It’s Wednesday morning. The sanctuary locker room hums with quiet energy. The benches are worn smooth by years of ritual. The lockers bear names, not numbers.
Malaki steps in first, dressed in his red and black singlet—tight across the chest, green piping along the thigh. Behind him, John, James, and Alex follow, each in their own variation of the school colors. The singlets stretch across muscle and memory, worn not for sport today, but for sacred preparation.
They speak like teammates, but move like sons. The singlets hold their ache, their joy, their readiness.
The Transition to Briefs
The Bishop enters—not with fanfare, but with gravity. He nods once, and the sons begin to change. One by one, they peel off the singlets—not hurried, not ashamed. Each folds his garment with care, placing it on the bench like an offering.
Underneath: white briefs. Clean. Fitted. Consecrated.
The paddle rests in the Bishop’s hand. Not raised. Not threatening. Just present.
Malaki steps forward. His posture is straight, his breath steady. The paddle taps—once, twice, three times.
John follows. Then James. Then Alex. Each receives the ritual with reverence. The sound of the paddle against cloth is not harsh—it’s rhythmic. It’s familiar. It’s holy.
Return to the Singlet
After the final tap, the Bishop lowers the paddle. He does not dismiss. He blesses.
Each son retrieves his singlet—not to cover shame, but to reclaim joy. They dress again slowly, reverently. The colors—red, black, green—shine brighter now. Not because they changed, but because the sons did.
The locker room quiets. The benches remember. The sons walk out—not bruised, but bright.
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