Page 142 of Dare to Hold
My hands trembled as I gripped my notebook. Tears fell before I could stop them—not because I was ashamed, but because I believed it. Really believed it.
This love wasn’t earned. It wasn’t about performance. It was just…there.
Always had been.
And Gray—he never stopped showing up. Not in person, but in little things. A verse he was studying. A photo of his cup of coffee at sunrise. A voice memo of him playing guitar late one night. I must’ve replayed that one a hundred times.
He didn’t push. He didn’t pressure. He just…stayed.
And that made all thedifference.
I still haven’t called him. Not because I don’t want to—but because this journey, this fragile becoming, still feels sacred. And I need to walk it alone for just a little longer.
The Thankful, Grateful, Blessed service is coming. Everyone says it’ll be meaningful—warm music, stories of gratitude, and a message that speaks right into the heart of the season. Part of me wonders what I’ll feel. If I’ll be ready.
I don’t know what I’m expecting.
But something in me is starting to hope.
Maybe…I’ll be ready by then.
The church is quieter than usual when I arrive that evening. The lobby smells faintly of cinnamon and cloves from a candle flickering at the welcome desk, and the muffled sound of kids’ voices drifts down the hallway where they’re working on decorations for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving party.
I pull my cardigan tighter around me and carry the poster tubes under one arm, walking toward the sanctuary doors. Inside, volunteers are taping construction-paper turkeys and “thankful leaves” along the walls, the kind kids scribble prayers and blessings on in shaky handwriting. Tables are being lined with butcher paper and crayons, ready for the chaos of tiny hands and sugar-high laughter.
Harper spots me from across the room and waves. “You’re a literal lifesaver,” she says as I hand her the posters for the gratitude wall.
“Anything for my favorite overworked children’s ministry volunteer,” I tease.
She rolls her eyes but grins, brushing a strand of red hairfrom her face. “Seriously though, thank you. I don’t know how you’ve managed to juggle all this and still keep showing up with that sweet, calm energy.”
I laugh, shrugging. “Maybe it’s the pumpkin spice latte I grabbed on the way here. Feels like liquid patience.”
She snorts, then her expression softens. “You doing okay?”
I pause, fingers tracing the edge of the poster tube before I nod. “Yeah. Actually…yeah.”
She studies me for a second, like she’s trying to read between the lines. “You look…lighter.”
“I feel lighter.”
And I do. Not all the time. Not every minute. But enough that I notice.
Harper pulls me in for a quick hug. “You know I’m proud of you, right?”
“I know.”
We part, and she heads off to prep the kids’ area. I linger in the sanctuary, slowly walking the center aisle. A few paper leaves have fluttered down from the gratitude board up front, scattered across the floor like reminders that even blessings can be messy. I glance toward the stage—toward the spot where Gray usually stands with his guitar. My heart clenches, but it doesn’t ache the way it used to. It feels more like longing laced with peace.
Tomorrow morning, people will gather here—families, students, grandparents. Some grateful, some heavy, some searching. Pastor Jack will talk about what it means to live thankful, grateful, blessed—not just as a cute slogan, but as a way of seeing God’s hand in every season.
And maybe… maybe that will be the moment for me. Not waiting for some dramatic sign, but choosing to believe that even in the quiet, even in the waiting, He’s here.
I exhale slowly and whisper, “I’ll be ready.”
The words echo in the empty sanctuary, and for the first time in a long time, I believe them.
It’s almost midnight when I finally get home.
