Ava stood under the old oak tree, her arms crossed tightly against the chilly afternoon air, feeling as if the whole world were sliding out from beneath her feet. She had tried so hard to live right — to be good, to follow the rules she’d learned in Sunday School — but today, all of it felt like it wasn’t enough.
Her father's voice on the other end of the phone still rang in her ears: disappointment, frustration, silent hurt. She had snapped at him, again, let her anger have the final word. It was a small thing, maybe — a missed call, a broken promise to visit. But little fractures like these, Ava realized, could upend a whole heart.
She turned her face up toward the setting sun, a rush of tears making the fiery sky swim. “God,” she whispered, feeling a wave of failure crash over her, “am I even capable of loving the way You ask?”
Something soft and deliberate brushed against her leg — her golden retriever, Max, leaning against her for warmth. Ava smiled despite herself. She dropped down to sit in the cool grass, burying her face into Max’s fur. Somehow, in the middle of this ache, God's love still touched her — even if it was just through the steady thump of a tail against her side.
She thought of the Ten Commandments then: not simply as a list of rules to obey, but as invitations — paths carved into the wilderness to lead her heart home. They weren't ladders for her to climb to reach God. They were God reaching down for her, giving her a way to live that would heal her soul and knit her relationships.
"You shall not bear false witness," she murmured aloud. How many times had she diminished love by letting frustration twist her words? "Honor your father and mother," another whisper, cracking her voice with shame—and hope.
God knew she would stumble. He had given the commandments not to condemn her when she fell, but to remind her where she truly belonged.
The breeze shifted, carrying the scent of lilacs from the nearby field — a memory of childlike summers past — and something loosened in her chest. Ava pulled out her cracked cell phone from her pocket. Her thumb hovered over her father's name.
It didn’t erase her mistakes. She couldn't pretend she hadn't spoken sharply. But love wasn’t pretending; it was showing up, even after the hurt. It was choosing to walk the path God laid out — again, and again, and again.
She dialed the number.
“Hi, Dad,” she began, voice trembling. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I love you. Can we…can we start again?”
His breath on the other end shook just a little, and then: “Of course, honey. Always.”
The sunset deepened to violet. Ava tucked the memory close: a small, trembling yes born out of God's mercy. A promise that no matter how many times we falter, there is always a way back, written into the fabric of God's love itself.
And as she walked back toward the little farmhouse glowing with lamplight, her heart felt lighter, as if the very air was woven through with the kind of grace the commandments had always been pointing her toward — not a heavy law, but a deep, abiding invitation to love.
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Supporting Bible Verses:
Ava stood under the old oak tree, her arms crossed tightly against the chilly afternoon air, feeling as if the whole world were sliding out from beneath her feet. She had tried so hard to live right — to be good, to follow the rules she’d learned in Sunday School — but today, all of it felt like it wasn’t enough.
Her father's voice on the other end of the phone still rang in her ears: disappointment, frustration, silent hurt. She had snapped at him, again, let her anger have the final word. It was a small thing, maybe — a missed call, a broken promise to visit. But little fractures like these, Ava realized, could upend a whole heart.
She turned her face up toward the setting sun, a rush of tears making the fiery sky swim. “God,” she whispered, feeling a wave of failure crash over her, “am I even capable of loving the way You ask?”
Something soft and deliberate brushed against her leg — her golden retriever, Max, leaning against her for warmth. Ava smiled despite herself. She dropped down to sit in the cool grass, burying her face into Max’s fur. Somehow, in the middle of this ache, God's love still touched her — even if it was just through the steady thump of a tail against her side.
She thought of the Ten Commandments then: not simply as a list of rules to obey, but as invitations — paths carved into the wilderness to lead her heart home. They weren't ladders for her to climb to reach God. They were God reaching down for her, giving her a way to live that would heal her soul and knit her relationships.
"You shall not bear false witness," she murmured aloud. How many times had she diminished love by letting frustration twist her words? "Honor your father and mother," another whisper, cracking her voice with shame—and hope.
God knew she would stumble. He had given the commandments not to condemn her when she fell, but to remind her where she truly belonged.
The breeze shifted, carrying the scent of lilacs from the nearby field — a memory of childlike summers past — and something loosened in her chest. Ava pulled out her cracked cell phone from her pocket. Her thumb hovered over her father's name.
It didn’t erase her mistakes. She couldn't pretend she hadn't spoken sharply. But love wasn’t pretending; it was showing up, even after the hurt. It was choosing to walk the path God laid out — again, and again, and again.
She dialed the number.
“Hi, Dad,” she began, voice trembling. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I love you. Can we…can we start again?”
His breath on the other end shook just a little, and then: “Of course, honey. Always.”
The sunset deepened to violet. Ava tucked the memory close: a small, trembling yes born out of God's mercy. A promise that no matter how many times we falter, there is always a way back, written into the fabric of God's love itself.
And as she walked back toward the little farmhouse glowing with lamplight, her heart felt lighter, as if the very air was woven through with the kind of grace the commandments had always been pointing her toward — not a heavy law, but a deep, abiding invitation to love.
---
Supporting Bible Verses:
