Page 137 of Dare to Hold
And I don’t move.
Chapter 34
Gray
2 Months Later
I adjust the strap of my guitar, the leather soft and familiar against my shoulder. The sanctuary hums with the usual Sunday morning buzz—people shuffling to their seats, conversations drifting like whispers through the aisles. This should feel normal, routine. But it doesn’t. Everything feels different now.
Eight weeks.
It’s been eight weeks since she sat on my couch and told me she needed space. Eight weeks since I watched her walk out my front door, shoulders stiff, her chin tilted up in that stubborn way she does when she’s trying not to cry.
Eight weeks of nothing but occasional texts and stolen glances at church.
And I’m starving for more.
I step up to the stage, the overhead lights flickering on, casting long shadows across the rows of chairs. My fingers flex over the strings instinctively, plucking out a few notes before the rest of the band joins in. But my eyes? They scan the room.
The first chord strikes, vibrating through mychest. Worship has always been my anchor—a place to lose myself and find myself all at once. But today, I’m distracted. My gaze sweeps the crowd, almost on its own accord, landing where it always does.
Third row. Left side.
She’s there.
Ivy sits between Harper and Olivia, her head bowed slightly as the music begins to swell. Harper’s animated as always, clapping along, red hair bouncing with every beat. Olivia, stiff and reserved, wraps her arms around her middle, like she’s bracing herself against the vulnerability of the moment.
But Ivy...
She stands still, eyes closed, lips moving just slightly with the words of the song. It’s like she’s absorbing it—really taking it in. Something stirs in my chest, a mixture of pride and longing I’m not quite prepared for.
We move through the first song, then the second, and each time I glance back, she’s still there, eyes closed, swaying just a little with the rhythm. A prayer tumbles unbidden through my mind.
Keep her close, God. Keep her seeking.
It’s not much, the little I’ve had of her these past weeks. A few texts. Pictures of her food. Once, she sent me a photo of her Bible open on her lap with a caption that just said: Trying. Another time it was her journal, pen resting across the page, the words blurred except for one line circled three times: Trust Him more.
Most days it’s nothing more than a simple “Good morning” or a check-in before bed. Sometimes she sends me a verse that struck her, no explanation attached. Other times it’s just a photo of her coffee mug with the words thinking of you.
It’s minimal. Fragmented. And yet, every piece feels like a breadcrumb, proof that she’s still there—even if she’s holding more back than she used to.
And I’ve let her. I’ve almost forced myself to. Let her set the pace, steer the conversation, decide how much or how little to share. The last thing I want is to push too hard and make her feel like she has to choose between me and God. If this break was about her growing closer to Him, then I have to believe He’s working in her even when I can’t see it.
But it doesn’t make the silence easier.
Every unread space between her words feels like a canyon I want to bridge. Every time I stop myself from asking for more, it feels like swallowing back a piece of my heart.
Still, I’ll wait. I’ll keep waiting. Because if the choice is between pushing her away or letting her find Him on her own, then I’d rather live in the ache than lose her altogether.
I glance back at her one more time, catching her eye as she looks up. She offers me a small smile, and I can’t help but smile back. For a moment, the world feels like it’s tilting back into place.
Service ends with the usual hum of chatter and the slow shuffle of people stretching and making their way to the exit. I pack up my guitar, slip the strap off my shoulder, and place it back in its case. The rest of the team is lingering, but I’m restless. I wave off a few invitations to lunch, mumbling something about needing to get home.
The parking lot is still dotted with cars, familieslingering to chat, friends making plans for brunch. I unlock my truck, tossing my guitar case in the back before climbing into the driver’s seat.
My phone pings just as I’m about to start the engine. I pull it out, half-expecting another spam email. But it’s not.
Ivy
