I set the phone down carefully, my hands still shaking. For some reason, the quiet feels heavier now. Like it’s pressing down on me.
My eyes drift back to my hands, fingers still locked together. It feels strange, but I don’t let go. I take a deep breath, and before I can stop myself, the words spill out.
“God…if You’re real…if You really hear me…can You just…fill me with something real? A peace that’s not pretend? Not something I’m trying to make happen, but something that only You can do.”
My voice wavers, but I press on. “I don’t want to just do this because it makes Gray happy. I want it to be for me. For You. I want it to be…real.”
The room is still. My breath is loud in my ears, and I’m not sure what I’m expecting—some sign, maybe? A whisper? A warmth that floods the room?
But there’s just…silence.
And yet, it doesn’t feel empty.
I sit there for a long moment, letting the quiet stretch out around me, feeling it wrap itself around my shoulders like a blanket. My chest loosens, the tension slipping away bit by bit.
Maybe this is what peace feels like.
I draw in a breath, deeper than I’ve taken in a while, and the words come before I can even think to hold themback. “I think…I think I need to focus on You. Not just Gray. Not just church. Just…You and me for a bit.”
The thought is startling, but it fits. Like a puzzle piece I didn’t know was missing. I’m always running from one thing to the next—trying to prove I belong, trying to fit. But maybe…maybe belonging isn’t about fitting. Maybe it’s about being held.
I stand slowly, the motion feeling deliberate. I head to the bookshelf by the window where I stacked the books I picked up from the church gift shop weeks ago. My fingers brush over the soft leather binding of the Bible I bought on a whim—along with the pastel highlighters, sticky notes and pens. Beside it is the small devotional I’d picked up. The title readsGrace Upon Grace.
I hesitate for just a second, then grab them both and head back to the couch. I settle in, tucking my legs beneath me, the Bible heavy in my lap. I trace the letters on the cover before flipping it open, thumbing through pages until I land on a verse I remember from Sunday service.
"But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me." — 2 Corinthians 12:9
My breath catches. My power is made perfect in weakness.
I let the words soak in for a moment before setting the Bible aside and opening the devotional. I crack the spine, flipping to the first page.
Day 1: GraceUpon Grace
God’s grace isn’t earned. It isn’t something you deserve. It’s something you receive because He loves you. It’s not about perfection. It’s not about performance. It’s about trust. It’s about resting in the knowledge that He’s already done the work for you.
My eyes blur with tears, and I blink rapidly, sniffling against the wave of emotion rising up. It’s not about performance.
It feels like a whisper straight to my soul.
I press my hand to my chest, swallowing back the lump in my throat. “Okay,” I whisper, voice cracking. “Okay, God. I’m listening.”
I put my phone on do not disturb and spend the next half hour reading through the devotional, marking down thoughts in the margins, circling verses that feel like they’re meant for me. Not earned. Not deserved. Just given.
It’s a concept I’m not used to. I’ve spent my whole life earning—approval, love, validation. But this? This just…exists. Freely.
By the time I’m finished, there’s a softness in my chest. A crack in the armor I’ve been holding up. Maybe it’s small, but it’s there.
I lean back against the cushions, Bible and devotional still in my lap, and close my eyes. “Thank you,” I whisper, the words slipping out without thought. “For meeting me here. I’m going to try…to meet You here too.”
The sky outside fades into a soft wash of lavender and gold, the sun beginning its slow descent behind the buildings. The apartment is quiet, still, but it doesn’t feel empty anymore. Not in the same way it did earlier.
I wrap a blanket around my shoulders, letting the weight of the day settle over me. Not the heavy, soul-crushing kind—but something lighter.
I don’t know everything yet. I’m still full of questions. Still scared. Still unsure of what’s next.
But for the first time in a long time, I’m not trying to fix it all myself. I’m not trying to be the version of Ivy that fits what someone else needs.
I’m just…here.
