Page 45 of Dare to Hold (Dare To Love #1)

Gray

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 my chest. 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, families lingering 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

Great message today. Worship was beautiful.

I stare at the screen for a while, thumb hovering over the keyboard. I type out three different replies before erasing each one. Finally, I settle on something simple.

Gray

You have no idea what that means to me.

My finger hovers over the send button for just a second too long. I hit send and watch the little message bubble disappear.

And then I just sit there, staring at the screen. I shouldn’t get my hopes up. It’s been eight weeks of this—flashes of hope, whispers of connection, but always just out of reach.

But she’s still here. I have to keep telling myself this.

I lean back against the headrest, closing my eyes for a moment.

Every text. Every random snapshot of her day.

They’re not much, but to me they’re everything—little lifelines that carry me from one week to the next. Reminders that even with the distance, I’m not forgotten. That she’s still tethered to me in some small way… and for now, that’s enough.

You have no idea what that means to me.

She has no idea at all.

I walk up to Pastor Jack’s office fifteen minutes early, nerves coiling in my stomach like I’m walking into something heavier than I can carry.

I’ve been here more times than I can count—sat on that cracked leather couch across from him when I was still figuring out how to breathe again.

Jack’s been my anchor since the day he found me slumped on the steps outside this church, hungover on regret and barely holding it together.

I didn’t know what I was looking for back then.

But Jack saw through the mess, sat down beside me, and stayed long enough for me to believe I was worth something more.

But today feels different. He’s going to want updates. And I’m going to have to admit the one thing I’ve been avoiding: I’m not handling this well.

His assistant waves me back without even looking up from her computer. I weave through the narrow hallway, stopping just outside his door where his name is printed in gold letters: Jack E. Willis, Senior Pastor.

I knock lightly and hear his voice boom from the other side. “Come in!”

I step inside and immediately feel the warmth of his grin. Jack’s sitting behind his desk, glasses perched low on his nose, a Bible open in front of him and a mug of coffee that’s definitely more cream than anything else.

“Gray!” he says, standing to shake my hand. His grip is firm as always. “Good to see you, son.”

“You too,” I say, settling into the worn leather chair across from him .

Jack eases back into his seat, eyeing me carefully. “You look better than the last time you sat there.”

“Low bar,” I mutter with a half-smile.

He chuckles. “Still progress.”

He gives me space to speak first—he always does. I glance toward the window, the light slanting in through the blinds like it’s trying to warm something deep in my chest. Finally, I say, “It’s been eight weeks.”

Jack nods slowly. “Since she asked for space?”

“Yeah.” I let out a breath, scrubbing a hand over my face. “We still talk. Still see each other from a distance. It’s not like we’re strangers, but...it’s different now. We’re friends. Just friends.”

“And how’s that going?”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Harder than I thought. Not because I don’t want to support her—I do.

I really do. But I was planning our future, Jack.

I was already halfway down the aisle in my head, thinking about rings and forever.

And now I’m sitting here trying to act like I don’t care that she doesn’t text back right away or that I haven’t kissed her in two months. ”

Jack doesn’t flinch. He just nods, arms resting on the desk, patient as ever. “Sounds like you’re grieving something.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “I guess I am.”

A silence settles over the room before Jack leans in slightly. “Gray, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why do you think this is so hard for you? The friendship part.”

I stare at the floor. “Because it’s not what I want.”

“But she’s what you want. ”

I nod. “Yes.”

Jack lets that sit for a beat. “So what do you do when the thing you want the most doesn’t look the way you pictured it?”

I don’t have an answer.

He leans back. “Son, you’ve always had a strong pull toward fixing things. Taking control. It’s one of your best traits, but it’s also one of the things that gets you in trouble. Especially when it comes to love.”

“I’m not trying to control her…”

“I know,” he interrupts. “But I think you’ve been trying to control the outcome. The timing. Maybe even her pace with God.”

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with how closely he’s hitting the mark.

“You don’t mean to,” Jack continues. “But when you love someone like that, it’s easy to start believing it’s your job to hold it all together. To make sure she doesn’t drift.

“But listen, Gray—leading her toward Christ, toward purity, that will be your calling when you’re her husband.

Not now. Right now, she doesn’t need you trying to manage her faith like it’s yours to control.

Because it’s not. You can’t force her into a relationship with Jesus.

You’re not responsible for her salvation.

What you can do is pray without ceasing.

Be steady. Be ready to answer her questions when she asks.

And trust that the same God who got ahold of you is more than capable of reaching her too. ”

My jaw tightens. “What if she never comes back?”

“What if she does?” he counters, then softens.

“Gray, you said it yourself—you were thinking about marriage. That kind of love is rooted in patience, not pressure. And I know this feels like a step back, but sometimes God has to do work in the stillness. And Ivy…she’s worth waiting for, isn’t she? ”

I nod, throat tight. “She’s worth everything.”

“Then let her grow. Let her seek. Let God speak into the spaces you can’t reach.

” He leans forward, his tone firm but kind.

“And in the meantime, you keep living. Keep serving. Keep trusting. Don’t waste this season trying to rush past it.

When the worry creeps in—because it will—turn it into prayer.

Every time you’re tempted to wonder if she’ll make it back to you, bring her before the Lord instead.

Pray for her faith more than you pray for your future together.

That’s where your energy belongs right now. ”

I look down at my hands. “It’s just hard to breathe sometimes. Like I’m holding it all in, waiting for her to come back.”

“Then breathe on purpose,” Jack says. “Not because you’re holding space for her, but because you’re trusting the God who loves you both more than you ever could.”

The words hit hard—true and tender and exactly what I didn’t want to hear but needed to.

Jack stands, moving around the desk and placing a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve come so far, Gray. Don’t let this season define you. Let it refine you.”

I nod, holding back the emotion welling in my chest.

“Let’s pray,” he says simply.

We bow our heads, and his voice settles into the quiet.

“Father, we come to You as sons who need Your wisdom. I lift up Ivy to You right now—her heart, her questions, her search for truth. Meet her where she is, Lord. Draw her close in ways no one else can. Let Your Word come alive for her, not because of Gray, not because of anyone else, but because she sees You for who You are. And I lift up Gray. Thank You for the love You’ve planted in him—for his desire to honor You, even when it hurts.

Teach him patience. Teach him how to hold loosely what he loves most, knowing You hold it tighter still.

When fear whispers that he’s losing her, remind him that she was never his to keep—she’s Yours to redeem.

Give him strength to wait well, faith to pray without ceasing, and peace that passes understanding when the longing feels too heavy.

And Lord, remind him that Your plans are good, even in the waiting.

We trust You with Ivy. We trust You with Gray.

We trust You with the story You’re writing. ”

When we finish, I open my eyes and exhale.

“Thanks, Jack.”

He smiles. “Anytime. Keep walking forward, even if it’s slow. And when you feel like you’re losing your grip—remember, you’re not the one holding all the pieces together. God is.”

I step out of his office into the bright light of afternoon, heart still heavy but steadier than before.

She’s worth the wait.

Even if it breaks me a little to do it right.

I push up from the floor and glance toward the corner of the room, where my guitar leans against the wall.

For a moment, I hesitate.

Then I cross the room, pick it up, and settle back onto the couch. My fingers hover over the strings, and I let them fall into a quiet rhythm—something slow, steady. Like a heartbeat.

The song’s been in the works for months, pieces of it scattered across napkins, notebooks, and the notes app on my phone. It started as a love song. Then it became a prayer. Now…it’s both.

I flip open my notebook and scan the scribbled lines, some crossed out, others circled. There’s one section I’ve rewritten half a dozen times—the chorus. It never felt finished.

But now, something in me shifts. Maybe it’s the prayer. Maybe it’s the release. But suddenly, the words come.

Soft at first, then stronger.

I’ll wait in the quiet, no need to be sure

Of timelines or answers—I’ll stand and endure

Love isn’t pressure, it’s patience and grace

I dare to believe... you’re worth the wait.

I pause, the final line settling in. My throat tightens. I whisper it again, slower this time, letting it sink in.

I dare to believe...you’re worth the wait.

I scribble the line down, fingers trembling. It's not just lyrics. It’s a release. A vow.

I set the notebook down and lean the guitar against the couch, wiping my eyes with the heel of my palm.

That’s it.

That’s the chorus.

And when the time comes—when she’s ready—she’ll hear the whole song. Not as a plea. Not as a fix. But as a promise.

Until then, I’ll wait.

And I’ll pray.

Because she’s worth that.