Page 121 of Held-
Cece’s breath catches beside me, her shoulders going tight, her eyes shining. I can feel her trying not to look at me, because if she does, she’ll cry.
“We are called,” her father continues, “to see people as they are now, not as they used to be. And to recognize courage when we witness it—especially when it protects the vulnerable.”
A beat of silence follows.
Jesus Christ,I think.I’m being sermonically endorsed.This has to be the highest honor a preacher has ever given a biker without involving an attempted baptism or a pitchfork. Then the Reverend looks at me directly. Not a glare. Not disapproval.Something closer to gratitude. And for the first damn time in my life, I don’t look away.
Cece’s fingers tremble in mine. Her thumb brushes over the back of my hand and that one small touch hits harder than Ethan’s tire iron ever could.
I lean close enough that only she can hear me. “Guess your dad just gave me the church-approved stamp,” I murmur.
Cece bites her bottom lip to hide a smile. “Don’t get cocky,” she whispers back. “It’s still church. You’re only half a miracle.”
I grin, ribs aching, heart steady. If this is what a Christmas miracle feels like?
Yeah. I’ll take it.
The Reverend clears his throat softly, letting the weight of his words settle over the room. “And with hearts open to that kind of grace, let us prepare ourselves in song.”
The choir begins singing some hymn about angels, their voices rising in harmony that actually sounds pretty decent for a small-town church. I glance at Cece and find her mouthing the words, her face soft in the glow of the candles. Something tightens in my chest that has nothing to do with my injured ribs.
“You okay?” she whispers, catching me staring.
“Better than okay,” I murmur back, squeezing her hand.
The final notes float through the sanctuary, fragile and bright, settling over the congregation like fresh snowfall. As the choir takes their seats, the Reverend steps forward again, hands resting lightly on the pulpit.
“For many of us,” he begins, his gaze sweeping the room before landing—unmistakably—on our pew, “this season is a reminder that light finds us in the moments we expect it least. I find myself reflecting on the true meaning of grace,” he begins, his gaze sweeping over the congregation. “We often speak of God's grace as something freely given, unearned, andundeserved. But how many of us truly understand what it means to extend that same grace to others?”
I shift uncomfortably, wondering if this is where he subtly calls me out as the church’s resident sinner. Mrs. Holloway leans forward slightly beside Cece, nodding emphatically.
“Recent events in our community have forced me to examine my own understanding of grace,” the Reverend continues, his attention settling briefly on me. “When my daughter was falsely accused, when violence touched our lives, I witnessed something remarkable. I saw grace extended from the most unexpected places.”
My throat goes tight, the kind of tight that sneaks up on you and hits harder than any punch. I shift in the pew, the wood groaning under me as I try—unsuccessfully—to ease the sharp stab in my ribs. Doesn’t matter. Every word coming out of the Reverend’s mouth hurts more.
“A group of men—men I had judged harshly, men I had deemed unworthy of God’s love—showed my family more Christian charity than many who sit in these pews every Sunday.”
The sanctuary reacts instantly. Whispers surge through the room, rustling through the congregation like wind whipping through tall grass—soft but impossible to ignore. Some folks look curious. Others look scandalized. One woman clutches her pearls with such force I’m shocked they don’t snap and rain onto the floor.
But I don’t look at them. I look at him. Because I’ve heard a lot of sermons in my life—most against my will—but never one aimed straight at me.
The Reverend continues, voice gaining strength with every word.
“They gave their time. Their labor. Their hearts. Not for recognition or praise…but because someone in need asked for help. And they showed up.”
Another wave of murmurs. Another shift of shoulders.
But I hardly notice. My chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with cracked ribs. Because for the first time, I think he sees us—sees me—not as a threat or a mistake, but as something that might actually belong beside his daughter.
“These men, with their leather vests and tattoos, embodied the very spirit of Christmas that we celebrate tonight. They fed the hungry, clothed the poor, and brought joy to children. They protected the vulnerable when others would not. And one man in particular—” his gaze finds mine directly now “—was willing to lay down his life for someone he loves.”
I resist the urge to look around, to check if there's some other battered hero sitting behind me that he might be referencing instead.
“That, my friends, is the true meaning of Christmas. Not the presents under the tree or the lights on our houses, but the willingness to see past our differences, to recognize the divine spark in those we least expect.”
A weight settles in my chest that has nothing to do with my injuries. I've been called a lot of things in my life—most of them not fit for church walls—but never an example of the true meaning of Christmas. It's enough to make me wonder if I hit my head harder than I thought.
“Greater love hath no man than this,” the Reverend continues, “that a man lay down his life for his friends. John 15:13.