Page 30 of Dare to Hold (Dare To Love #1)

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’s pause, 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 because of 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.

“Let’s pray,” I say, closing my eyes. “Father, thank You for meeting us right where we are. For not waiting until we had it all together, but loving us in the middle of our weakness. I pray for every person in this room—that they would feel Your presence, Your peace, Your forgiveness. That chains would break tonight. That hearts would soften. That someone who walked in far from You would leave knowing You’ve been chasing them all along. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

When I open my eyes, the sanctuary is thick with quiet reverence. People praying aloud. Some whispering. Others just…still. And the band plays gently behind it all, underscoring the holy weight of the moment.

The night carries on like that—waves of worship rising and falling. Voices lifted in songs that echo through the rafters, prayer after prayer offered up, some with tears, some with laughter, some with nothing but silence.

Every chorus feels heavier than the one before, but not in a burdensome way—in a way that settles deep into your bones. A room full of people meeting with God, unpolished and unhurried.

By the time the last note fades, it feels like hours have passed and only minutes at the same time. My throat is raw, my heart wrung out, and yet—there’s a peace here. A fullness.

Nights like this remind me why we do it. Why it matters.

We step off stage, but my heart’s still somewhere between the last chord and Heaven.

The crowd hasn’t moved. No one’s ready for it to end. Voices rise in waves—some singing, some praying, some just standing still with tears on their cheeks and hands lifted like they’re reaching for something more.

And they are.

Because tonight wasn’t about lights or lyrics or anything we rehearsed.

It was about Him.

God showed up. In the cracks. In the silence. In the voices that refused to stop singing even after the music did.

Micah claps a hand to my back as we head down the side hallway. “You were on fire tonight, man.”

I shake my head, still dazed. “We all were. That was…”

“Holy,” one of the vocalists says softly behind us. “It felt holy.”

Yeah. That’s exactly it.

Not perfect. Not polished. But holy.

Like Heaven cracked open just enough to let us breathe something real.

I’m still gripping my guitar, my hands not quite steady, when I glance down the side hallway.

And that’s when I see her.

Ivy.

Standing just beyond the edge of the crowd, like she’s not sure if she belongs in it or apart from it. Her eyes are rimmed red, cheeks streaked with mascara, like she’s been crying for a while and forgot to care.

And something in me breaks wide open.

I don’t hesitate.

I hand my guitar off to someone, don’t even check who, and start weaving through the chaos. People are still praying, still crying, still clinging to the holy weight in the air.

But all I see is her.

She looks up right as I reach her, and before I can think better of it, I wrap her up in my arms. I lift her off the ground for just a second, spinning her once before setting her down slowly.

Her arms are still around my shoulders when I pull back just enough to see her face.

“Did you feel that?” I whisper, breathless.

She nods, eyes glassy. “Yeah. I felt it.”

And I know she doesn’t just mean the music.

I pull back, just enough to see her face, and my breath catches.

Tears have carved soft trails down her cheeks, catching in the glow of the hallway lights. And without thinking, I lift my sleeve and gently wipe them away.

She doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t apologize or laugh it off.

She just closes her eyes and lets me be there with her. The real her.

And for a second, I forget every voice, every sound, every person around us.

When her eyes open again, they’re full of something unspoken.

She parts her lips.

Then stops.

Whatever it is, she tucks it away with a small, shaky nod.

And I get it.

Some things don’t need to be said, yet.

Some things need room to bloom slowly.

And if it’s with her, I’ll wait as long as it takes.

And somehow, that silence means more than any words ever could.

Because I see it.

In her eyes. In her steady breath. In the way she doesn’t try to hide the emotion streaking across her face .

She’s not running from it. Not pretending it didn’t hit her just as hard.

And I think, I know, we’re standing in something sacred right now.

Not because it’s neat or tidy or easy.

But because it’s honest. And because God’s in it.

Layer by layer, moment by moment, He’s building something here. Something I never saw coming but now can’t imagine letting go.

And with Ivy right in front of me, still holding on, I don’t want to.

I look at her and it nearly undoes me.

The way she lets me see all of it. The side of her no one else gets.

“Ivy…” My voice comes out lower than I meant, thick with something I don’t have words for. “Do you even realize what you’re doing to me?”

Her breath catches.

We’re not alone. Not even close. The room hums with movement—volunteers winding down, families reuniting, music still threading through the air.

She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t need to.

Her silence is full of trust, full of yes.

So I lean in, giving her space to pull away, to change her mind. One breath. Two. Three.

She stays still.

So I kiss her.

Right there, in the middle of the crowd and the noise and the holy hush still hanging in the air.

It’s not fireworks or fanfare .

It’s better.

It’s steady. Certain. Like a promise even when no words are spoken.

When we pull back, she rests her forehead against mine, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt more aware of my heartbeat—or hers.

We’re both smiling.

Soft. Wrecked. Changed.

“Everything about tonight…” I whisper, my voice barely audible between us, “feels like a beginning.”

She nods, her thumb brushing gently over mine, and in that simple touch, I feel the echo of every unsaid prayer she’s still learning how to speak.

She may not have the words yet.

But I see it.

I feel it.

And I’ll wait—because I know who’s writing this story now.

And He’s not done with us.

Not even close.

After the final hugs are exchanged, the night exhales into quiet.

Everyone heads their separate ways.

Ivy hugged me goodbye, her eyes still soft from worship, then left with Harper and Olivia—off to grab milkshakes.

She promised she’d text me later. And I believe her.

But still, when I walk into my quiet apartment and flip on the hallway light, the silence hits harder than I expect.

The high from earlier still hums under my skin—like I’m carrying the echoes of worship, the weight of every lyric, every lifted hand. But now?

Now it just feels like noise with nowhere to go.

I toss my keys on the counter, peel off my sweatshirt, and stand there, staring into the stillness that is both too quiet yet too loud.

I turn on music. Then turn it off. Walk to the window. Shut the blinds. All while Goliath watches me with curious eyes.

My thoughts drift to Ivy—her laugh, those streaks of mascara, the way she looked like she was about to hand me her whole heart.

But she didn’t. And now she’s gone, and I’m here.

And I hate how much that unsettles me.

Not because I don’t trust her. Not because I think anything’s wrong.

But because some twisted part of me wishes I could’ve just asked her to come home with me instead.

Just to stay.

Just to sit on my couch and talk about the night until we both crashed.

Not even to talk about us. Just to be near her. Just to let the night keep going a little longer.

But I know that would’ve been about me.

About my comfort. My fear of being alone. My need to hold things together.

Control.

Always control.

I shower, hoping the hot water will clear my head. It doesn’t.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Toss. Turn.

This isn't just restlessness. This is conviction .

I flip onto my back with a groan.

God, I know what this is. It’s You. You’re calling me out.

I sit up, breathing hard, the tension in my chest thick and aching.

Then I slide off the bed and kneel beside it, resting my elbows on the mattress.

My voice is low. Honest. Tired.

“God…I don’t want to carry this anymore.”

My voice cracks. The weight of everything I've tried to control presses down like bricks.

“I keep trying to manage it all—her feelings, my fear, the pace, the outcome. I say I want to honor You, and I do. But I’ve been holding the pen like it’s mine to write with.”

Silence stretches, but it’s not empty.

“I trust You. Help me live like I do.”

I stay there for a while. No script. No rehearsed prayer. Just presence.

When I finally stand and crawl back into bed, my phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Ivy’s name is on my screen.

My chest tightens—not from control this time, but surrender.

This isn’t coincidence. It’s grace.

A gentle reminder that I’m seen.

That He’s still writing.