STORYTIME WITH KARZ: The preacher’s side of the tale unmasks silent truths

Story come!

Once upon a time, in the western highlands, where faith blooms wild and deep, there lived a man of God, a preacher whose words carried both power and peace.

He was disciplined, charismatic and renowned for his unwavering character. To many, he was the definition of spiritual strength, calm in storms, unshaken in temptation.

Then one radiant afternoon, the preacher met a woman whose voice could make the heavens pause. A gospel artiste, full of grace and laughter, with eyes that glowed with purpose. When she sang, his heart trembled like a church bell on Sunday morning.

He had met many women in ministry but none quite like her. She was light, laughter, melody and devotion all at once. And in her, he saw not just a woman but a calling.

He cherished her deeply, so he said. Perhaps too deeply. The preacher, though wise in the word, was still a man, one who longed for companionship yet feared the world’s judgment.

He courted her gently, with scripture, prayer and endless affirmation. Together, they built what looked like a perfect love story. They waited, both of them, believing purity was their offering to God.

After a year of holy love, they said, “I do.” The congregation danced, the angels surely smiled, and social media rejoiced. “Kingdom marriage!” the people said. “A testimony in motion.”

Then came the honeymoon, a week far from home, where the air was soft and the ocean sang at night. But in that paradise, something in him froze. His spirit, so free in the pulpit, felt caged in intimacy. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her — oh, he did, or that’s what everyone thought — but perhaps his heart carried a storm he could never explain.

He had secrets buried in silence, fears wrapped in faith. He told himself he needed time, that love would bloom when his mind was ready. But time trickled by and still, he could not touch her. Not because she was unworthy but perhaps because something in him was broken, tangled and too heavy for words.

And so, their union remained pure, painfully pure. The nights grew long, the air thick with confusion, and the silence between them turned into walls. He saw her worry, her doubt, her hurt, but each time he tried to speak, the words died in his throat. How could he tell her that the man of God was also a man of fear?

As days passed, their love changed shape. His tenderness became control, his calm turned cold. He began hiding behind sermons, pretending peace while chaos brewed inside.

He lied sometimes — small lies, defensive lies — to keep her from seeing the truth he could not bear to name. And when she started slipping away, he prayed harder, but even heaven seemed silent.

When the marriage finally broke, he did not fight. He did not speak ill of her. He smiled when asked, blessing her name in public. For what good is truth when it only deepens wounds? Better to protect her even if the story painted him as the villain.

He walked away with a calm face, but his heart carried ashes. Behind every sermon afterward, his voice trembled just slightly, the sound of a man who once had heaven in his hands and watched it fall apart.

And so, dear friends, the preacher remained silent, not because he had no story but because some stories are too sacred, too heavy, too human to be told out loud.

So, my dear readers, before you judge the saint or the singer, remember: Love is never as holy as it looks on Sunday. Sometimes the most faithful hearts are the most wounded, and sometimes, silence is not guilt, it’s grace.