No Good Dwells

I shouldn’t have noticed her, but I did.

She always sat in the front row, taking notes and adjusting the straps on whatever dress she was wearing that week. She was like a virgin priestess. She was young and beautiful, vibrant and giving— Traits that belonged in a bed, not in a chair studying.

And now she was here on the couch in front of me, sobbing and wrapping her fingers around a tissue. I took notice of her nails, wondering how they might feel digging into my back or gliding across my shoulders. When she licked the salt from her lips, I started to have an entirely different variety of fantasies that I was almost glad she interrupted.

“Pastor,” she said. “What do you think I should do?”

I exhaled. What did I think? What _had_ I been thinking?

Right then, it was like Paul himself was speaking into my ear:

_For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh,) dwelleth no good thing…_

“Pray,” I said. “It’s the only thing that can save any of us.”