We are yours, O Lord. Fruitful is your flock and bountiful your harvest.

The voices faded, and the organ suddenly played a fanfare. The congregation turned to look at Katie Sheldon, who stood frozen in the doorway, blinking in confusion at all the eyes staring at her. She wore the lace-trimmed white dress that her mother had sewn, and her brand-new white satin slippers peeped out beneath the hem. On her head was a maiden’s crown of white roses. The organ played on, and the congregation waited expectantly, but Katie could not move. She did not want to move.

It was her father who forced her to take the first step. He took her by the arm, his fingers digging into her flesh with an unmistakable command. Don’t you dare embarrass me.

She began to walk, her feet numb in the pretty satin slippers as she moved toward the altar looming ahead. Toward the man whom God Himself had proclaimed would be her husband.

She caught glimpses of familiar faces in the pews: her teachers, her friends, her neighbors. There was Sister Diane who worked in the bakery with her mother, and Brother Raymond, who tended the cows whose soft flanks she loved to pet. And there was her mother, standing in the very first pew, where she had never stood before. It was a place of honor, a row where only the most favored congregants could sit. Her mother looked proud, oh so proud, and she stood as regal as a queen wearing her own crown of roses.

“Mommy,” Katie whispered. “Mommy.”

But the congregation had launched into a new hymn, and no one heard her through the singing.

At the altar, her father at last released her arm. “Be good,” he muttered, and he stepped away to join her mother. She turned to follow him, but her escape was cut off.