“And how many of you know that lust is just love unrequited. Turn to your neighbor and say ‘unrequited.’ And most of us search to find the love in others that we are really seeking in ourselves. If I’m hitting your bell, just say clang-a-lang-a-lang.” What seemed like the entire church, including me, shouted “Clang-a-lang-a-lang!”

“’Cause most of us not only don’t love ourselves, but we don’t even like ourselves. Amen? ’Cause if you really liked yourself, you would be comfortable with yourself, and if you were comfortable with yourself, you wouldn’t need anybody but yourself. I’m on the line, don’t hang up!”

Slowly, I began reflecting on Damon as visions of my prior evening’s lustful escapades raced through my head faster than a speeding bullet and the guilt grew more powerful than a locomotive.

“Loneliness is a web, amen? A web that traps you in a snare of sexual indiscretion. It baptizes you in a fountain of fornication. Lathers you in a sea of sin. It rocks your boat, and it docks your hope.” The organ rumbled, accompanying his words.

I felt myself tearing up. Getting emotional. Maybe this was a sign. A sign that there was a greater purpose in my coming to Atlanta to look for a husband. Maybe Atlanta was my healing.

He continued, “And the sex may be good. Not just good but like a bowl of Campbell soup, um um good. Like Maxwell House, good to the last drop. But I don’t care how good it is, the feeling never lasts. Lust without love is a quick fix. Like crack. A manufactured, man-made upper, full of extremes, loaded with imbalance, and ultimately void of fulfillment. But how many of you want to experience a high that will build you up and never let you down?”

“Yes, Lord!” I shouted, by now totally caught up in the spirit. “Thank ya, Lord!” I cheered, as emotions went riveting through my body.

Suddenly an older church mother grabbed my hand and off we went. Rounding pews, hopping over little children, we were off. Hands waving, tears rolling, church hat flying, bob bouncing, still with one hand on my too-short sundress, we were off. We ran and we ran. Through the offering we ran. Through three baptisms, we ran. For the next three services we ran. Until finally the benediction was spoken, and the last choir’s song was sung. Finally we stopped running. And though I probably should have been exhausted, I was renewed, refreshed, reinvigorated and ready. I hugged the old mother, and she hugged me back with a grandma-gon’-make-

everything-feel-better kind of hug. I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Sister Montana, the pastor would like to see you in his study.” It was his assistant, Shonda. “Nobody goes back to the pastor’s study after evening service. You must be very special.”