Echoes of Faith: Not Without Grace| Flash Fiction

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Not Without Grace

After walking away from her marriage, Stephanie returns home only to discover the quiet prayers of a husband who never stopped loving her—but didn’t ask for her back. In the pages of his journal, she finds not guilt, but grace—and the courage to believe in healing. Let the story speak to your heart—scroll down to begin.

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.

Echoes of Faith: The Man at the Bus Stop| Flash Fiction

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The Man at the Bus Stop

 After a single father reaches his breaking point, a mysterious encounter at a bus stop changes everything. "The Man at the Bus Stop" is a heartfelt short story about divine timing, fatherhood, and the quiet strength to keep going.  Let the story speak to your heart—scroll down to begin.

“Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some have entertained angels without knowing it.” — Hebrews 13:2

In the back room of New Hope Daycare, nestled within First Grace Church, the gentle murmur of Bible stories filled the air.

“...And then,” Miss Lena said, her voice gentle, “the angel told Elijah, ‘Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you.’”

She smiled at the group of preschoolers gathered at her feet. “God sent someone to help him. Just like He sends help to us—even when we don’t expect it.”

Twenty-seven-year old, Leo Merryman lingered at the doorway, one hand gripping the strap of his worn-out messenger bag. His four-year-old son, Eli, sat cross-legged on the rug, eyes wide, listening like it was the most important story he’d ever heard.

Leo took a breath.

Miss Lena looked up and locked eyes with him. She nodded before he could say anything. She knew his situation—and had always shown him grace.

“I’ll pay next week,” he said softly. “I promise. I've got a job interview with TechDesk Solutions this morning. Maybe the eleventh try will be the lucky one."

She smiled. "Next week works for me. I'm still keeping you in my prayers.”

He knelt, kissed Eli’s curls, and whispered, “Be good today. I’ve got a big interview.”

Eli grinned. “Okay, Daddy. I’ll save you a waffle.”

Leo managed a half-smile. “Deal.”

He stood and turned toward the door, stepping into the gray morning with the weight of the world sitting squarely on his shoulders.

By the time he reached the corner of Maple and 3rd, the drizzle had turned to a steady mist. Leo sat on the cold bench, his dress shoes soaked through, his tie hanging crooked like even it had given up.

This was his eleventh interview in two months.

He wasn’t even sure why he was going. His resume was short. His suit was too tight. He’d already rescheduled twice—Eli had a fever last week. He’d scraped together bus fare with a handful of quarters and guilt. And he was late.

Eight months ago, his wife left, taking with her the furniture, their plans, and dreams. What remained was the rent, divorce papers, and a little boy who continued to ask why Mommy no longer tucked him in at night.

Leo leaned forward, face in his hands.

He wasn’t thinking about jumping or pills or anything like that. But he was thinking about disappearing. Quietly. Letting someone else do better by Eli than he ever could.

“Rough morning?”

The voice startled him. Leo looked up and nodded. “Yeah.”

A man in his early forties stood close by, exuding confidence with his relaxed stance and a gentle smile. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, and his thick gray coat appeared well-maintained. A scarf was neatly tied around his neck. His warm brown eyes conveyed empathy and understanding.

Leo gave a grunt, more of an exhale than a word.

The man sat beside him. Not close enough to crowd. But close enough to matter.

“I used to sit here too,” he said after a moment.

Leo glanced sideways. “What, you live around here?”

The man smiled faintly. “Used to. A long time ago. Back when my kids were small. Same stop. Same corner. Different burdens.”

Leo didn’t answer. He stared at the sidewalk. He didn’t have the energy to be polite. But he didn’t have the strength to walk away either.

“My name’s Atticus,” the man offered.

“Leo.”

“Well, Leo,” Atticus said quietly, “you look like a man carrying too much. And maybe thinking about dropping it.”

That got Leo’s attention. He blinked, swallowed hard. “What makes you say that?”

Atticus shrugged. “I’ve seen that look before. I wore it once. When my wife left, and I had two little girls looking at me like I had answers I didn’t have.”

Leo said nothing. His throat burned.

“I had a moment like this,” Atticus went on. “Right here. I sat on this bench and thought about vanishing. Thought maybe it would be better if I just… stepped away. Give them a chance at something better.”

Leo stared ahead. “And did you?”

“No,” Atticus said softly. “Because a stranger sat next to me and said something that stopped me.”

“What did they say?”

“They said, ‘You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to stay.’”

Leo closed his eyes. Stay. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” he whispered.

“No one is,” Atticus said. “Not at first. But the strength doesn’t come all at once. It comes in the small things. In socks and shoes in the morning. In peanut butter sandwiches. In bedtime stories. It comes in staying.”

Leo was quiet for a long time. Atticus didn’t push.

Eventually, Leo pulled Eli’s favorite small teddy bear from his pocket. “My boy’s name is Eli,” he said. “He’s four.”

Atticus nodded. “That’s a good name. Strong name. A prophet’s name.”

Leo chuckled. “He likes dinosaurs. And waffles. And sleeping in my bed even when I tell him not to.”

Atticus grinned. “Sounds like a boy worth staying for.”

Leo looked down at the tiny animal. Something in Atticus’ voice—so sure, so gentle—settled something inside him. Like the cliff he’d been standing on wasn’t as high as he thought.

The bus rolled into view, tires hissing in the rain.

Atticus stood and brushed off his coat. “This one’s yours?”

Leo nodded slowly. “Yeah. I have to be there before nine. I can’t be late.”

"You'll be fine," Atticus reassured, checking his tiny gold watch. "They're expecting you. You'll land the job.”

Leo froze. “How do you know that?”

Atticus met his eyes. “Because you’re not done yet. And neither is God.”

The doors opened with a hydraulic sigh.

Leo turned toward the bus, then looked back.

The bench was empty.

No footsteps. No coat. No sign Atticus had ever been there at all.

The driver gave a small wave. “You coming or not, man?”

Leo stepped onto the bus, stunned.

Later that evening, Leo stood barefoot in the kitchen, while Eli was on the floor coloring in his favorite book, and the smell of frozen pizza filled the air.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

Subject: Job Offer – TechDesk Solutions

Message: Mr. Leo Merryman — We’re happy to offer you the Computer Support Technician position. We were impressed by your interview and would love to have you on board. Please see attached offer letter and onboarding schedule.

Leo read the message twice. Then a third time.

He leaned against the counter, the phone trembling slightly in his hands. After all the closed doors, all the dead ends—this one had opened. Just like Atticus had said.

Eli peeked up at him. “Is that your work paper, Daddy?”

Leo laughed, eyes welling. “Kind of, buddy. Yeah.”

He crouched down and pulled Eli into a hug.

In the quiet that followed, Leo looked out the kitchen window. No rain now—just dusk. The sky turning gold at the edges.

He didn’t expect to see Atticus standing there. But still, he looked... and smiled.

Then he whispered, “Thank You… for sending someone to sit beside me.”

🕊️ An Echoes of Faith Story

Because sometimes, the one beside you isn’t just a stranger… but a whisper of Heaven in disguise.