I blink, surprised. I hadn’t expected her to bring it up.
She clears her throat. “I was frustrated. At myself, mostly. But I took it out on you, and that wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t have questioned your faith like that.”
I open my mouth to respond, but she keeps going, her voice softer now. “But…honestly? I think you needed to hear it. And I think I needed to say it. Because watching you these last few weeks—I mean really watching you—something’s different.”
My throat tightens. “Liv…”
“No,” she shakes her head, a faint smile pulling at her lips. “Let me say this. You’ve always been good at adapting. At becoming who people needed you to be. But this? This doesn’t feel like that. You’re not trying to perform, or please anyone. You just…are. And it’s beautiful, Ivy.”
Harper exhales slowly, her eyes glossy. “Amen to that.”
I press my mug against my chest, warmth blooming deeper than just the chai latte. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I think your words were exactly what I needed, even if they hurt in the moment. They kind of…cracked something open in me.”
Olivia swipes at the corner of her eye with her sleeve, then shrugs with a watery laugh. “Guess we’re all a little broken.”
“We are,” I say, reaching over to take her hand. “But I think that’s the whole point. That’s where grace meets us.”
She nods slowly. “Yeah…I think I’m starting to get that.”
Harper leans forward, her smile playful but her tone sincere. “You should come to church tomorrow. They’re doing a Thanksgiving message—‘Thankful, Grateful, Blessed.’ I heard it’s supposed to be really good.”
Olivia hesitates, then glances at me. “Okay. I’ll come. But no promises on the singing.”
“That’s fair,” Harper grins.
And just like that, something shifts between us. A new layer. A deeper thread weaving through old friendship.
Not perfect. Not polished.
But real.
Thanksgiving feels…different this year.
It’s been eight weeks since I pulled away from Gray. Eight weeks since I stood in his living room and told him I needed space—not just from him, but from everything.
I never imagined it would feel like this—like breaking apart and coming back together at the same time. The first few days were unbearable. I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t think straight. Everything reminded me of him. Of us. I’d lie awake at night, replaying every word, every look, wondering if I made a mistake.
But I knew. Deep down, I knew. If I didn’t figure out who I was in this faith journey on my own, it would always be tangled up in him. I didn’t want that. I couldn’t have that. If I was going to believe in God, it had to be real.
So I took a step back.
And then I took another.
I threw myself into my role at the church. I finalized the promotional graphics for the Christmas Eve service, made weekly bulletins, even helped Harper with the posters for the kids’ ministry Thanksgiving party. I showed up early. Stayed late. And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t just attending church.
I was part of it.
And I started praying. Really praying. Not the kind of desperate, scattered prayers I used to whisper when everything was falling apart. These were different—intentional. I’d light that cinnamon candle, open a devotional, and just sit with God. Sometimes I spoke. Sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I cried and said nothing at all.
And slowly…I began to feel something.
Not lightning. Not fireworks. Just…peace. Gentle and unexpected. Like He’d been waiting for me to get quiet enough to notice.
Verses I used to skim over started to mean something. Words like grace and mercy weren’t just abstract ideas—they were personal. Real. Woven into every crack in me. And for the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to earn it.
I think back to last Sunday, standing in the back of the church while the worship team played Reckless Love. I’ve heard it a dozen times, but something about it hit different this time.
Oh, the overwhelming, never-ending, reckless love of God.
