While I was being punished and shunned for meeting up with Thomas outside the church, before we got married, I had the audacity to ask if I could stay in the sisters’ dorm during the feasts.

I didn’t have a car and buses weren’t running early enough for me to be able to make it to services in the mornings.

How dare you, the deaconess accused. She reminded me of my sin, of the fact that I was dirty. How could I corrupt the sleeping quarters of innocent sisters with my filth?

—Of course. I was stupid and presumptuous to ask.

I came up with a plan for the Sabbath. I’d leave my house the night before, take a bus to the university, then start walking.

I walked for hours that night. Word got back to the deaconess that I was walking overnight and she finally sent a sister to come pick me up and take me to the sisters’ dorm.

My mind was a mess that night. All I remember is the shame and the sweetness that lingered like the taste of bittersweet candy.

The shame: the deaconess’ words whispered in my mind. Dirty, filthy. I didn’t belong there. I was tainting the sisters’ realm with my presence.

The sweetness: a sister’s lent pajamas and warm blankets, kind words, and nonjudgmental acceptance. Even in this place, there were moments to be treasured.