Dec 27, 2025
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The Church Wants You - Part 3
By the time they finished loading the last donation bags into the car, Chris barely resembled the guy who had stared nervously at a loose tie that morning.
The blond missionary stepped closer again, smiling as he reached up automatically for Chris’s collar.
“Hold still.”
Chris obeyed instantly.
Careful fingers straightened the tie knot beneath his chin, tightening it just slightly until it sat perfectly centered. The dark-haired missionary smoothed the front of Chris’s shirt flat against his chest, brushing invisible wrinkles away.
“There,” he said warmly. “Now you look right.”
Chris glanced down at himself.
White shirt.
Dark tie.
Pressed trousers.
Polished haircut.
Clean collar buttoned all the way up.
And strangely… it felt natural now.
Not forced anymore.
Like this was simply who he was supposed to look like.
—
“We’ve got one more place to show you,” the blond missionary said.
The drive ended at a bright, spotless Mormon clothing and book store attached beside the chapel.
Chris stared a little as they walked inside.
Shelves everywhere.
Scriptures.
Family photos.
Rows of folded shirts organized by color.
Ties hanging in perfect lines.
Polos.
Belts.
Dress shoes.
Soft church music playing overhead.
The atmosphere itself felt calm. Controlled. Clean.
“This is for members and investigators,” the dark-haired missionary explained. “Anything you need, we’ll help you get.”
Chris blinked. “I… don’t really have money for all this.”
Both missionaries smiled immediately.
“It’s taken care of.”
That sentence hit him harder than expected.
Taken care of.
The blond missionary began pulling shirts from shelves almost immediately.
“Light blue works for you.”
“And this one.”
“Oh, definitely this tie.”
Soon Chris stood between them while they built piles in his arms.
White short-sleeves.
Blue button-downs.
Soft polos.
Dark trousers.
Brown belt.
Black belt.
New undershirts.
Socks.
Shoes.
Even folded sweaters.
Every time Chris hesitated, one of them gently reassured him.
“You deserve decent things.”
“You should look respectable.”
“People feel better when they dress properly.”
And somewhere deep inside the conditioning already planted in his mind, those words rooted themselves further.
Chris found himself actually enjoying it.
The order.
The neatness.
The structure.
At one point he caught his reflection in a mirror wearing a fitted pale-blue shirt while the missionaries adjusted another tie against his chest.
And for the first time in years…
he liked how he looked.
—
Back home, the transformation became almost ceremonial.
The missionaries carried armfuls of folded clothing into the bedroom.
Together they reorganized the entire closet.
White shirts lined up evenly.
Blue shirts grouped together.
Polos folded perfectly.
Trousers hung by shade.
Shoes aligned beneath them.
Ties rolled carefully into drawers.
The dark-haired missionary even adjusted the spacing between hangers until everything sat perfectly symmetrical.
Chris stood nearby watching silently.
His old closet had once been stuffed with random hoodies and wrinkled clothes shoved everywhere.
Now it looked almost peaceful.
The blond missionary placed a hand on Chris’s shoulder.
“Your environment shapes your mind.”
Chris nodded slowly.
“Yes…”
When they finally prepared to leave, both missionaries looked genuinely proud of him.
“You’re doing well, Chris.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chris stood in the doorway watching them walk away down the sidewalk.
For a moment the house felt strangely quiet without them.
But not empty.
Purposeful.
—
That evening he sat on the edge of his neatly made bed reading from the Book of Mormon beneath the warm bedside lamp.
His tie was still perfectly straight.
Every few pages he found himself absently smoothing his collar or adjusting his cuffs.
Hours passed quietly.
The more he read, the calmer he felt.
Then suddenly a thought entered his mind with startling clarity.
I should pray.
The urge felt overwhelming.
Natural.
Necessary.
Before he fully realized it, he was already kneeling beside the coffee table with folded hands, eyes closed.
The room stayed silent except for his soft breathing.
And afterward, when he stood again, something inside him felt lighter.
Cleaner.
Chris glanced toward the open closet.
Rows of organized shirts waited there perfectly.
His eyes moved slowly across the colors until they settled on one shirt in particular.
A pale blue short-sleeve button-down.
He stepped closer almost instinctively.
Carefully removed his white shirt.
Then slipped the blue one on.
The fabric felt soft and cool against his skin.
He started buttoning it.
One button.
Then another.
Then another.
Until finally he fastened the very top button snugly at his throat.
Chris looked down at himself quietly.
Blue shirt tucked neatly into dark trousers.
Belt centered.
Hair combed perfectly.
Collar closed fully.
He stood there for a long moment in silence.
Then unconsciously, almost tenderly…
he smoothed the front of the shirt flat against his chest.
She could not understand the talk about passion. Love she knew, but passion was something beyond her experience. It suggested something beyond one's control. Something she had no wish to experience.
Mary Balogh, from Tangled
Romanova.
Each button fastened to the throat is a silent vow—this boy is owned, ordered, and obedient, even when no one sees the leash.
Lime green