“Let’s pray,” I say, closing my eyes. “Father, thank You for meeting us right where we are. For not waiting until we had it all together, but loving us in the middle of ourweakness. I pray for every person in this room—that they would feel Your presence, Your peace, Your forgiveness. That chains would break tonight. That hearts would soften. That someone who walked in far from You would leave knowing You’ve been chasing them all along. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
When I open my eyes, the sanctuary is thick with quiet reverence. People praying aloud. Some whispering. Others just…still. And the band plays gently behind it all, underscoring the holy weight of the moment.
The night carries on like that—waves of worship rising and falling. Voices lifted in songs that echo through the rafters, prayer after prayer offered up, some with tears, some with laughter, some with nothing but silence.
Every chorus feels heavier than the one before, but not in a burdensome way—in a way that settles deep into your bones. A room full of people meeting with God, unpolished and unhurried.
By the time the last note fades, it feels like hours have passed and only minutes at the same time. My throat is raw, my heart wrung out, and yet—there’s a peace here. A fullness.
Nights like this remind me why we do it. Why it matters.
We step off stage, but my heart’s still somewhere between the last chord and Heaven.
The crowd hasn’t moved. No one’s ready for it to end. Voices rise in waves—some singing, some praying, some juststanding still with tears on their cheeks and hands lifted like they’re reaching for something more.
And they are.
Because tonight wasn’t about lights or lyrics or anything we rehearsed.
It was about Him.
God showed up. In the cracks. In the silence. In the voices that refused to stop singing even after the music did.
Micah claps a hand to my back as we head down the side hallway. “You were on fire tonight, man.”
I shake my head, still dazed. “We all were. That was…”
“Holy,” one of the vocalists says softly behind us. “It felt holy.”
Yeah. That’s exactly it.
Not perfect. Not polished. But holy.
Like Heaven cracked open just enough to let us breathe something real.
I’m still gripping my guitar, my hands not quite steady, when I glance down the side hallway.
And that’s when I see her.
Ivy.
Standing just beyond the edge of the crowd, like she’s not sure if she belongs in it or apart from it. Her eyes are rimmed red, cheeks streaked with mascara, like she’s been crying for a while and forgot to care.
And something in me breaks wide open.
I don’t hesitate.
I hand my guitar off to someone, don’t even check who, and start weaving through the chaos. People are still praying, still crying, still clinging to the holy weight in the air.
But all I see is her.
She looks up right as I reach her, and before I can think better of it, I wrap her up in my arms. I lift heroff the ground for just a second, spinning her once before setting her down slowly.
Her arms are still around my shoulders when I pull back just enough to see her face.
“Did you feel that?” I whisper, breathless.
She nods, eyes glassy. “Yeah. I felt it.”
