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| Not Without Grace |
Stephanie Chase didn’t knock when she opened the door to the house that used to be hers. The key still turned smoothly in the lock. That surprised her. Part of her had expected it wouldn’t—shouldn’t—after everything she’d done.
The air inside was familiar, tinged with lemon oil, the scent James always used on the old oak furniture. His shoes were lined neatly by the bench in the hallway. The quiet was too loud. She set her suitcase down by the door and told herself she’d only be here a couple of hours. Long enough to gather the rest of her things and leave the past behind.
What she didn’t expect was the journal.
It lay open on the nightstand, its pages yellowed with age. Stephanie hesitated, her hand hovering over the worn cover. She shouldn't pry. But curiosity gnawed at her. With a deep breath, she picked it up, feeling the weight of it in her hands.
James' familiar handwriting filled the page.
“Lord, heal Stephanie. Show her Your love even when she can’t feel mine. Make me a vessel of grace. Not to win her back—but to show her who You are.”
Tears blurred the page. The journal felt like a door to everything she had locked away—joy, sorrow, and something in between.
She didn’t mean to sit. Didn’t mean to read more. But the journal pulled her in.
There were pages of Scriptures. Psalms of lament, prayers of forgiveness. Not once did James ask for her to return. He only asked that she find peace, healing… wholeness.
She hadn’t expected that.
She’d left James nearly seven months ago. Walked out after she confessed the affair. There were tears—his—and silence—hers. Shame had wrapped around her like a net. She told herself she was giving him freedom. But really, she was the one escaping.
“What are you doing here?” a familiar voice asked from the doorway.
Stephanie turned slowly. James stood there, a brown grocery bag in one hand. His face showed a flicker of surprise—and something else. Hope, maybe.
"I... I came to collect the rest of my things," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She stood, clutching the journal to her chest like it held the weight of all her regrets.
"You found my journal," he said quietly.
Stephanie nodded, unable to meet his eyes.
“I wasn’t trying to—” She motioned to the journal. “I saw it open. I read a little. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You were never prying.” He set the bag on the counter and began unloading apples, bread, a jar of peanut butter. “You want coffee?”
“James,” she said, and her voice cracked.
He paused. “Stephanie.”
“I’m not here to stay.”
“I know.”
“I don’t deserve this.” She gestured to the journal, to him. “You keep praying for me. But I wrecked everything.”
He looked at her with sorrow and something gentler. “You didn’t wreck you. And that’s who I’m praying for.”
Her knees gave out beneath her, and she sank into the kitchen chair.
“I didn’t sleep for weeks,” James said, settling across from her. “I asked God why He would let my heart break. But after a while… I stopped praying for a miracle and started praying for you.”
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because I love you.” He paused. “And because I know pain doesn’t come out of nowhere. There’s a wound under what happened. I don’t know what it is—but I know God can heal it.”
She gripped the journal more tightly.
"Steph, I didn't expect you to come back," James said softly. "But I'm glad you did. You don’t have to say anything. But if you ever want someone to walk through healing with you, I’m here. Not as your husband. Just as someone who cares.”
She cried then. Not the silent tears she’d trained herself to hide, but the soul-deep sobs of someone finally safe enough to fall apart.
Outside, the rain pelted the windows, a rhythm matching the storm inside her. James reached for her hand. His warmth steadied her. She looked up into eyes full of compassion.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I never meant to hurt you.”
James traced comforting circles on the back of her hand. “We all stumble and fall. But it’s what we do after that matters.”
Stephanie drew in a shaky breath. “Can we try again?”
The words hung in the air—trembling, uncertain.
James squeezed her hand gently. “Yes. But not as we were. We’ll start anew. One step at a time.”
A flicker of hope lit in her chest. This time, she would nurture what they had with honesty and care.
As the rain continued to fall, peace settled over the house like a warm blanket.
"How about we begin with counseling sessions with the Pastor?" James offered.
Stephanie nodded, surprised at how ready she was to say yes.
“My dad had an affair,” she told him one evening after a session. “My mom forgave him. Pretended it never happened. But she died with bitterness in her bones. I think… I think I was trying to understand how she could forgive. I didn’t know how to carry my own grief, so I created more.”
James didn’t try to fix it. He just listened.
Their pastor—a quiet man with a steady voice and gentle wisdom—walked with them through the hard conversations. He helped Stephanie face the shame, abandonment, and guilt she had carried for years.
“Faith isn’t just about redemption,” he told them during one session. “It’s about restoration. And restoration takes time.”
Stephanie clung to that truth like a lifeline.
One Sunday, she stood at the back of the church, hesitant. James was at the front, preparing communion.
He caught her eye and smiled. Just once. It was enough.
The sermon was about Peter—how he’d denied Jesus, shattered by guilt, and how Jesus still came to restore him.
“Jesus didn’t ask for an explanation,” the pastor said. “He asked a question: Do you love Me?”
Tears slid down Stephanie’s cheeks.
She did love James. But more than that—she was starting to believe she was still loved by God.
Even here. Even now.
Healing wasn’t easy.
There were nights she called James just to cry. Days when she wanted to run again. But she stayed. In the process. In the pain. In the grace.
In time, they moved from counseling to living together again. Slowly. Purposefully.
One day, James took her to a quiet field outside town—the place they had once dreamed of building their home.
The grass swayed in the breeze, golden and wild. Stephanie stood beside him, remembering the day they first talked about it—back when love was new and life felt wide open.
“You still want to build it?” she asked.
James looked at her, eyes soft. “Only if you’ll build it with me.”
She slipped her hand into his.
“Then let’s build a home. Not perfect, but honest. Forgiven. Whole.”
He pulled her close, resting his forehead gently against hers.
“One step at a time,” he whispered.
And for the first time in a long time, Stephanie believed they could.
🕊️ An Echoes of Faith Story
Because grace doesn’t take you back… it leads you forward—one step at a time.