The rain had poured heavily and reduced to drizzles before the service began, making the morning colder than usual. Melanie sat in her usual place at the back, close to the wall, wrapped in the warmth of her thick blue sweater. The preacher’s voice rose and fell, filling the room, but she let her head rest against the wall, listening more to the hush of the rain than the sermon itself.

His voice sounded vibrant on the microphone than usual but she still wasn’t interested. She initiated a transition. Though her eyes sat on the preacher’s face—you would have thought his words were hitting her heart—she had detached herself from the whole service.

Skilful at mind travel, she went from being in church to standing on a global stage in stiletto heels, speaking before a crowd who responded with resounding applause and a standing ovation. She moved from the stage to an airport, but as she was trying to ascend the plane, what happened last week intruded on her fantasy. She loathe to be reminded.

But it was not only last week. In the past five years, it had happened several times. Last week was only the latest. Her little fantasy was now pushed aside and replaced with scenes playing the dirty acts of her addiction.

The preacher stopped, and the congregation, each turning to his neighbour, muttered some words. She looked to her left and met her neighbor’s face smiling at her and mouthing the same. Before she could make sense of the chorus, it stopped and the preacher continued speaking. He was now sober unlike when he started.

As she attempted to return to her world of fantasy, the voice of condemnation resumed its presentation, flooding her mind with more pictures of the scenes she dreaded revisiting. She bowed her head in shame.

The congregation hummed another loud chorus the second time. This time she heard it clearly. “It’s not too late to come back home,” she raised her head but pretended not to see the smiling face at her side turning towards her, “there’s room at the cross for you”, with a finger pointing at her—she saw from the corner of her eye. The words seemed shot directly at her. It sounded deliberate. Has this man been preaching about me?

“Tell your neighbour one more time”, the preacher said. She couldn’t muster the words, let alone preach them to someone else. Tears welled up in her eyes. The chorus had stopped but the echo rang in her heart. “There’s room at the Cross for you.” She felt seen, spotlighted, and exposed. Still in her seat, she buried her head in her palms to collect her tears.

The next she heard was the rattle of chairs and the rustling of feet. It was time to pray. With her eyes shut, she fell to her knees and, amidst tears, prayed in a manner she hadn’t done in a long time.

“If you have been wondering where to go or what to do with the life that wearies you or the issue that has long plagued you, there’s room at the Cross for you. Come to the cross where life is given, where burdens are lifted, and where freedom is experienced”, the preacher ended. Those were the his words before leaving the pulpit.