Page 29 of Dare to Hold (Dare To Love #1)

Lord, help me be faithful tonight. Give me joy as I welcome every person who walks through those doors. Help me make them feel seen, wanted, like they belong here. Let this night be beautiful. Let it be real. Fill my cup, Father. And if there’s something You want to show me…open my eyes.

I breathe out and for the first time all evening, I actually feel ready.

I look at the time, realizing I’m running a little behind.

I grab my sneakers, slipping them on quickly, and toss my denim jacket over my shoulders.

Then I head out the door, ready for whatever God has planned tonight—because something tells me, it’s going to be more than just good music and pretty lights.

By the time I pull into the church parking lot, I’m five minutes late. I park quickly and rush toward the entrance, my heart pounding from more than just nerves.

When I step into the lobby, I freeze.

There, glowing across the entryway, are the photo backdrops I designed.

They stretch higher than I imagined, vibrant and alive, splashed with watercolor skies and threaded with golden light.

“He is Worthy.” “Night of Praise.” Words I typed on my laptop in the quiet of my bedroom now stand like banners, welcoming the whole church.

It doesn’t even look like my work anymore. It looks holy.

My throat tightens, tears stinging at the corners of my eyes.

Can God really use my designs in a way that will bring tears to the eye?

I’ve heard the pastor say it before—how God takes the gifts He’s placed in us and turns them back into worship. But I never thought it could be true for me. Not with my mess. Not with my fractured faith and all the doubts I still wrestle with.

Yet here it is. My design skills. My restless late-night edits. My obsession with color and fonts. All of it, offered up to Him—and somehow turned into glory.

Not because it’s perfect. Not because I am.

But because He can breathe purpose into anything.

The thought rushes over me, so heavy and so tender I can’t hold it back. I press a hand to my chest, trying to steady the rise and fall, and whisper, barely audible over the hum of people gathering, “Thank You, Lord. Thank You for letting me be part of this.”

Then I head toward the volunteers, weaving through the buzz of last-minute prep and warm greetings. I find my spot at the welcome table just as the doors open and the first wave of guests filters in.

Tonight isn’t about me.

But it feels good to be doing more than just attending this space, but also contributing.

And the joy of it—the honor of it—feels even better than last night’s kiss.

Well, almost.

The lobby is buzzing with energy. Volunteers offering warm smiles, worship music playing softly in the background and guests filing in with coffee cups in hand and anticipation in their eyes.

There’s something different about tonight .

People keep arriving, arms outstretched for hugs, voices rising in laughter, but my focus stays steady. I’m not sure if I’m doing this the “right” way, but I want to. I want people to feel welcome, even if all I can give is a smile and a little bit of nervous energy.

When the last wave of guests moves into the sanctuary, I finally take a breath, glancing at my phone to see text.

Harper

Front row. Left side.

I glance at the clock. It’s time.

I weave through the side hallway and slip into the back of the main auditorium just as the house lights dim and the band steps into place.

The sanctuary is packed. A sea of raised hands and warm lighting fills the space.

I weave my way down the row, murmuring apologies as I pass a few people. When I finally spot Harper, I start to slide into the empty seat beside her—only to freeze.

Because Olivia is sitting on her other side.

My mouth parts in shock. She must have snuck in while I was busy at the welcome table, because I definitely would’ve noticed her. For a second, all I can do is stare, my heart thudding with something between disbelief and delight.

Then I drop into the seat between them, grinning so wide it almost hurts. “Liv, you’re here?”

She gives me a half-smile, almost shy, and something warm blooms in my chest. I make a mental note right then: I have to ask Harper later how in the world she managed to talk her into coming.

And then it begins.

The first notes ring out, clear and steady. Gray’s voice joins with the music and the room seems to sing in unison. It’s the new song. His song. The one he was nervous about. The one he wrote.

The lyrics hit like truth wrapped in melody. Lines about surrender, about trust, about a God who stays. The harmonies rise and fall like a tide, and I feel the weight of everything—every doubt, every fear, every unanswered prayer—melting away.

You brought people I didn’t pray for

Showed me love I didn’t earn

You turned strangers into anchors

And used every scar to help me learn

Harper’s already on her feet, arms lifted, eyes closed, moving with the rhythm like it’s in her bones. Joy radiates from her.

Olivia stands still, but I glance at her just in time to see a single tear slip down her cheek.

And something about that undoes me.

It’s not just the music. It’s not even just Gray.

It’s all of it.

My friends beside me. The presence of God thick in the room. The feeling that somehow, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. That God is using me, surrounding me, inviting me deeper.

I press a hand to my chest, heart full, and whisper a quiet thank You. For the music. For the moment. For the unexpected ways He weaves things together.

Gray sings the final chorus, his voice rising with the congregation, and I close my eyes because I want to feel it.