My eyes open. I’m looking at a weathered piece of paper tucked between the pages. It’s folded and creased, lined pink paper—a remnant of the early days. From that summer after high school, when I first started taking my faith more seriously.
I unfold it carefully.
God doesn’t love you because you’re good enough. He loves you because you’re His.
I stare at the words, and that’s when I feel it—that little tug again.
My power is made perfect in weakness.
Not in strength. Not in performance. Not in earning it or deserving it or being good enough.
In weakness.
Well, goody, because I have that in spades.
Except I think about the publishing offer. Better terms. More money. Without me doing anything to earn it.
I think about Brody. Loving me when I was broken and struggling and falling apart.
But what if all of that was grace?
What if that’s the point?
I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to prove I was worth loving.
But what if I simply stop being afraid of being rejected? Stop trying to earn love and be brave enough to give it. Unconditionally.
A little like Jesus did.
I know what I have to do.
I open my laptop. Buy two tickets for tomorrow night’s game. Lower bowl, near the penalty box. Close enough that he might see me.
Then I pick up my phone. Text Jessa.
Chloe
When you get home, I need your help with something.
Jessa
Anything. What’s up?
Chloe
I’m going to make the biggest spectacle of my life.
Eighteen
Brody
I have a game tonight.
I should be thinking about defensive formations, Chicago’s offensive strategy, how to shut down their power play.
Instead, I’m sitting in my car outside Serenity Hills Treatment Center, staring at my phone, wondering if it’s possible to die from missing someone.
Probably not. But it feels like it might be.
