I roll over and grab my phone, thumb hovering over his name.
I type:I wish I had said more tonight.
Then delete it.
I try again:Your song, it made me feel something I didn’t know I needed to feel.
Delete.
Eventually I decide not to send anything at all.
I turn my phone on silent, plug it into the charger, and curl deeper into the blankets. The quiet hum of the night fills my room, but in my head, it’s not silence at all. It’s Gray’s voice, his lyrics, wrapping around me like a melody that refuses to let go.
I close my eyes, my lips tugging into a small smile, and let the sound of him linger in the dark like a prayer I didn’t know I needed. My chest feels warm, heavy and light all at once.
And with his song echoing in my memory, I finally drift toward sleep.
I tug at the hem of my blouse for the third time before stepping through the glass doors of the church office. My stomach knots the way it always does before interviews—except this doesn’t even feel like an interview. At least, not in the traditional sense.
The prayer and worship night graphics had been my “trial run.” A way to dip my toe in, see if I fit. And apparently, I did—because when Pastor Greg emailed to set up this meeting, he said they wanted to talk “next steps.”
Still, my thoughts spiral: What if I misunderstood? What if this is just a polite thank-you and a smile? What if they realize I’m not the “church girl” they’re expecting?
I balance my portfolio in one hand, swipe a clammy palm across my jeans, and whisper under my breath, “Okay, Lord. If this is from You, open the door. If it’s not, shut it tight.”
The receptionist waves me back to the conference room, where Pastor Greg and Emily—the communications director—are already seated with coffees in hand.
“Thanks for coming, Ivy,” Pastor Greg says, his smile wide and steady. “We’ll get right to it.”
I freeze halfway into my chair. That’s fast.
Emily slides a folder across the table toward me. “We don’t want to waste your time with formality. We loved your work, and the truth is—we want you on our team. Part-time, flexible hours. And the first big project?” She grins, almost conspiratorial. “Christmas Eve service.”
My jaw drops. “Christmas? But it’s August.”
Emily laughs. “Exactly. The timeline leaves room for edits, printing, and promotion. We’ve learned the hard way that Christmas can’t be rushed.”
Her words blur for a moment as I stare at the folder in front of me.Lord…is this really happening?
I prayed before I walked in—asking Him to open the right doors. And here I am, with one wide open in front of me.
My chest tightens, but not with fear this time. With awe.
Okay…wow. So, uh…You really are using me, huh? Even with my random design skills? Like, fonts and colors and obsessing over Photoshop layers at 2 a.m.. That’s…actually something You can use?
That doesn’t even sound real. But here it is. A church job. My work up on display. Not because I’m “good enough,” but because You decided it mattered. Because somehow You think I matter.
That’s wild, God. Really wild.
I press my hand against the folder, swallowing the lumpin my throat, and whisper a silent thank You before looking back up with a shaky smile.
For a second, the room blurs. My mind races ahead to colors, fonts, Christmas lights, giant banners with Scripture woven through them. Ideas spill faster than I can catch them. It feels too big and too good, and for a heartbeat, I forget where I am.
“So,” Pastor Greg’s voice breaks through my thoughts, warm and steady, “are you in?”
My head jerks up, cheeks heating. “Yes. Yes, absolutely. I’m in.”
His smile deepens, and he gestures for the team to gather closer. “Let’s pray over Ivy and this new role.”
