I used to think the problem was me.
That’s the easiest conclusion when you’re a single guy in his late twenties watching engagement announcements roll past like weather alerts. You tell yourself you’re awkward, or boring, or that your hairline is retreating faster than your confidence. You tell yourself to pray more. To wait. To be patient.
I went to Gracefield Fellowship because it was supposed to be different. Open. Gentle. The kind of church that put folding chairs in a circle instead of pews and served cold brew next to the hymnals. Pastor Ronan liked to say faith was a conversation, not a rulebook. He talked about honoring all paths, all names for the divine, all expressions of belief.
Everyone nodded when he said it.
Everyone except me, apparently.
I wasn’t creepy. I didn’t corner anyone. I volunteered. I taught the middle-school boys’ class once a month. I stayed after to stack chairs and scrub coffee rings off tables. I asked women out politely and accepted no without pushing.
Still, the answer was always the same. A smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. An apology that sounded rehearsed.
“You’re such a good guy, Eli.”
“I just don’t feel called to that.”
“Not right now.”
After the fifth or sixth time, you start noticing patterns. Girls who laughed easily with other men went stiff when I joined the circle. Conversations died when I sat down. Invitations “forgot” to include me.
It hurt more because this was church. This was supposed to be where you belonged.
The annual retreat was meant to fix that. Pastor Ronan called it a “re-centering.” Three days in the state forest, no phones after sunset, shared meals, shared worship. The last night always ended with something special. A ceremony. A celebration.
The pamphlet called it The Gathering at Baalwood Clearing.
Most people joked about the typo. Someone scribbled “BALL???” in marker on the bulletin board. I laughed along, even though I didn’t quite get it.
On the second night, after too many hard ciders passed around the fire, I sat beside Mara.
Mara was one of the few people who treated me normally. She had a blunt kindness about her, the kind that didn’t soften truths to make them easier. She was also the one organizing the final night’s event, which made her the closest thing I had to an insider.
“You look miserable,” she said, nudging my boot with hers.
“Just tired,” I lied.
She snorted. “Sure.”
I hesitated, then sighed. “Can I ask you something without you dodging?”
“That depends on the question.”
“Why won’t anyone here date me?”
She stared into the fire for a long moment. The flames reflected in her glasses like a dozen watching eyes.
“That’s… complicated.”
“Try me.”
She took a long drink. When she spoke again, her voice was lower. Less careful.
“Some of the girls talk.”
“About what?”
“About compatibility. Alignment. Whether someone’s… ready.”
“Ready for what?”
Mara glanced around the clearing. People laughed, someone strummed a guitar, Pastor Ronan spoke quietly with two elders near the trees.
“Eli,” she said, “did you actually read the pamphlet?”
“Yeah. It’s a retreat schedule.”
“No,” she said. “The whole thing.”
Something in her tone made my stomach tighten.
“I skimmed it.”
She nodded, as if that confirmed something. “Figures.”
“Just tell me.”
She sighed, reached into her pocket, and pulled out her phone despite the no-phones rule. Her thumb hovered over the screen.
“I shouldn’t,” she muttered. “But you deserve to know.”
She handed it to me.
It was a screenshot of a group chat. I recognized several names—women I’d asked out. Women who’d smiled at me and said no.
The messages scrolled back months.
He’s nice but he’s not fit.
Not grounded enough.
Would Pastor Ronan even allow it?
Then one message, pinned to the top.
If we include him, who do we offer instead?
My throat went dry.
“Offer?” I said.
Mara took the phone back. “That’s as much as I’m showing you.”
“Offer to what?”
She didn’t answer.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The woods were louder than they should have been—branches creaking without wind, something heavy moving far off. I lay in my sleeping bag staring at the nylon ceiling, replaying that word.
Offer.
Around midnight, I got up and found the pamphlet in my backpack. I read it slowly this time.
The language was… strange. Poetic. References to cycles. To renewal through surrender. To the old names we no longer speak aloud.
There was a paragraph I hadn’t noticed before, printed in lighter ink:
Not all are chosen to witness. Not all are chosen to join. Some are chosen to give.
My heart thudded painfully.
The final night came too quickly.
They led us deeper into the forest than before, down a trail that wasn’t marked on any map. The clearing opened suddenly, a perfect circle of trampled earth surrounded by towering pines. At the center stood a massive wooden structure, half bonfire, half sculpture. It was shaped like an arch, horns curling upward.
No one joked now.
Pastor Ronan’s voice carried easily in the night. He spoke about abundance. About how faith was not passive, how it required action. Commitment.
I scanned the crowd. No one would meet my eyes. Not even Mara.
“Tonight,” Ronan said, “we honor the fullness of belief. We remember that giving has always been part of worship.”
The elders stepped forward. Their robes looked heavier than usual, stitched with symbols I didn’t recognize.
Then Ronan looked at me.
“Eli,” he said gently, “would you come here?”
My legs moved before my brain caught up.
Hands closed around my arms. Not roughly. Firmly. Rehearsed.
The realization hit me all at once, cold and absolute.
They hadn’t been rejecting me because I was unwanted.
They’d been keeping me unclaimed.
Unattached.
Available.
“This is a misunderstanding,” I said, my voice cracking. “I’m a believer. I belong here.”
Mara’s face crumpled. She looked away.
Ronan smiled with something like pity. “You do belong. That’s why this matters.”
The structure loomed closer. I smelled oil. Herbs. Something coppery beneath it all.
I fought then. Panic gave me strength, but there were too many hands, too much certainty in their movements. This wasn’t madness. This was tradition.
As they bound my wrists, I screamed. I begged. I prayed to every name I knew.
Ronan leaned close. “You wanted to be wanted,” he whispered. “This is the highest honor we give.”
They lit the torches.
The last thing I saw before the smoke took my vision was the crowd, faces lit with reverence. Relief. Gratitude.
They weren’t afraid.
They were thankful.
Because next year, when the retreat came around again, there would be another lonely man wondering why no one ever chose him.
And the bonfire would be ready.
