Somewhere Between Mashed Potatoes & the Midnight Train: Where laughter, longing, and unexpected detours collide.
By the time December rolled around, Black Forest Academy didn’t feel new anymore.
It felt like home. A chaotic, loud, cold, beautiful, late-curfew kind of home.
The kind of place Gracie Rae’s extroverted soul had been starving for without even realizing it.
Gone were the days of crying over 6 a.m. cleaning schedules or mixing up which hallway led to the laundry room. She knew when the hot water ran out (always after breakfast, which Amy Grant song to hum under her breath to get the dorm mom to mysteriously “find” the hidden Nutella stash, and that Sunday chapel socks were a hill people would die on.
She remembered when her parents first gave her the choice: “You can stay here in Spain and homeschool for your last two years... or go to BFA.”
For a second, the idea of staying home sounded safe. Easy. Comfortable.
But then she pictured sitting alone in her room, surrounded by textbooks and the sound of crickets. No music echoing down halls. No midnight laughter. No people. Just white walls and quiet.
Her skin itched just thinking about it.
Gracie needed life. Noise. Chaos. Belonging.
Boarding school wasn’t just the obvious choice—it was the only one that felt like a yes.
She didn’t know it yet, but that yes would shape her in ways she never saw coming.
Because somewhere between the snowflakes and whispered lights-out prayers, something else had quietly started to bloom.
His name was Micah Jacobs.
And whether she meant to or not, she was falling—heart-first, breath-caught, laugh-too-hard kind of fallen.
The Christmas Train
The train ride home for Christmas was legendary among MKs. Nine teenagers. Two overstuffed sleeper cabins. Twenty-seven hours of sugar-fueled chaos from Basel, Switzerland to Valencia. Gracie called it “a social experiment gone rogue.”
By hour four, backpacks were doubling as chairs, someone was trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded, and she was clinging to her final piece of gum like it was the last cassette of Whitney Houston.
You think we’ll make it out alive?” Micah asked, unwrapping a Snickers from the stash Gracie had excitedly hoarded in Stuttgart—one of the rare finds she’d bought as a gift to her mom, who she knew would promptly hide them (as always) only to forget about them until they turned stale and slightly suspicious in color.
“Only if you pinky promise not to sing Amy Grant again,” she said, holding out her little finger with dramatic flair.
He raised his eyebrows. “Pinky promises are sacred.”
She smirked. “So is pitch, and you totally missed it on ‘Lead Me On.’”
They bantered. They snacked. They created inside jokes that would last for years.
And by midnight, while the others were snoring in awkward angles and drooling on their backpacks, Gracie and Micah were still awake. The window cracked just enough to let in the cold Swiss air, their voices hushed like the moment itself was special.
They talked about everything—faith, music, the future, and what it meant to be an MK standing on the edge of graduation in just a few years. The weird limbo of knowing they’d eventually be back in the U.S., a country that was supposed to feel like home but felt more like foreign soil.
Then came the pause.
Micah shifted, stared out the window, then turned to her slowly. “Gracie… I need to tell you something.”
She held her breath.
“I really want you to be my girlfriend,” he said.
Her heart somersaulted. The yes was already dancing on her heart.
“But every time I pray about it… I feel like God keeps saying, not yet. Just remain friends for now.”
Just like that—her heart hit the floor.
She blinked hard, swallowed, nodded like a bobblehead. “Yeah. No, I get it. Totally. Friends.”
Totally. Friends. Sure.
Inside, she was already drafting her prayer journal entry titled “Really, Lord? Just friends?”
Because this wasn’t just a passing feeling. It was something planted deep—something real, and hoping. The kind of connection she’d secretly scribbled about in the margins of her journal since she was twelve.
And now she just got hit with another wait.
The Kiss That Should’ve Stayed in Zaragoza
This wasn’t the first time Gracie had found herself in something that looked like it could be romantic—just… not the kind you’d want to remember.
David Jones was junior high royalty at the Zaragoza Air Force Base school. She barely knew him—he was more of a hallway legend than an actual person in her world—but one day, his friends approached her at lunch like secret agents on a mission.
“David wants to know if you’ll be his girlfriend.”
Gracie blinked. “Uhh… okay?”
She said yes mostly because she was caught off guard—and maybe a little because he had perfectly feathered hair.
The next morning, she woke up in a full-blown clothing crisis. After rejecting three outfits and a mild breakdown, she settled on her favorite pink sweater with flowers stitched along the collar. She barely made it through the winding 25-minute bus ride to school, clutching her lunch and a stomach full of nerves.
Sure enough, David was waiting when she stepped off the bus.
He gave her a casual, "Hey," then awkward silence followed as they just stood there—Gracie completely unsure of what to do. This was honestly her first real boyfriend... if you could even call it that. After what felt like the longest minute of her life, he looked at her and said, "I'm going to go talk to my friends..." and just walked off.
She stood there blinking. If she was his girlfriend, weren’t they supposed to be, well… friends too?
The rest of the morning was a blur. Until the moment she would never forget.
She was standing by her locked classroom door, secretly hoping the teacher would show up quickly—mostly because she didn’t want to run into David again. The first bell rang. She said a little prayer for the second one, thinking surely he’d already be in class by then.
Then the second bell rang. Relief washed over her.
But just as she turned to look down the hallway—there he was.
Walking straight toward her with that ridiculous cool-guy swagger.
And then it happened.
Without a word, he leaned in and kissed her.
Right on the lips.
In front of her entire class.
It was her first kiss.
And it was absolutely horrifying.
The teacher showed up seconds later, but Gracie was still frozen in mortified disbelief.
Later that day, during group discussion in class, she whispered the whole embarrassing story to her friends. And by lunch, she’d sent them as messengers to deliver the breakup.
“Tell him it’s over,” she said. “Immediately.”
Now, several years later, she could laugh about it. But standing in that train cabin beside Micah, hearing the words just friends... yeah. That old ache came back.
Only this time, it felt different.
Because this time, her heart was really in it.
Home for the Holidays
Valencia never felt warmer.
Gracie stepped off the train into the kind of Spanish sunshine that wrapped around your skin like a welcome-home hug. The air was soft, the breeze just right, and everywhere she looked—orange trees. Her favorite fruit! They lined the roads, crowding backyards, scenting the sky. It was like the land itself had missed her.
This was home. Spain. Where her childhood memories were painted in bright colors and familiar sounds. Where even the dust smelled like comfort. And after hearing Micah’s gentle “Not yet,” Gracie didn’t need deep thoughts or clarity.
She needed family. Laughter. Warmth. A kitchen full of chaos and a couch that smelled like home.
Her mom, of course, was a walking checklist. “Did you brush your teeth on the train? Do you still have your purse? You didn’t lose your Bible, right?”
Gracie laughed. “Hi, Mom.”
Her dad grinned from the background, eyes twinkling. “There’s my babycakes.”
Home smelled like favorite meal, chicken noodle and masked potatoes, and something sweet baking in the oven—probably her mom’s famous brownies. Hopefully minus the nuts. Gracie had dropped enough hints throughout the years to write a song about it.
The house was alive with sound. Spanish game shows on full blast, the crackle of a gospel record spinning on the turntable, and the occasional clatter from the kitchen as her six-year-old brother, Kenny, “helped” by sticking a spoon into everything.
Their dad sat in his favorite chair, quiet as always, just soaking it in. Occasionally he’d toss out a dry one-liner that cracked them all up without him even cracking a smile.
Meanwhile, the real show was in the kitchen.
Gracie and her mom kept up a steady stream of mock commercials while watching her mom cook. “Introducing garlic-stuffed olives—now in a size large enough to ruin everyone's breath for days!” Gracie would shout in a fake German accent. Or she’d start narrating the steps in broken Deutsch from school, causing her mom to double over with laughter.
“Gracie Rae, what are you saying?”
“I don’t know,” she’d laugh. “But I’m pretty sure I just asked the onions if they loved me.”
Gracie followed her mom like a golden retriever those three weeks—soaking in every scent, every spoon stir, every moment.
She’d decided it was time to learn how to cook—like, really cook. And what better place to start than the biggest meal of the year? Christmas dinner.
Her mom handed her mashed potatoes and gravy duty, saying it was a good place to begin. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” played softly in the background as they got to work in the kitchen, the smells of holiday comfort already filling the air. But in true Gracie fashion, she couldn’t resist adding her signature mischievous touch: food coloring. Because nothing says holiday cheer like red mashed potatoes and green gravy.
Her dad, on the other hand, couldn’t quite get past the green gravy and red mashed potatoes.
Her mom tried to keep a straight face—but when the cranberry sauce started blending in, the whole plate looked like something cooked in Grinch’s kitchen.
“Are we eating Elf leftovers again?” Her dad asked with a raised eyebrow giving his plate a long, solemn look.
“It’s festive!” Gracie said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
He didn’t even blink. “It’s deeply unsettling.”
The holidays were full of those moments. Days packed with family games, fun traditions, and hilarious chaos—especially when it came to meals. Like the New Year’s Eve they spent with a local family from their church. In Spain, there were no honey-glazed hams or turkey dinners like you’d expect back in the States. You never quite knew what you were walking into.
And that night? Gracie walked straight into a nightmare.
When they arrived, she’d expected something relatively normal—maybe roast chicken and patatas bravas or even better, paella with crusty French bread.
What she wasn’t expecting… was a full cow’s head staring back at her from the center of the dining table.
She froze mid-step. Her mom caught her eye with the wide-eyed do not say a word look, which only made the panic rising in Gracie’s throat harder to swallow.
Leaning in, barely above a whisper, Gracie muttered, “Mom… what exactly is there to eat on a cow’s head?”
Her mom, calm as ever, started listing it off like she was reciting a recipe.
“Well, the eyeballs. The brain. The tongue. The cheek…”
Gracie blinked. “The what now?”
She felt her face drain of all color as her stomach plotted its escape plan.
Then—just past the cow’s left ear—she spotted her way out: a platter of golden Spanish tortillas, thick and eggy, full of potatoes and blissfully brain-free.
Thank you, Jesus, she thought. Tonight, I will be eating potatoes and pretending that cow and I never made eye contact.
Spain was more than where she lived.
It was her heartbeat. Her backdrop. Her rhythm.
And in this warm little whirlwind of family, food, and faith, Gracie let herself breathe.
She didn’t realize how much she’d needed it until her feet hit the tile floor, and her heart whispered, This is where you remember who you are.
Not Like the Other Girls
Coming back to BFA after Christmas break felt like jumping into a fast-moving river—familiar, cold, and pulling you forward whether you were ready or not.
Classes kicked into full swing. Snow iced the windows. And Gracie… she settled right back into the rhythm.
Her favorite hiding spot was The Web—a creepy old bar tucked in the basement of the dorm, converted into a student lounge with mismatched couches and a weird wrought iron spider’s web still clinging to the wall. This became Gracie's getaway.
Sometimes she’d sneak down there, pop in a disco tape, and dance like nobody was watching—until the sound of footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Then came the frantic tape switch to Amy Grant, a wild attempt to flatten her hair, and a breathless grin like she hadn’t just spun through half of “Stayin’ Alive.” If anyone walked in, she’d shrug and say, “Just rehearsing for the dorm talent show… cardio style.”
But something else was creeping in, too.
Gracie had always felt different than the other girls. Bigger. Thicker. Like she took up just a little more space than was allowed.
She didn’t know exactly when the lie began—the one that whispered, this is why boys don’t like you. Maybe it was the way the guys she liked never liked her back. Or maybe it was watching the thinner girls get all the attention in school. Whatever the reason, it stuck.
Never mind that she’d been voted “Prettiest Girl in Jr. High” two years in a row.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that it didn’t matter if she had a pretty face—her body was the dealbreaker.
By 10th grade, when her family had moved back to the States for one year, the ache of not fitting in grew louder. The culture was different. The pressure was heavy. And food became comfort.
She gained thirty pounds that year.
And one afternoon, she sat on the edge of her bed, angry tears streaming down her cheeks, pounding her legs with both fists.
“Why do you have to be so big?” she cried.
It was a breaking point. A moment seared into her memory that she never told anyone about.
Eventually, her parents—gentle and loving—got her connected with a sweet, no-nonsense nutritionist who helped her learn how to fuel her body with balance and grace. It helped. But the inner narrative never fully shifted.
And so, at the start of her second semester back at BFA, she made a quiet resolution: It’s time to lose some weight.
It began innocently enough. Daily workouts. Cutting sugar. Grabbing a few friends after class to lead aerobics in The Web—Gracie in the front, counting like Jane Fonda’s long-lost niece.
But soon, it became more than a goal.
It became a quiet obsession.
The pounds came off quickly. Too quickly. Her jeans fit looser. Her face thinner. People started noticing.
Even her dorm parents.
Concerned, they sent her to the local doctor.
After a basic check-up and a too-long pause, he looked at her with raised brows and said, “If you lose any more weight, you’ll become anorexic.”
Gracie blinked. “But I still weigh 156.”
To her, that number sounded anything but thin.
But what she didn’t understand was that for her frame, that was already too low. Her body was waving a white flag, and she hadn’t even seen it.
She walked out of that appointment quiet.
Confused and disappointed.
And for the first time, maybe a little scared.
But of course, in true Gracie style—she didn’t tell anyone. She just went back to her dorm. Back to The Web. Back to spinning tapes and dancing hard enough to forget anything she couldn’t find words for.
And still—there was Micah.
Something about him was just… different.
He never looked at her the way she looked at herself. He didn’t seem to notice that she wasn’t a size 4 like most of the other girls. She was a size 11. Fuller. Thicker. Real.
But when she was with Micah, she never felt like “too much.”
He didn’t see the number on the scale.
He saw her.
Her laughter. Her worship. Her kindness. Her passion for God. The way she lost herself in music. The way she lit up when she talked about things that mattered. The way she made people feel safe just by being herself.
And in a world where she’d spent years trying to shrink herself to fit in, Micah’s quiet attention made her feel… known.
Seen.
And while she didn’t know what the rest of that school year held—what she did know was this:
She wasn’t the same girl who stepped off that plane in September.
Not anymore.