For the past three Sundays, Harper’s been coming with me to church. She jumped straight into serving in the children’s ministry—and she loves it, even if she won’t stop grumbling about how “bossy” Micah is. And truthfully, I’mproud of her. She is now practically running the kids’ area with the kind of energy that only Harper could pull off.
There’s just one issue. Harper doesn’t just serve during one service hour, she volunteers for both. Every Sunday, she’s wrangling preschoolers through snack time and crafts, wiping runny noses, and keeping the peace when someone inevitably tries to steal the red crayon.
“Don’t you want to sit in for service?” I asked her last Sunday before we parted ways.
Harper waved me off with a grin. “Oh, I’ll watch it online later. And honestly, I kind of like it better that way. I can fast-forward through announcements and pause for snack breaks.”
I’d just rolled my eyes. “That’s not the same.”
“Sure it is, I still get the message, I’m just not crammed into a seat with a hundred other people.”
But I can’t help but feel like she’s missing out. There is something different about being in service, about feeling the music shake the walls, seeing hands lift in worship, hearing voices blend together like they are all reaching for the same hope. I’ve grown to love it.
I’d even caught Micah giving her an impressed nod last Sunday when she managed to single-handedly calm a room of sugar-hyped seven-year-olds with nothing but a whisper and a bag of Goldfish crackers. She claimed it was the snacks. I think it’s something else.
But as much as I love seeing Harper get involved, there’s this quiet ache every time I look at that empty spot beside me. Then there’s Olivia.
I tried asking her once—if she’d ever consider coming with me. Just once. She laughed it off, saying, “You and Harper are enough. You don’t need me.”
But she’s wrong.
Iwant her there. More than I can explain. It’s not just about filling a seat; it’s about experiencing this thing that’s started to feel important to me and to Harper.
And sometimes, I catch myself daydreaming—three of us side by side, flipping through our Bibles, laughing too loud during prayer time because Harper can’t stop cracking jokes, Olivia sighing dramatically but staying because she secretly loves it.
But that’s just a daydream. For now, anyway.
My phone pings, pulling me from my thoughts.
Gray
Ice cream later?
My heart does a weird little flip.
Ivy
Absolutely. Time?
Gray
I’ll pick you up at 7.
I stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary, biting back a smile before setting the phone down. I lean back in my chair, staring at the mess of design edits sprawled across my laptop.
I can fix them. I know I can. But that nagging voice in the back of my mind whispers:They only hired you because they couldn’t find anyone else.
I shake off the thought, straightening up and clicking back into my work. I don’t have time for doubt. I have designs to fix and an ice cream date with Gray to getready for.
The bell above the door jingles as we step into the ice cream shop. The place is straight out of a movie—black-and-white checkered floors, red vinyl barstools lined up against a shiny counter, and walls plastered with retro posters of sundaes that probably have enough sugar to knock out a linebacker.
Gray grins, nodding toward the chalkboard menu stretched across the wall. “Pick your poison.”
I squint up at the board, eyes scanning the options. “There are, like...a hundred flavors. How do you ever choose?”
“It’s a talent,” he says, stepping up to the counter like he owns the place. He taps his fingers on the glass, inspecting the tubs of brightly colored ice cream. “I’ve pretty much tried them all.”
I raise an eyebrow. “All of them?”
