Page 87 of Dare to Hold
Gray
You met me there, in the middle of the mess
With arms wide open, You gave me rest
You didn’t wait for me to get it all right
You found me in the dark and brought me to light
You're the God who stays, the God who cares
I didn’t find You…
You met me there
“You met me there, in the middle of the mess…”
The final chorus lifts, voices swelling until the sound fills every corner of the sanctuary. Hundreds singing like they actually believe it. Like they’ve lived it. I pour everything into the words, my chest tight with gratitude that this room is alive with praise—not because of me, not because of us on stage, but because of Him.
The last chord rings out, reverberating against the rafters. Slowly, the room hushes, like everyone is collectively holding their breath for what comes next.
Pastor Jack steps forward, mic in hand, his voice warm but steady. “Friends, we’ve sung of His mercy. Now let’spause, open our hands, and pray. You don’t have to have the right words. You don’t even have to speak them out loud. Just offer Him whatever you’ve been carrying.”
I set my guitar back on its stand and bow my head. The lights dim, leaving only a soft glow over the stage. From where I stand, I see a sea of bowed heads, lifted hands, some kneeling right there on the floor. People whispering prayers. Others silent but undone.
I whisper my own prayer under my breath.
Lord, let this night be more than music. Let it soften hearts. Break chains. Draw someone closer to You who didn’t even expect it when they walked in.
I lift my head, scanning the crowd almost without meaning to. That’s when I spot them—Harper and Olivia on each side, Ivy in the middle.
Harper is swaying to the music, her smile wide and unrestrained, like she can’t keep the joy from spilling out of her.
Olivia, on the other side, looks restless. Her head is dipped, but her eyes aren’t closed—they flick nervously from side to side, her hands fumbling together as if she doesn’t know what to do with them.
And then there’s Ivy.
Right in the center, framed by her friends, she steals the air from my lungs. Head bowed, eyes shut tight, her lips move faintly with whispered prayer. Her palms are open like she’s offering all of herself. She looks…present. Seeking. Nothing—and no one—has ever stolen my heart faster than the picture of her, praying like she means it.
Something in me shifts. I’ve seen her bold and teasing, I’ve seen her unsure and hesitant. But this—this quiet reverence—it undoes me. Nerves skitter in my chest, because suddenly the stakes feel higher. She’s not just here becauseof me. She’s here…maybe because God is tugging on her heart.
And I don’t want to get in the way of that.
I exhale slowly, palms pressed together.Okay, Lord. She’s Yours before she’s ever mine. Help me remember that. Help me love her in a way that leads her closer to You, not to me.
The worship team shifts into a softer melody, instrumental, underscoring the prayers rising in the room. A man in the front drops to his knees. A woman a few rows back wipes at her face. The Spirit is thick here. Tangible.
Jack steps back and gives me a nod. My throat tightens, but I reach for the mic anyway.
“Church,” I begin, “we just sang about a God who meets us right in the middle of the mess. And maybe for you, that’s not just lyrics—it’s your life. Maybe you walked in here carrying more than anyone knows. Fear. Doubt. Guilt. A weight you don’t think you can lay down.”
I pause, scanning the faces lit dimly by stage lights.
Nerves prickle under my skin. Because leading worship was never supposed to be about who was in the crowd. But tonight, seeing her there, it reminds me—this isn’t just a setlist. This is a chance for God to move in ways I’ll never fully see.
I grip the mic a little tighter. “Here’s the good news. You don’t have to fix yourself up before God will listen. You don’t have to have perfect words. You can just open your hands and say, ‘Here I am.’ That’s enough. He’s enough.”
A hush settles again. A few hands lift. Someone sniffles in the third row.
