very conservative dresser – when she has a choice. No plunging necklines. No painted-on jeans. Heck, even her swimsuit has a wrap-around skirt.

But on the volleyball court, you’re part of a team. A team that has uniforms. And you have to wear the uniform. The uniform that they give you. And, along with a bright yellow loose-fitting knit jersey, part of her school’s uniform is a pair of very tiny, very tight form-fitting black Lycra shorts.

If you haven’t seen a girls’ volleyball game recently, you may not be able to relate. Suffice it to say that all of the girls on virtually every team wear these tiny shorts, and most of them look really great in them. But I had eyes only for Shelly.

My sister has a great ass! my reptilian brain was screaming at the top of its lungs. Let me squeeze it! my Three 6 Mafia brain began to rap.

And then my Christian brain shouted another word.

Respect.

Pastor Ralph’s word reverberated through my brain. It was followed by my own mind’s hermeneutical interpretation: Not just respect for her decisions. Respect for her person. For her mind. For her soul. And yes, for her body.

Shelly’s lithe form moved with grace, smacking the ball over the net so hard that the girls on the other side backed away and let it drop. The ball bounced off the floor and into the back wall. The teammates on her side of the net jumped up and down, shouting, giving each other high fives. Apparently, they had just won the scrimmage game. Several of them gave Shelly hugs.

I smiled internally, knowing that Shelly would be happy but humble. As the excitement settled down and the coach finished his post-game wrap-up, they began to head to the girls’ locker room. Shelly scanned the bleachers and caught my eye. I nodded and waved with one lazy finger. She gave me an electric megawatt smile and waved back.

My heart did a little flip, but I regained my composure and motioned to her that I’d meet her at the car. My hands gripped the imaginary steering wheel and moved back and forth in a crude pantomime for Shelly’s benefit, before I pointed in the direction of the parking lot. She nodded her understanding, then turned and sauntered toward the locker room. I stood riveted to the spot, my eyes locked on those tight, form-fitting black shorts – and trying not to picture what was underneath them.

Jason Mraz was happily crooning “I’m Yours” on my car radio when Shelly opened the rear passenger door to throw her gym bag in the back seat. Then she climbed into the front passenger seat to join me. She was wearing baggy sweatpants and a light jacket over her uniform.

“Shoulda showered,” I teased as she buckled up. “Eau de skunk does you no favors.”

“Shut it, loser,” she shot back. Her taut smile disclosed the humor beneath.

As I put my Ford Fusion in reverse, I made a mock point of airing out the odor. I rolled down the electric windows and vigorously waved my hands. Shelly rolled her eyes. I laughed.

“I was thinking about taking you for ice cream, but I’m not sure I want to be associated with that smell,” I taunted.

“S’alright,” she said, “I don’t wanna smell me either. Just didn’t want to get nakey in front of all the other girls. I’ll shower at home.”

Nakey. Shower. Lord, help me!

I pulled to a stop at the exit from the school parking lot.

“Now or never,” I said. “Ice cream or not?”

“Not. I need some real food before dessert.”

I turned the blinker to the left, heading for home rather than turning right toward the Baskin Robbins.

“Too bad,” I teased. “Ice cream would help to fatten you up.”

“Like I really need fattening up….” she said.

“Somebody’s fishing for a compliment,” I replied.

“I weigh 135, Steve,” she answered.

“All muscle,” I said. “Plus, you’re 5’10”. You’re underweight. You could easily weigh 15 more pounds and still look good.”

Shelly shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“I… I look good?”

“Well, let’s just say you look better than you smell,” I joked.

“Doofus!” she laughed, then flicked my right kneecap with her thumb and forefinger.

We chatted the rest of the way home, mostly about volleyball and her classes at school. I hesitated to bring up the conversation I’d had with Pastor Steve. I figured it could wait until we could sit across a table and look each other in the eye. I knew she needed to see my body language and not just hear my words. If only a certain part of my anatomy will avoid a more intimate kind of body language….

* * * * * *

Shelly ran up the stairs when we got home. I took my time, reaching the top of the stairs just in time to see her toss her gym bag into her bedroom and dash toward the bathroom. The baggy sweatpants were not revealing enough to lure me into following too closely.

“I’ll take the shower after you,” I hollered after her. “Leave me some hot water!”

“It might take it all to get the stink off!” she shouted merrily. I couldn’t help but smile at my sister’s goofy sense of humor.

Within seconds, I heard the water running.

I went to my bedroom and tossed my keys and wallet on the desk. Flinging my jacket toward the closet, I lay back on the bed. A million thoughts were flitting through my mind, most of them related to my sister. And that, I realized, was the problem.

I’m blood-related to my sister. If she were any other girl in the world and I knew her the way I knew Shelly, I’d be doing everything I could to get her to go out with me. But if she were any other girl in the world, I almost certainly wouldn’t know here the way I did. Talk about a paradox!

As I lay there thinking, I suddenly heard a voice. A female voice. Singing. It was coming from the shower. Of course, it was Shelly. And she was singing beautifully. A hymn. With the voice of an angel, she was lifting up a powerful praise anthem: “How Deep the Father’s Love For Us” by Stuart Townend.

Shelly’s faith was probably the thing that attracted me most to her. Sure, she was beautiful, athletic, kind and intelligent. But she was a person of genuine faith and conviction. That’s what started this whole problem with the haunted house. And even that wasn’t about being “holier than thou.” She was worried about her unchurched friends and the mixed message that a haunted house at a church would send to them.

Shelly had become serious about her faith as a younger teenager. It was through seeing the change in her and the way she treated others – Mom, Dad, her classmates, and of course me – that I began to question my own faith. And eventually I came to a place where I owned it for myself, not just as something that somebody else wanted for me. I had a “come to Jesus” moment where I realized that it was all about God’s love for me, not my own ability to perform. From that point on, I viewed God as my Father – especially after my own Dad died. And not as some authority figure with a lightning bolt ready to blast me when I messed up. But, like my Dad, somebody who loved me unconditionally for who I was, not for what I did. Someone who rooted for me and would gladly help me to become all that I could be.

But right now, I wanted to forget that God was always there. Because I wanted my sister as more than a sister, and I was pretty sure that that wasn’t what God wanted for me.

Or was it? A voice somewhere deep inside me seemed to whisper.

I listened to Shelly’s voice rising in perfect pitch as she finished the refrain:

“Why should I gain from His reward?

I cannot give an answer –

But this I know with all my heart

His wounds have paid my ransom.”

The emotion in her voice touched me in a way that both captivated and crushed my heart. This pure girl with sincere faith, wanting to be God’s vessel of love, but loved by her brother in a way that — by all appearances in both society and the church — could never legitimately be consummated. A true conundrum of biblical proportions.

Shelly’s knock at my door a few minutes later drew me out of my reverie.

“Shower’s all yours, dork,” she said through the panel, giggling as she proceeded down the hallway. Moments later, I heard her bedroom door open and shut.

As I adjusted the shower head and leaned under its potent stream, I was happy to find that there was plenty of hot water left. Shelly didn’t have a genuinely mean bone in her body, and I was pretty sure she’d deliberately saved me as much as she could.

After I washed my hair, I lathered up my loofah with some body wash for sensitive skin. And as I began to rub my body, I encountered some genuinely sensitive skin. Down there.

I thought about the fact that Shelly had been in here not 5 minutes before. Just as naked as I was now. Nakey.

And I thought about that snapshot in time before she served the volleyball to end the game. About her tight, black, form-fitting short shorts. And her cute little butt. And suddenly that sensitive skin was getting uncomfortably hard.

Hopefully God is looking the other way, I thought. Or at least He understands.

My hand grasped my soapy dick and began to stroke.

I’d long before resolved that masturbation – in and of itself – wasn’t sinful. The Bible never condemns it. The closest it comes is an Old Testament passage where God struck down a man for “spilling his seed upon the ground.” But the point there was that the guy was deliberately foregoing his duty to provide a child to his wife through a Levirate marriage. It wasn’t the act of masturbation itself that was the problem.

Where things become a bit more dicey is with the thoughts that make masturbation possible, or at least bring it to its most effective conclusion. Jesus taught that “anyone who looks upon a woman to lust after her has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”

So, if I’m thinking about a woman – let’s say some random woman in tight, black volleyball shorts – while I stroke my dick in the shower, am I committing adultery with her in my heart?

Well, if she’s unmarried – say, like my sister – can it be adultery? And if she’s not aware I’m doing it, can it be “with her”?

Okay, so I’m looking for a technicality. Maybe the answer is simpler. Maybe Jesus was pointing out our weaknesses so that we didn’t think we had the strength on our own to overcome them. After all, didn’t his teaching about “anyone who looks upon a woman” follow right after He said, “You have heard it said not to commit adultery, but I say to you….” He basically raised the stakes to say it’s not just the actions, but the thoughts, that lead to sin. And nobody is good enough to completely control their thoughts — so everybody sins. And that’s why we all need God’s grace, rather than our own perfection.

Anyway, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. God knows my weaknesses – and when it comes to my sister, God knows — I’m weak.

As I stroked my soapy dick, I tried to show my sister some respect — and to somewhat control my thoughts — by not completely undressing her in my mind. That tight little butt in those cute little shorts were enough. Shelly’s smile in my mind’s eye was what ultimately put me over the top. I felt my cock starting to pulse as I stroked faster. My body shuddered and I grasped the shower head with my left hand for balance. I was about to explode in a massive orgasm, and I called out to the girl in my mind as my cock began to erupt.

“Ah – ah – Shelly!” I hissed through clenched teeth, as spurt after spurt of white creamy globs painted the shower wall.

“Um…. Steve?” I heard Shelly’s surprised voice from the other side of the shower door.

Busted. My mind kicked into survival mode. Rapidly exiting my orgasmic nirvana, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the “fight or flight” instinct.

“Shel? What’re you doin’ here?”

“I was just grabbing the hair dryer,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“Taking a shower, Einstein,” I retorted.

“But – why did you call me?” she asked.

I grasped for straws. “I… um… I, uh, needed to ask you a question.”

“Well – what about?”

“Um….” I stumbled for anything. “What time is Mom getting home from work?”

“Steve – what’s wrong with you?”

I turned the shower stream off to hear her better. I noticed a glob of cum stuck to a nearby tile as I released the knob.

“Shel, I’m confused…” I said.

“It’s the first Thursday in October, right?” she asked.

“Um, yeah….”

“Well, what has Mom been doing on every first Thursday evening of the month for the last three years?”

My orgasm had momentarily robbed me of my other senses. “Oh, yeah,” I replied. “Grief group at the church.”

I reached for my washcloth and wiped the cum off the tile, erasing the physical evidence of my desire for my sister.

“So… we won’t see her until after dinner, right? Since they share a meal? Remember?” Shelly continued.

With the shower turned off and me dripping wet, I was starting to get cold.

“Um… right…”

My eloquence was astounding, I’m sure.

“So, there’s no need to call out to your baby sister from the shower…” Shelly replied.

I blushed the length of my entire body, probably emanating from my guilty dick. I decided to change the subject.

“Um, Shel… could you hand me my towel?”

“Sure, bro. But you’re gonna have to slide the door open a bit.”

Our shower was one of those with a sliding door and a panel at the top to keep the water in, so there was no way to toss a towel over to the other side without opening the door a crack. Thankfully, the swirly pattern on the shower door was opaque enough that Shelly couldn’t see the activity I had been engaged in when she had entered the bathroom. At least, I didn’t think so.

I slid the door carefully open. Well, I’m sure I thought I was being careful. Unfortunately, I lost my balance and had to grasp the handle harder, pulling it wider open as I regained my stance.

Shelly’s mouth gaped open and her eyes widened as she looked down at my floppy, flaccid cock. She was bundled to the gills with a heavy terry cloth robe and her hair wrapped in a towel, but I was stark naked and totally exposed to her view.

Having just lost my load to thoughts of my sister, my dangling dick was more embarrassing for its small size than for the fact that Shelly saw me in the buff. If she was going to see it, at the very least it could have been in a state where I’d have been prouder of its length and girth. I half expected her to tease me with her twisted take on the “wee wee-wee, all the way home” line from the “This Little Piggy” toe-pulling game from when we were kids. “It’s not a little toe that got pulled; it was his little wee-wee getting pulled that made him cry,” she had always insisted as a juvenile joke.

There was no mirth on her face now. Instead, she was completely flustered.

“Here!” she said, throwing the towel in my general direction and fleeing the scene. I caught it before it hit the shower floor, but Shelly was already gone. I noticed that she’d left the hair dryer behind.

* * * * * *

As was our custom on the Thursday evenings when our mom was gone to her grief recovery group, Shelly and I settled in at the kitchen table to share a frozen pizza. It wasn’t frozen, actually — Shel had heated it in the oven at 400 degrees Fahrenheit for the required 18 to 20 minutes.

“Which kind did you fix?” I asked.

“Delissio thin crust — 4 cheese,” she replied quietly, without looking up from the table.

I could see immediately that she was troubled. It had only been half an hour since our awkward little shower scene. My hair was even still a little bit wet. So was Shelly’s. She’d never returned for the hair dryer.

Shelly had changed from her terry cloth robe into track pants and a white tank top. While modest, the top hugged her bosom in a way that inspired adoration. For my part, I was the epitome of fashion in an old pair of jeans and a Casting Crowns t-shirt.

“Do you want to do the honors?” she asked.

I hesitated a second, thinking she wanted me to slice the pizza — but it had already been cut. Then realization dawned. I bowed my head and closed my eyes.

“Sure,” I said. She was asking me to offer thanks to God for our food.

“Father,” I said, trying to visualize God and really talk to Him, “We thank you for this meal, and for the chance to share some time around the table together as brother and sister. Biological siblings, as well as brother and sister in Christ. We ask that you’d give Mom a good evening sharing with her group, knowing that she’s fulfilling your word to ‘mourn with those who mourn.’ And we ask that you forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. We pray in Jesus’ name… Amen.”

Shelly kept her eyes downcast as I raised my head.

“Um, Steve,” she said, a hint of a question mark raising the pitch of her voice as she spoke my name.

“Yeah, Shel?” I asked as I took my first bite of pizza.

“You, uh, mentioned ‘trespasses’ when you were praying,” she said, again almost a question rather than a statement. Her pizza slice remained on her plate.

“Yup…” A string of cheese pulled away from my pizza and landed on my chin.

“Why’d’ja do that?”

“Well, I dunno…” I stopped chewing and hesitated. “Maybe because it’s part of the Lord’s prayer? Y’know, a model prayer for us to use when we pray?”

“Oh….” she said, still with a question in her voice. “I thought maybe it was because of me walking in on you in the shower.”

“What?” I asked, perhaps a little more emphatically than I had intended.

“Y’know,” she said, “I sorta trespassed against you when I came in the bathroom while you were still showering.”

“And you think I was pointing out your need for forgiveness when I prayed?”

“Well, y’know….” She stopped again, looking up from her pizza and holding my gaze. “I probably shouldn’t have come into the bathroom with you all nakey and everything….”

Nakey, indeed. With my sister in the room, catching a glimpse of my shrunken phallus. But she’s thinking about it. Just not sure whether because of guilt — or perhaps curiosity….

My heart raced, and my dick galloped ahead of it. But my brain said, “Whoa.”

“Shel, that was nothing more than an accident. An unfortunate, uncomfortable, innocent situation.”

“Well… maybe. Uncomfortable, yes. Unfortunate — I don’t know. I’m not big on the role of ‘fortune’ or coincidence. And innocent?” She paused, her cheeks flushing, and took a sip of her Diet Coke. “Maybe not so innocent….”

My poor, dear sister was struggling with guilt. She looked back down at her plate, frowning, flexing her fingers. I was determined to relieve her of her sense of responsibility.

“What are you talking about, Sis?” I asked. “I know you won’t even go into the shower with the girls on the volleyball team. And I certainly didn’t mean to show you my junk — such as it was, all shriveled and all.”

Her frown transformed into a mischievous grin.

“So you’d have purposely showed it to me if it wasn’t all shriveled?”

I harrumphed. “That was not my proudest moment. But no, I was not trying to flash you. If I had, I’d have been more prepared and done a better job of it. Bad enough that I gave you a glimpse. Worse yet that the flagpole was well below half-mast.”

Shelly giggled at that, her cheeks turning rosy. She was naughtier than I suspected.

I took another bite of my pizza, while Shelly flashed a grin at me.

“Well, Steve,” she laughed, “was it at half-mast because someone had died? Perhaps ‘the little death’?”

You could have knocked me over with a feather. Was she saying what I thought she was?

“I’ll have you know, my dear little sister, that I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

Shelly looked down again, then caught my gaze again and batted her eyes.

“We both aced our French classes in high school, dear brother,” she said meaningfully, “and you’re trying to tell me you don’t know what ‘la petite mort’ means?”

I nearly choked on my last bite of pizza, while Shelly’s remained untouched.

“Please, please — enlighten me, little Sis,” I said.

“It refers to an orgasm, dear brother,” she replied saucily.

I laid my hands flat on the table. I knew the jig was up. No lying, no excuses. The Bible talks about the importance of confession. Not to a priest, but to those we’ve wronged, both human and divine. I looked her in the eye.

“Okay, Shel — I’ll bite. Let me start by saying that I was not pointing out your need for forgiveness when I prayed about trespasses. I would never use a prayer to communicate someone else’s faults to them. But maybe I subconsciously was thinking about the shower scene and my own need for forgiveness….”

“But…. But….” Shelly stammered. “You just said that you didn’t purposely show me your junk….”

“That’s right, I didn’t purposely show you my penis, if we’re going to have a serious talk like adults. And yes, I’m the one that started out calling it junk….”

Shelly smiled, then reached out to lay her hand across mine. “It’s not junk at all,” she said quietly.

I returned her smile. “Be that as it may,” I said, “It was in a reduced state for a reason. And you’re exactly right as to why. I had just had an orgasm, which leaves it in a completely deflated state.”

“So….” she began. “So I was right….”

“Yes. And that may be what was on my mind when I asked God for forgiveness for my trespasses.”

“You were obviously alone in the shower. And you had just had an orgasm….”

“If you’re going to make me say it…. I was masturbating.”

“Is — is masturbation a sin?” she asked. “I mean, did you really need forgiveness?”

“I — I don’t fully know whether it’s necessarily a sin. I’ve studied the Bible and I don’t actually think that the physical act is sinful. But the mental images that accompany it might well be sinful.”

“Mental images?” she asked.

“Yeah, y’know — thoughts that get you aroused, so that you can actually — masturbate,” I replied.

“And, um, what were you thinking about?”

Ugh. Didn’t want to go there.

“Shelly… Sis… Please don’t make me say.”

Shelly grinned a megawatt smile.

“So… it’s true.”

“What’s true?” I asked.

“When you called out my name… It wasn’t… it wasn’t because you heard me in the room.”

“Um… no, Shel. No, I didn’t hear you until after.”

“After — your orgasm? But you definitely called out my name from the shower….”

“Yeah, I did,” I admitted.

Shelly lifted her hand from mine and touched my face.

“Truth, Steve. You called out my name when you were having an orgasm?”

My face burned with shame. But there was no condemnation in her voice — just a sincere question.

“Truth? Yes, Shelly, I was thinking of you when I came. You’re the mental image that I conjured up to masturbate to….”

“And you think you need to be forgiven for that?” she asked, quirking her eyebrow at me inquisitively, not in anger, frustration or judgment.

“Jesus talked about lusting after a woman — not just the physical act of adultery, but the mental image….”

“You — you lust after me? Moi?”

“Yes, you, Shelly — only you. Whenever… whenever I… I masturbate. But not just then. I always think of you as more than just my sister….”

There. I’d said it. Revolting as it surely must be to her. But she only smiled at me.

“Steve, I have a confession to make.”

“Yeah, Sis?”

“Well, Steve… I masturbate, too.”

“You… you do?” I don’t know if I was truly surprised. After all, they say that everybody does it. Even sweet, innocent Christian girls.

“Yes. And I… I don’t feel guilty about it.”

“So you can do it without the… the mental images?” I asked.

Shelly averted her gaze from mine, and removed her hand from my face.

“Well, in all honesty… not exactly.”

“So how do you get past the idea that it’s sinful?”

“Because… because I love the person I’m thinking about.”

A stab of jealousy pierced my heart. I clenched my fists below the table so she couldn’t see my rage. I wanted to pound the poor fellow who had stolen my sister’s heart. But I managed to calm myself and pursue the line of questioning. Unlike a good lawyer, I was willing to ask questions for which I might not want to know the answers.

“So, if you love him, it’s not a sin to think of him lustfully?”

“Not if I’m committed to him. Like, for life.”

“You mean — you’re planning to marry him?” I was devastated.

“Um, Steve — it’s complicated….” she answered.

Just then, the front door to the house slammed shut.

“Kiddos — I’m ho-ome!” Mom’s gleeful voice shouted from the living room.

Shelly grimaced. “I’ll explain later, Steve.”

My heart sunk to my stomach as we stood and went to the living room to welcome our mother with the hugs she always craved.

* * * * * *

That night, I opened my Bible and silently asked God for guidance and wisdom. I needed to know why I had these longings for my sister, and whether I was truly committing a sin by thinking of her that way. By wanting more.

Shelly had mentioned that she didn’t believe in coincidences or fortune — that my shriveled-dick appearance in the bathroom might not have been “unfortunate.” But what possible reason could there be for it? What possible good could come from it? Only God knows.

I only knew that I was heartbroken that my sister had met some guy that she wanted to marry. I hadn’t even known she had a boyfriend. Maybe — maybe she didn’t. Maybe she longed after him from afar, and he didn’t even know she thought of him that way. That would explain his absence from the scene. Still, it was strange that she could feel so committed to him if that were the case….

I suddenly remembered a passage in the first book of the Bible that I wanted to look up. It involved Abraham, the father of “God’s people” — first, the physical descendants of Abraham, and then later, the spiritual descendants: the entire population of God-followers.

After some searching through Genesis, I stumbled upon the story of Abraham’s sojourn with his wife, Sarah (originally Sarai). As I read, it dawned on me that Sarah wasn’t just his wife. She was his sister, too. Well, his half-sister, at least.

Holy smokes, I thought. What are you showing me, Lord?

In the story, as they entered new lands, Abraham feared that the foreigners would kill him if they knew that Sarah was his wife. She was beautiful and they would surely want her. So, he told them she was his sister — which was true, but it was not the entire truth.

Sarah was upset with Abraham for not telling them that she was his wife. After all, she didn’t want them making advances on her. In Genesis 20: 11-12, Abraham tried to explain his reasoning to her: “I said to myself, ‘There is surely no fear of God in this place, and they will kill me because of my wife.’ Besides, she really is my sister, the daughter of my father though not of my mother; and she became my wife.”

She really is my sister…. Huh. I’d really never thought much about it before. But now I was thinking.

I suddenly remembered another passage about a sister — one that had a tragic ending. One of King David’s sons, Absalom, had killed his brother Amnon because Amnon had raped their sister Tamar. But, if I remembered correctly, the issue was the rape, not that he loved his sister in a very unsisterly way. I leafed through my Bible, over to the book of 2^nd Samuel. In the 13^th chapter, I found the passage I was looking for:

Amnon became so obsessed with his sister Tamar that he made himself ill. She was a virgin, and it seemed impossible for him to do anything to her….

So Amnon lay down and pretended to be ill. When king David came to see him, Amnon said to him, “I would like my sister Tamar to come and make some special bread in my sight, so I may eat from her hand.”

But when she took it to him to eat, he grabbed her and said, “Come to bed with me, my sister.”

“No, my brother!” she said to him. “Don’t force me! Such a thing should not be done in Israel! Don’t do this wicked thing… Please speak to the king; he will not keep me from being married to you.” But he refused to listen to her, and since he was stronger than she, he raped her.

Please speak to the king; he will not keep me from being married to you…. So, I indeed remembered it correctly. King David, whom the Bible repeatedly refers to as “a man after God’s own heart,” would not have kept Amnon from marrying his sister Tamar….

Pastor Ralph had told me to search the scriptures and God would help me find the answers to the difficult issue of the youth group hosting a haunted house. Was God similarly showing me the answers to the difficult issue of my longing after my sister?

Ralph had differentiated between contextual issues and eternal truths. In the context of today’s society, loving my sister as a wife was definitely taboo. Probably even illegal. For sure, the state would never license us to marry. But was the separation between sister and wife to be an eternal truth? If so, why is it so clear that Abraham, the spiritual father of all believers, married his sister? Or that David, a man after God’s own heart, would surely have allowed his son Amnon to marry his sister Tamar?

But even so, it didn’t matter. Shelly’s heart was obviously taken already by someone she ultimately wanted to marry. Someone who was the object of her thoughts as she masturbated. Even if he didn’t necessarily know it yet. My fists began to clench and flex again. As much as the Bible called upon me not to hate, I truly hated this guy.

As I pondered these things, there was a knock at my door.

“Who is it?” I called out.

“It’s me, Steve — Shelly. Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

The door opened slowly, and Shelly peered around the edge cautiously. Almost stealthily. She looked all around me — side to side, up and down — before fixing her gaze on mine.

“I…. I wasn’t sure what you’d be doing,” she explained. “Thought you might be masturbating,” she said with a sheepish grin.

I rolled my eyes at her lame joke. “It’s not like I do that all the time, Sis….”

“I can see I was plainly mistaken,” she said, waving her hand with a grandiose gesture at the open Bible on my desk. “So what’cha doin’, dear brother of mine?”

“Um…. Research. I mean, like, trying to figure some things out. From the Bible.”

“Like, about your masturbation guilt?” She walked toward me, standing over me as a remained seated in my desk chair.

“Well, yeah, kinda….” I said weakly.

“And…. What have you — found?” she inquired. She placed an affectionate hand on my shoulder in a display of support.

“Well, not to go back over ground we’ve already covered, but I think it’s really about the mental images. That’s where the sin comes in.”

“And you — you always think of me….” Shelly’s voice was low, a husky whisper.

Gulp. “Yes, that’s right, Sis. Please forgive me….”

“Well, Steve — we got interrupted earlier. I didn’t finish my confession.” She sat down on the end of the bed, beside my desk chair.

“You — you had…. had started talking about that guy you want to marry,” I said, the pain straining my voice. “That it’s okay to think of him when you masturbate, since you plan to marry him.”

I felt a tear slipping down my face, latching onto my nostril momentarily before splattering on my desk. Shelly tenderly wiped the rivulet from my cheek.

“I didn’t say I plan to marry him. I said it’s complicated. I don’t think — I don’t think I can actually marry him….”

“But — why not?” I asked, louder than I intended. I was both relieved and puzzled.

“Because… because even though we love each other desperately, I don’t know of any jurisdictions where we could legally marry. But, like I said, it’s complicated. Marriage isn’t just a legal concept. It’s a spiritual commitment….”

“You — couldn’t legally marry? Why not?” I was incredulous.

“Steve — dear brother of mine — are you really that dense?”

She smiled a dazzling smile, then leaned her face toward mine.

I rolled my desk chair back away from her momentarily, not sure what was going on.

Shelly leaned over toward me from the edge of the bed — my, oh my, her white tank top hugged her breasts deliciously — and picked up my open Bible.

“I see you’re in the 13^th chapter of 2^nd Samuel, Steve.”

“Um — that’s right, Shel.”

“Where Amnon rapes his sister, Tamar?”

Busted again!

“Um, yep, Sis….”

“Steve, you’re not planning to rape me, are you?”

“What??? No way, Shel, I would never, ever hurt you!”

“I didn’t think so. But you do fantasize about me to make yourself ejaculate when you masturbate?”

“But that’s different than rape. I love you, Shelly — I truly love you. More than just as a brother. As a man. I want to be with you, always and forever.”

“Exactly. And that’s why it’s okay.”

“You mean — you’re not grossed out? You don’t hate me?”

“No, Steve,” she answered, a smile tugging at her lips. “I could never hate you. You’re my brother. And I am not grossed out.”

“Why — why not?” I asked.

“Because I love you the same way. As a woman, I mean.”

“But — what about the guy you want to marry? The one you think about when you masturbate?”

Shelly laughed, a hearty laugh from deep in her belly. Tears began streaming down her face. Her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably in the midst of her giggle fit.

“You’re going to make me pee!” she shouted.

“But — what’s so funny?” I asked. And then it hit me. “Wait a minute — you love me like I love you?”

“Yes, dear brother of mine. I am hopelessly devoted to you.”

“And — there is no other guy?”

“Exactly. You are the one that I conjure up when I masturbate. You are the one that I’m in love with. And you are the one that makes things complicated.”

I rolled my chair in toward her, reaching in for a brotherly hug like we’d shared hundreds of times before. She leaned into me, accepting my hug unconditionally.

When our hug became awkwardly long, uncertain as to its role between siblings or lovers, we each released the other. Shelly stood and took my hand. I rose in front of her and gazed into her emerald depths. She smiled comfortably at me, and our hug resumed. But it made a choice: the sibling role was relinquished. And then my dormant dick developed a mind of its own, pushing into her belly. I started to back away, but Shelly pulled herself flush against me.

“I’m sorry, Shel — I can’t help it,” I said, referring to the elephant in the room.

“And neither can I,” she answered. “But it feels good. Can it be so wrong?”

“Well, uh — actually, maybe not. I was searching the scriptures for a reason, Sis. And trying to do it with an open mind and open heart, not simply to justify what I’ve been feeling.”

“And you landed on the passage about Amnon raping his sister Tamar?”

“Well, uh — the rape was definitely wrong. Non-consensual sex is never right. But it’s clear from the scripture that if it had been consensual, they could have been married. And it’s clear in Genesis that Abraham was married to his sister, Sarah. Well, half-sister.”

Shelly hugged me closer and looked up into my eyes.

“Steve, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“If you think I’m saying that I want to marry you — yes. At least spiritually, as a lifelong commitment, even if it’s not possible to marry you legally.”

In response, Shelly put her hand behind my head and pulled my face gently down toward hers. She pressed her lips to mine, tentatively at first, then deepening with a sense of urgency. Her tongue slipped into my mouth, and I slid my tongue against hers. My dear, sweet, beautiful, loving sister — how I love you! My burgeoning dick found its way to the crotch of her track pants, and she hoisted herself up to my abdomen, straddling me as I held her up. My hands began to massage her rounded, taut buttocks. I was overwhelmed with the confluence of love and desire….

“Shelly! Shelly, where are you???” Mom’s voice drifted down the hallway from outside Shelly’s bedroom.

Shelly jumped down from my midriff and straightened her hair, her track pants, and her tank top.

“I’m right here, Mom! I was just talking with Steve….”

She opened my bedroom door and smiled down the hall at Mom.

Mom met her at the doorway and poked her head into my room. She looked at my Bible and books spread across my desk.

“Ah, Bible study time. Good to see, Steve,” Mom said.

“Yep, good to get some answers,” I said giddily. “Really good.”

“That’s so nice,” said Mom.

If you only knew, I thought.

“God is faithful,” I said, sincerely thankful that He’d guided me to the answers I needed. My longing for my sister wasn’t so unnatural after all. In fact, it wasn’t sinful. Even better — she loved me the same way!

“Yes, He is faithful,” said Mom. “Shelly, sweetheart, I need you to come downstairs and help me out. I have to get three dozen cookies made for my kindergarten kids for tomorrow, and your cookies are so good. Of course, they must be nut-free, but we can adapt your recipe….”

Shelly wrinkled her nose and looked at me with a sad, upside-down smile.

“I guess we’re done, Steve — for now.” She blew a kiss in my direction.

I smiled and blew a kiss back to her. For now, indeed.

* * * * * *

The next morning, Mom cooked some maple-flavored bacon while I made pancakes. Shelly fixed the coffee and set the table, and we all sat down to eat together.

“So, Steve,” asked Mom, “what sort of Bible studies have you been doing lately?”

I nearly spit my coffee out. Shelly grinned at me and pointed a taunting finger.

“Um, well….” My mind raced. And then something truthful but diversionary bounced into my brain. “I, uh, I’ve been trying to figure out this haunted house thing….”

“Don’t even get me started!” Shelly snapped.

“Sorry, Sis,” I apologized, “but it’s not what you think….”

“So — what is it?” she asked.

“Well, I haven’t found a definitive answer. The Bible doesn’t specifically mention haunted houses. But I’ve discovered some principles.”

“The man has found some principles! I raised him right!” Mom laughed, raising her hands above her head in a goofy cheer.

Shaking my head at her and smiling, I continued. “I think the key principle is to not cause my brother to stumble. Or in this case, my sister.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you, kiddo.”

“I’ve told you, I’m not a kid. I’m a woman.”

I fixed a gaze on her breasts pointedly, deliberately making both her and Mom uncomfortable. Mom even slapped my hand playfully.

“You are indeed that, Shel,” I admitted. “But that’s not the point.”

“So get to the point,” Mom said, pouring herself a second cup of coffee.

“When Paul talked about not causing others to stumble, he meant that even if I don’t see something as wrong, I need to pay attention to whether others see it as wrong. If they do, and they see me doing that something that they see as ‘wrong’ — it might cause them to ‘stumble’ themselves.”

“So,” Shelly said, “if I think having a haunted house at the church is wrong, you’re going to support me in that?”

“Indeed I am, Sis — no questions asked. But I’ve had another thought that you might want to consider.”

“And — what’s that?” Shelly’s curiosity was genuinely piqued.

“Well, we’ve always talked about wanting to get more people to church,” I said, “and what better way to get people from the community — people who’d never darken the door of a church on a Sunday morning — to come out to a fun event on Halloween night. A charity fundraiser, at that?”

Shelly contemplated for a moment. Mom looked at her, then looked back at me, shrugging her shoulders with an emphatic question mark.

“Well, Steve, you may have something there,” Shelly said slowly, “but if it’s only about ghosts and goblins and witches, how does that make a positive difference with visitors from the community?”

I hesitated, then recovered. “Maybe they’ll see that we’re a lot like them. That we can have fun, without judgment. After all, we’re all sinners in need of God’s grace….”