Chapter 25
Harper
He’s in his bedroom, I think. Sitting against his headboard, wearing a gray t-shirt, his dark-rimmed glasses slightly crooked, hair messy like he’s been running his hands through it.
And he’s looking at me.
“Oh my gosh, I’m a mess,” I blurt out, immediately trying to angle the phone away.
“Harper, stop.” His voice is firm but kind. “You’re not a mess.”
“I literally look like I’ve been crying.”
“You have been crying.”
“Exactly. So I’m a mess.”
“No.” He adjusts his glasses, leaning slightly closer to the camera. “You’re being honest. There’s a difference.”
I pause, the phone still half-angled away from my face.
“Besides,” he continues, a small smile tugging at his lips, “I saw you at your worst the other morning after the gala. Mascara everywhere. Missing an eyelash. You can’t get much messier than that.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“You’re still beautiful, Freckles.”
The words catch me off guard, and I feel my cheeks heat.
I finally angle the phone back, looking at him properly through the screen.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi.”
We just look at each other for a moment, and something about seeing his face—even through a screen—makes me feel less alone.
“Your parents taught you that faith is about following rules,” Micah says, picking up where we left off. “Checking boxes. Looking the part. But that’s not what Jesus taught. Jesus said, ‘Remain in Me’—not ‘Try harder.’ Not ‘Be perfect.’ Just stay close.”
Tears prick at my eyes. “I don’t know if I’ve ever done that. Stayed close. I think I’ve just been... performing.”
“Then it’s time to stop performing and start being present.”
A tear slides down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away.
“What if I’m not good at it?” I ask. “What if I try and I still feel empty?”
“Then you keep showing up. You practice. And slowly, you’ll notice that you’re not striving anymore. You’re just... connected. And the fruit? It grows on its own.”
I look at him through the screen, and I instantly see it. The thing that sets Micah apart.
The peace. The steadiness. The quiet confidence that comes from being rooted in something bigger than himself.
And I want that.
I want that so badly.
“I’m so tired of trying to be enough,” I whisper.
Micah’s expression softens, and even through the phone, I can see the emotion in his eyes.
“Then stop trying,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “Just remain.”
The tears come in earnest now, and I bury my face in my free hand.
“I don’t know how to do this, Micah. I don’t know how to let go of all the striving and just... be.”
“You don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” he says quietly. “You just have to take the first step. And the first step is being honest. With God. With yourself.”
I nod, still crying.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“For a long time, I thought being a Christian meant checking boxes too. Church attendance. Bible reading. Volunteering. All good things. But I was doing them to prove I was good enough. And I was miserable.”
I look up at the screen, surprised. “You were?”
“Yeah. I burned out completely. Stopped going to church for a while. Stopped reading my Bible. Just... shut down.”
“What changed?”
“I realized that Jesus didn’t want my performance. He wanted my heart. And once I stopped trying to earn His love and just started receiving it? Everything changed. I wasn’t perfect. I still messed up. But I wasn’t striving anymore. I was just... connected.”
“And that’s when the fruit started growing.”
“Exactly.”
I wipe my eyes, taking a shaky breath. “I want that. I want to stop performing and start actually knowing Him.”
“Then you’re already on the right path.”
We sit in silence for a moment—him in his bedroom, me in mine, connected by a screen and a conversation that feels more real than anything I’ve experienced in months.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
“Anything.”
Micah’s expression softens even more. “Can I pray for you?”
I nearly lose the ability to speak. I manage a breathless, “of course.”
I set my phone down, propping it against a pillow so I can still see him, and I close my eyes.
And then, through the phone at almost midnight, Micah prays.
Not a long, performative prayer.
Not a checklist of requests.
Just honest, genuine words from his heart to God’s.
“God, thank You for Harper. Thank You for her honesty. Thank You that she’s asking real questions and wanting more than just performance.
I pray that You would help her learn what it means to remain in You.
To stay connected. To let go of striving and just rest in Your love.
Help her know that she doesn’t have to earn Your approval—she already has it.
Not because of what she does, but because of who You are.
Give her peace. Give her clarity. And most of all, give her a deep, abiding relationship with You. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
When he finishes, I open my eyes, and he’s looking at me through the screen with such tenderness.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Anytime, Freckles.”
I pick up my phone again, holding it close.
“Micah,” I whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Earlier today. In the parking lot.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “Yeah.”
“We almost—”
“I know.”
We sit like that for another minute, just looking at each other, until Micah finally glances at something off-screen.
“I should let you get some sleep,” he says reluctantly.
“Yeah. You’re probably right.”
But neither of us moves to hang up.
“Harper,” he says, his voice rough. “I’m really proud of you. For being honest tonight. For asking questions. For wanting more than just going through the motions.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Yes, you could. You just needed someone to remind you that it’s okay to not have it all figured out.”
“Thank you. For everything.”
“Get some sleep,” he says softly. “And tomorrow? Try talking to God like you talked to me tonight. Just honest. No performance.”
I nod. “I will.”
“Good night, Freckles.”
“Good night, Dimples.”
He smiles—that soft, genuine smile that makes my heart do stupid things—and then the screen goes dark.
I set my phone down and sit there for a moment, processing everything.
Then I grab the journal and a pen.
For a long moment, I just stare at the blank page.
And then I start writing.
God,
I don’t know if I’ve ever really known You. I think I’ve been so busy trying to impress You that I forgot to actually talk to You.
I’m tired of performing. Tired of trying to be good enough. Tired of feeling like I’m failing.
Micah said I need to remain in You. To stay connected. And I don’t really know what that means yet, but I want to learn.
I want to stop striving and just... be.
Help me, God. Help me figure out what it means to remain.
- Harper
I set down the pen and close the journal.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel empty.
I feel... hopeful.
Like maybe I’m finally on the right path.
Not because I have it all figured out.
But because I’m finally willing to admit that I don’t.
And maybe that’s enough.