She couldn’t remember the last time he had actually looked at her. Seen her. Missed her. Has he forgotten me so completely? Am I even needed by him – or by anyone – anymore?

Cara sat alone near the back of the chapel. Her five-year-old Mason and two-year-old Abby were temporarily entertained. That could change at any moment. Eruptions were always just a broken crayon or a dropped fruit snack away. Cara had cried hard enough that morning to cause her eyes to sting and swell. Makeup covered most of the obvious signs unless someone looked close. Which no one would, of course. She’d become invisible to the ward. They’d stopped talking to her. Fine, not all of them. But most. Busy. Everyone was into their own situation. They just didn’t have time for her. Sister Barnam, the Relief Society President, would check in once in awhile. But it felt obligatory to Cara. Forced. Cara wanted to tell her not to bother.

The first counselor in the bishopric, Brother Tucker, was conducting. Had they already sung the opening hymn? Had she missed it entirely? Truth be told, she’d not been doing much singing recently. More of an occasional tired mumble. Sacrament meeting had become the worst hour of the week for her. Sixty jagged minutes of being reminded of all the innumerable ways she fell short. Not kind enough. Too emotional. Too mouthy. Impossibly broken.

“We’ll now sing ‘I Stand All Amazed’, Hymn 193, following which the sacrament will be administered by holders of the Aaronic Priesthood.”     

Cara gritted her teeth. Not one of her favorites. The words rubbed her wrong for some reason. She wasn’t sure why. The melody, maybe?

She wondered what he was thinking right then. Was she in his thoughts at all? Did he miss her? Want to hold her? To run his finger along the back of her hand as he once had?

I stand all amazed at the love Jesus offers me,

Confused at the grace that so fully he proffers me.

I tremble to know that for me he was crucified,

That for me, a sinner, he suffered, he bled and died.

Their conversation the night before hadn’t gone well. She had shouted. Probably swore. Why can’t I stop from doing that? He’d just stared at her, his eyes wide. Standing in the entryway, his hand on the doorknob. She hadn’t even let him take his coat off. She’d sat on the couch and waited for the garage door to go up. Waiting to pounce. He didn’t stand a chance. I was so vicious. Out of control.

“I promise to do better. You deserve better, Cara. There’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”

She’d wanted – ached – to walk to him then. Imagined him opening his arms. Pulling her against his chest. Feeling his hands rising to the back of her neck. Hearing him say her name. Forgiving all of it. Everything.

Instead, she shook her hand at him, swore again, and walked down the hall and into the spare bedroom, slamming the door shut as she fell to the floor, her heart cracked glass, cutting her everywhere.

God, this isn’t what I asked for. What I – what we wanted. You promised something different. That we would be closer. That our love would grow.

The loneliness was the worst. She should’ve known. Her mother had been through the same thing. Almost seven years. Cara remembered many times looking over during church and seeing tears pooling in the corners of her mother’s eyes. If she noticed Cara staring at her, she would quickly turn away.

I think of his hands pierced and bleeding to pay the debt!

Such mercy, such love and devotion can I forget?

No, no, I will praise and adore at the mercy seat,

Until at the glorified throne I kneel at his feet.

She watched as the young deacon approached, tray of broken bread in hand. Should I take the sacrament? I feel so…what? Fractured? It had been a bad week. Another one. The deacon (Kyle? One of the Harrison’s kids?) extended the tray to her. She glanced up at him. He smiled. Cara took a piece – the smallest one, and then motioned for Mason and Abby to also do so. She held the bread against her lips. Forgive me. Please.

The deacon moved to the next row. Cara closed her eyes and waited. She didn’t chew. The bread sat on her tongue. She felt the broken edges slowly dissolve in her mouth.

Forgive me. Forgive us. I promise to do better.

The water came next. Cool. Cara felt a drop spill on her finger. She smoothed it dry against her palm.

Brother Tucker stood again and thanked everyone for their reverence.

“Before I announce our program, Bishop Jackson would like to take just a minute. Bishop…”

Cara breathed in sharply. What is he going to say?

“I’m grateful for the blessing of the sacrament, brothers and sisters. Especially today. I, like each of you, need the Savior’s forgiveness. And I, like you, sometimes hurt the ones I love the most – including members of my own family.”

Cara dared to look up at the bishop – her husband – as he spoke. He looked directly at her, his eyes brim.

“That phrase – ‘I think of his hands pierced and bleeding to pay the debt’ – struck me today more than ever before. I thought of all the ways I yet lack. I resolved once again to love better. To try harder. With each of you, but most of all at home. With Cara, my Cara. And with my children.”

Her hand went slowly to her mouth. She would not let free the sob that hung there. Father, is it real? “My Cara?” Did he mean it?

Her husband, her bishop, sat back down. He put his hand to his lips and looked at Cara. She looked at him. He meant it.

He meant it.