Chapter 22
Micah
I’m standing in the church lobby thirty minutes before service starts, and I still can’t believe I’m doing this.
Yesterday, after our lunch at the food truck park, I went straight to Marcus, our youth pastor, and asked if he could cover children’s ministry this morning.
“You’re taking a Sunday off?” He’d looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “You haven’t taken a Sunday off in... what, two years?”
“Two and a half,” I’d corrected. “But yeah. I need tomorrow.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I just... I have something I need to do.”
Something I need to do. Like I’m running errands or going to the dentist.
Not surprising the girl I’m fake-dating-but-actually-falling-for by showing up when she thinks I’ll be working.
Marcus had agreed immediately—probably because I’ve covered for him about seventeen times—and now here I am, dressed in dark jeans and a button-down, wearing my new glasses, waiting for Harper.
I can’t say no to her.
That’s the problem.
She asks, and I say yes. Every single time.
Even when I should say no. Even when it would be smarter to put some distance between us. Even when I know I’m just digging myself deeper into feelings, she doesn’t return.
I check my phone. 9:02 a.m.
Service starts in twenty-eight minutes.
The lobby is filling up with people—families, college students, regulars I recognize, and visitors I don’t.
And then I see her.
Harper walks through the front doors, and my breath catches.
She’s wearing a floral dress that hits just above her knee, her hair in loose waves, with minimal makeup. She looks beautiful and nervous, scanning the lobby like she’s searching for someone.
For Dr. Bailey, probably.
Not for me.
But when her eyes land on me, they widen in shock. And then, she smiles.
She weaves through the crowd, stopping a few feet away. “Micah? What are you doing?”
“Good morning to you too, Freckles.”
“You’re supposed to be working. With the kids. In children’s ministry.”
“I got someone to cover.”
“You—” she blinks. “You got someone to cover?”
“Yeah.”
“But you said—”
“I know what I said.”
“So why are you here?”
I shove my hands in my pockets, trying to look casual, even though my heart is hammering. “Because you asked.”
The words hang between us, more honest than I intended.
Harper stares at me, something unreadable flickering across her face.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“Seriously, Micah. I would’ve been fine explaining to them you were working—”
“I wanted to be here.”
That stops her.
We stand there for a moment, the noise of the lobby fading into the background as she looks at me like she’s trying to figure out what I mean.
Before either of us can say anything else, a voice calls out.
“Harper!”
We both turn to see Dr. Bailey and her husband walking toward us, all smiles.
Harper’s expression shifts immediately—from confused to bright and welcoming.
“Mariah! Shawn! You made it!” She gives them both quick hugs, then gestures to me. “You remember Micah.”
“Of course!” Mariah beams. “Micah, it’s so good to see you again. I wasn’t sure if you’d be here since Harper mentioned you usually work Sundays.”
“I asked someone to cover,” I say, sliding my hand to Harper’s lower back. “Couldn’t miss the chance to sit with Harper during service.”
The way Harper glances up at me—surprised and maybe a little pleased—hits me somewhere I wasn’t prepared for.
“Well, we’re so glad you did,” Shawn says, shaking my hand. “This place is incredible. Harper wasn’t kidding about the building.”
“Would you like a tour before service?” Harper asks. “We have a few minutes.”
“That would be wonderful!”
For the next ten minutes, Harper and I lead them through the church—showing them the coffee bar, the bookstore, the kids’ area where I usually spend my Sunday mornings.
Harper’s in full teacher mode, animated and enthusiastic, and I find myself just watching her.
The way she gestures when she talks. The way she lights up when they ask questions. The way she keeps glancing at me like she still can’t believe I’m here.
We make it to the sanctuary, and Harper slides in first, and I sit beside her, Mariah and Shawn taking the seats to her right.
“This is beautiful,” Mariah says, looking around at the high ceilings, the stage with its warm lighting, the screens displaying the morning’s welcome message.
“It really is,” Harper agrees.
The lights dim slightly, and Gray steps up to the mic, guitar in hand.
“That’s Gray,” she whispers. “My friend Ivy’s husband.”
“Oh yes! I remember her.” Dr. Bailey whispers.
“Good morning, New Chapter!” Gray’s voice fills the sanctuary. “Let’s stand and worship together.”
He strums the opening chords to a familiar song—upbeat and joyful—and around us, people begin to sing.
I glance at Harper.
Her eyes fixed on the screen displaying the lyrics, and she’s singing along. Quietly at first, then a little louder.
But she looks stiff. Like she’s performing rather than worshiping.
During the second song—a slower, more intimate one—people around us start raising their hands.
Harper glances around, then shifts beside me, her arms crossing and uncrossing like she can’t quite settle.
I lean close. “You okay?”
“I don’t know what to do with my hands,” she admits, voice low.
I almost smile. “Some people raise them. It’s called outward worship—a physical way of surrendering, opening yourself up to God.” I pause, watching her process that. “But it’s not required. There’s no right way to do this.”
She glances sideways at me. “Then what do you do when you don’t feel it?”
“Close your eyes,” I say simply. “Block everything else out. Sometimes the most honest thing you can offer is just... stillness.”
She’s quiet for a second, like she’s weighing that. Then, almost imperceptibly, her eyes flutter shut.
I look back at the stage.
But a moment later I glance over again—and the sight of her stops me mid-breath. Her hands have stopped fidgeting. Her shoulders have dropped. Her expression, usually so animated and searching, has softened into something I haven’t seen on her before.
She sways, just barely, with the music.
Like she forgot she was performing for anyone.
Pastor Jack opens the way he always does—with a question nobody’s ready for.
“I want you to do something for me,” he says, stepping to the edge of the stage. No Bible yet. Just him and the quiet. “Take a minute. Right now. Make a mental list of everything you want to accomplish this week. Your priorities. The things you’re going to spend your time on.”
The room settles.
“Got your list?”
A few people nod. Someone near the back laughs a little, like the list is already too long.
“Good.” He tilts his head. “Now go back through it. How many of those things required spending time with God?”
Silence.
I shift in my seat. Because if I’m being honest, my own list this week looked a lot like logistics.
Children’s ministry schedules. Volunteer coordination.
The craft supply order I’d been putting off since February.
I had prayed. I had read. But had I wanted it, the way you want water when you’ve been thirsty all day?
I’m not sure I had.
Pastor Jack picks up his Bible.
“Psalm 42,” he says. “The writer compares himself to a deer that’s longing for water. Not wandering toward water. Not thinking about water. Longing. Parched. Bone-dry and desperate for the one thing that will actually fix it.”
He reads the verse aloud, and something about the plainness of the image—an animal, a stream, a need that simple—cuts right through all the complexity I’ve been carrying.
I glance at Harper.
She’s writing.
I do a double take because for a second I think I imagined it.
But no, she has the journal open in her lap, the brown leather one I gave her, and she is writing.
Her pen is moving fast, trying to keep pace with Pastor Jack, and from the way she’s angled toward the stage, I can tell she’s not taking polite notes. She’s trying to get it all down.
She underlines something. Hard. Twice.
I look back at the stage before she can catch me staring.
“The psalmist,” Pastor Jack continues, “is exhausted. He is under pressure. He is running on empty—and not because his life is falling apart, but just because life is a lot. Sound familiar?”
Quiet laughter ripples through the congregation.
“And yet, in the middle of all that, his deepest cry isn’t for relief. It isn’t for answers. His innermost desire is for God. Not what God can fix. Not what God can provide. Just...God.”
Harper’s pen scratches across the page.
I find myself thinking about the last few months.
How I’d been so busy doing ministry that I’d maybe stopped experiencing it.
How I could talk about God’s presence in a small group setting, could teach it, could lead accountability around it—and still manage to skip right past actually sitting in it myself.
“Here’s the thing about presence,” Pastor Jack says, coming back to center stage.
“We treat it like a reward. Like something we get to access once we’ve handled everything else on the list.” He shakes his head.
“But God isn’t waiting at the bottom of your productivity.
He’s not limited to a building, or a service time, or a quiet morning when everything lines up perfectly.
He is Spirit. He is here. Right now, in this room, with every single person who walked through those doors today. ”
I hear Harper exhale beside me.
“So what does it actually take?” Pastor Jack opens his hands.
“Desire. That’s it. A want. A willingness to draw close—through His Word, through prayer, through just sitting still long enough to let Him in.
” He pauses. “And here’s the promise: as you draw close to Him, He is ready and willing to draw close to you.
He will restore your soul. Not because you earned it. Because He is that kind of God.”
I glance over again.
Harper has stopped writing. She’s just listening now, pen hovering over the page, like the words came too fast and she decided to feel them instead of chase them.
Pastor Jack paces slowly. “Spending time with God is a basic need. Like water. Like air. And we treat it like a bonus—like something we’ll get to when the week slows down.
” He stops. “The week doesn’t slow down.
You already know that. But God doesn’t need a slow week.
He just needs your desire. Your willingness to say: this is my priority. This is what I want most.”
He lets that sit.
I let it sit.
Because I needed that as much as anyone in this room. Maybe more, given how easy it is to dress busyness up in ministry clothes and call it devotion.
When the message ends and heads bow, I close my eyes and offer something quieter than I usually pray. Not a list. Not an intercession for my volunteers, or my curriculum, or the three kids I’ve been watching closely this semester.
I want to want You most. Teach me what that looks like.
When I open my eyes, Harper is still looking down at the journal. She’s reading back over what she wrote, her finger tracing a line she underlined. Slowly, she closes the cover.
I smile before I can stop myself.
She brought it to church.
She’s not going through the motions today.
After service, we all stand in the lobby, and Mariah is glowing.
“That was incredible,” she says. “The worship, the sermon—all of it. Shawn, we have to come back next week.”
“Absolutely,” Shawn agrees. “Pastor Jack is an engaging speaker. And the community here feels so warm.”
“That’s one of the things I love about New Chapter,” Harper says. “Everyone’s so welcoming.”
“And Micah,” Mariah says, turning to me. “You work here every weekend?”
“I do. Usually, I’m knee-deep in crafts and Bible stories on Sunday mornings, but I made an exception today.”
“For Harper,” she says knowingly.
“For Harper,” I confirm, squeezing Harper’s hand.
She blushes slightly, and I file that reaction away for later.
“Well,” Shawn says, checking his watch. “We’d love to take you two out for lunch if you’re available. Our treat. We want to hear more about this church—and about you two.”
Harper glances at me, and I nod.
“Lunch sounds great,” she says.