Chapter 46
Evie
Whose bright idea was it to travel to one of the most romantic cities in the world on Valentine’s Day weekend?
Oh, right. Mine. I’m fighting for my life at the base of the Eiffel Tower as rain pummels against the asphalt, soaking through my sneakers as I dodge dozens of kissing couples in my pursuit of snapping the perfect travel selfie.
Just when I think I’ve found the right angle, and the impressive, timeless steel structure is positioned directly behind me, twinkling like a star—a couple waltzes into the background.
I drop my phone to my side with a huff. “Seriously?”
The couple continues spinning around me while their photographer moons over them.
It’s almost as if they’re mocking the fact that I’m here alone .
. . When the man dips his partner into a deep, soul-searching kiss, my heart aches for Brandon.
It’s been two weeks since I’ve last seen him or spoken to him on the phone.
I’ve been checking in periodically to let him know I’m safe and sending the occasional selfie, but that’s suddenly not enough anymore as I watch this beautiful couple dance circles around me. Literally.
When he drops to one knee, I book it out of the frame.
I settle for taking a picture of the twinkling landmark in all its glory without me, then hurry to take cover from the pouring rain beneath the awning of a flower shop.
I purchase a fresh bouquet of daisies with the intention of pressing them as a keepsake, then hurry back to my hotel, where I plan to dry off and get ready for evening mass.
It’s my last night in Paris before I head home, and I want to spend it with the One who made this trip possible.
When I throw the door to my hotel room open, soaked and chilled to the bone, I pause and stand in awe.
There are yellow daisies filling the room, bouquets of them stretching as far as the eye can see.
They’re flooding the console table and vanity, spilling from the dresser onto the carpeted floor.
They’re crowding my nightstand and the breakfast table near the balcony doors. They’re everywhere.
My breath catches as their crisp, floral scent reaches my nose.
Have I entered the wrong room?
I glance at the number on the door, then down at my key card, flipping it over uselessly in search of answers.
Nope.
Dazzled, I grab the notecard waiting patiently for me on the console table and rip it open. I’m almost positive the staff has delivered these to the wrong room.
But I’m mistaken.
Dear Spitfire,
Are you having a good time? I miss you and think about you constantly.
I love you.
Brandon
With shallow breaths and shaking hands, I search around inside my satchel for his letter.
I brought it with me because I knew I wanted to read it during my flight home, but I couldn’t just leave it unattended in my hotel room.
So it’s come with me pretty much everywhere over the last couple of weeks.
To my dismay, the letter is slightly damp from this afternoon’s rain storm.
Gingerly, I set it down on the heater and lower myself onto the edge of the bed to stare at it.
I’ve been tempted to read it at least a thousand times, but I could never bring myself to do it.
Brandon told me not to read it until the year he wanted us to spend “apart” was up, and it’s been up for a few weeks now.
Still, every time I went to tear into the envelope, something stopped me.
And this time is no exception.
“Lord,” I whisper. “What’s going on?” I take a deep breath, giving room for the Holy Spirit to speak and provide some clarity—or maybe even a little bit of direction.
But He’s quiet.
Sighing, I change into a pair of warm, dry jeans, a cozy oversized sweater, and my favorite pair of combat boots. Then I throw on the rain coat I should have been wearing this afternoon, grab my brolly, and head to Notre-Dame Cathedral for Sunday evening mass.
I’m awestruck when I enter the cathedral and catalogue all its incredible details for the first time.
The soaring vaulted ceiling, the smooth stone arches, the tiled marble floor.
The vibrant stained-glass windows and altar with its marble Pietà of the Virgin Mary and Jesus—and behind it, an elegant gold cross.
Thanks to the recent restorations, the cathedral’s interior is strikingly modern compared to its gothic facade.
I’m not Catholic by any stretch of the imagination, but I make the sign of the cross out of respect and take a seat at the back of the cathedral. Most of the mass is conducted in Latin, so I understand nothing, but I still appreciate the experience.
When the service is over, I remain seated in the pew for a few extra minutes, staring at Jesus’ body in the marble Pietà and just thinking. Reflecting. Praying.
All this time, I assumed Jesus was ignoring my prayers because He didn’t care about me.
It turns out that Brandon was right; Jesus was pursuing a relationship with me.
Relationships are two-way streets; and the best ones have a firm foundation of solid communication.
And Jesus was never going to force me to spend time with Him.
So how could I have ever expected to hear from Him without sitting down to chat with Him regularly?
I’ll admit that at first, communicating with Jesus felt like pulling teeth.
Mostly because I didn’t know how to talk to Him.
But that went away with time. With patience.
With every verse read, every prayer uttered.
That old juvenile expectation to hear an audible voice speaking from the sky, coming from a God who grants my every wish, is long gone.
I now have a right understanding of what prayer is—communion with a God who loves me more than any earthly parent or human man ever could.
Now, abiding in Jesus feels like rest—like respite for my soul. But I had no idea, before trusting in His name, just how much I was hanging on by a thread. Now, clinging to the hem of His garment, I am made well.
As I gaze at Jesus’ face, I realize with a rush of emotion and gratitude that He has always been there, rooting for me. Fighting for me. Pursuing me. I’m His beloved child. I belong to Him. I always have, and I always will.
No one could ever love me like He loves me.
It’s always been You, Jesus. You’ve always been here. You love me unconditionally, and You will never leave me. Never forsake me. I know that now.
Something clicks in my mind like I’ve just entered the correct combination.
Is this what He has been trying to help me understand?
The sudden urge to read Brandon’s letter tells me yes.
Yes, it is. Automatically, I reach for my bag—only to realize with an intense pang of annoyance that I left it on the heater in the hotel room.
Rain slashes around me as I run down the street, back toward my hotel. I clip a few shoulders along the way, and I’m grumbled at in moody-sounding French, but I don’t care.
I’m ready to be Brandon’s, yes—but I belong to Jesus, first and foremost. I am His, and He is mine.
No relationship should ever come before my relationship with Him.
No earthly relationship could ever come close to fulfilling me in the way my relationship with my heavenly Father does.
No one’s love could ever compare. Not the love of my parents, or Brandon, or anyone else.
While there may be some days where I don’t feel God’s love, don’t hear His voice, don’t understand what He’s doing or why, I can rest assured that He knew me before the foundation of the world, and He chose me to be His beloved.
He had a loving, intimate knowledge of me before I was a twinkle in my mother’s eye, before the Earth was even formed.
He set His sights on me and pursued me with the intention of, one day, conforming me to the image of His beloved Son, Jesus Christ. I still can’t fully wrap my head around that.
The bewildered receptionist watches me squeak across the lobby, dragging rain puddles onto the tiled floor.
Muttering an apology, I screech around the corner and storm up three flights of stairs to my floor.
Fumbling with my key card, I struggle to get the door open.
I don’t bother shutting it behind me. Instead, I race toward the heater, desperate to ensure the letter hasn’t combusted into flames.
It’s not there.
Frantic now, I collapse to my knees and feel around on the floor, only to discover it’s wedged between the radiator and the wall.
Relieved it’s not burned to a crisp, I fish it out and carefully undo the damp seal.
My heartbeat thumps in my ears as I drop down onto the bed, remove the letter, and unfold it.
I take a deep breath and begin reading.
Dear Spitfire,
I don’t know if you will ever read this, but I suppose that makes it easier to write. I hope this letter brings you the closure you deserve, even if you decide that you’d like something different. I will understand and respect your decision.
But you should know . . . that you, sweet girl, entered my heart like a slow leak—subtly, slowly, unbeknownst to me. When I finally noticed and looked down, I was already sinking. Drowning.
The paper vibrates in my hands. I take a deep, stabilizing breath.
Where do I even begin? With a confession, I suppose. It was your wedding day. When I saw you in that gown . . . Evie, you took my breath away. I saw you for the very first time—saw you as the woman you had become, not the girl you once were.
And I loved every inch of you, even then.