Author’s Note: A Little Love, A Little Rewrite
Hey friends—
Last week I shared Chapter 5 with you, but after it launched, I found myself re-reading it (as I tend to do in those late-night writing hours)—and I realized it needed a little more love and attention.
So… thank you for your grace as I continue to learn the ropes of writing my very first fiction story from the ground up. Chapter 5 needed some extra care it deserves—with fresh updates, deeper dialogue, and moments that better carry us into Chapter 6 coming next week.
This Part One series—Wildflower Years—will wrap up with a grand finale at Chapter 10 this July. Can you believe we’re getting that close?
So here we go again—Chapter 5, the rewrite. Thanks for sticking with me.
Let’s dive in.
—Tracee
Letters, Go-Karts, and Goodbyes: The Heart That Stayed
The ceiling fan spun above me, stirring the thick Valencia air as I lay on my bed, shoes still on, suitcase still zipped. I had only been home a few hours, but my heart was still lingering in the German dorm halls we’d just emptied out.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Micah hugged me that morning outside the school vans. The sun had barely crested over the trees, and everyone was crying or laughing or trying not to show either one. But he found me in the chaos, like he always did.
“Have a good summer, Gracie Rae,” he had said, eyes locked on mine.
“You too,” she whispered, already missing him.
It was the kind of goodbye that didn’t feel final. It held a quiet promise—August. Gracie was supposed to visit him and his parents in Benidorm before school started again. Just thinking about it made her stomach flutter.
She sat up slowly, peeling her sweatshirt over her head and tossing it onto the chair. The sounds of Spain filtered through her open window—someone’s radio, kids yelling in the street, the hum of scooters flying by. But her room felt oddly still, like the pause between pages.
Her journal was the only thing she’d pulled out from her suitcase. Reaching for it now, she flipped past pages scribbled with half-written prayers, late-night thoughts she didn’t dare speak aloud, and dorm bloopers she never wanted to forget. Her eyes landed on a familiar entry—the kind that made her laugh before she even finished reading it.
There it was.
The dorm kidnapping.
One chilly night in early fall, the girls in her dorm—with full permission from their dorm parents—had “kidnapped” one of the guys from across the street dorm and tied him to the spare bunk bed. He fought valiantly to escape, but in the chaos, one of his high-top Nike sneakers (the really cool ones all the basketball guys wore) had gotten left behind.
And Gracie, naturally, couldn’t let the moment pass without adding her own flair.
Instead of simply giving it back, she’d convinced the girls to bake a massive chocolate cake and bury the shoe in the center—frosting and all. The next night, they carried it over with straight faces, pretending it was just a kind dorm gesture.
The guys were touched. “Wow, thanks, girls! This is so nice…”
But then came the first slice.
One of them bust out laughing. Another gagged. The room exploded in laughter as they unearthed the surprise—layers of sugary frosting covering a very stinky, very used basketball shoe.
Gracie snorted now, laughing out loud at the memory.
She missed everything already. The routine. The people. Micah.
Summer, Espadrilles, and Bobo the Clown
By ten a.m. —about the time Gracie finally rolled out of bed on summer break—the Valencia sidewalks were already hot enough to scorch a pair of espadrilles, and the neighborhood bakery had long since sold out of its fresh-baked French bread. From her room she could hear her mom humming in the kitchen through her favorite hymn, “I come to the garden alone….” That was the only way Gracie ever learned stateside hymns; Spanish churches didn’t sing them.
It helped that her mom was also her best friend. Valencia still felt new—Gracie had lived here only a few months before heading off to boarding school last year—so summer friends were slim to none. The longest she’d ever lived anywhere was Zaragoza: five sun-bleached years of neighborhood-pool marathons that turned her skin so dark no one guessed she spent the rest of the year as white as Wonder Bread.
And even though she was an unstoppable extrovert, Gracie had always been able to entertain herself. Imagination was her super-power. Case in point: when the Millers first moved to Las Palmas back in ’76, six-year-old Gracie arrived with an invisible companion named Bobo the Clown. Bobo had his own chair at the dinner table and a reserved spot in the back seat. Her older sister, Liz, loved to torment him—flopping down on his “saved” seat just to hear Gracie wail, “Mom! Liz sat on Bobo again!”
Bobo filled the gap until Spanish words and real friends came along, bringing all the color and silliness her little heart craved.
Those Las Palmas and Zaragoza memories were layered with wonder, play, and belonging. Valencia, by contrast, felt like a comma in her story—an in-between place. Still, Gracie wasn’t the sulking type. She jumped out of bed, slid on her favorite shorts and t-shirt, and headed for the kitchen to see what her mom was stirred up for breakfast.
Eggs and bacon sounded good right about now.
New Wardrobe
As Gracie came down the stairs, fabric draped across every surface like a mini sewing tornado had hit. Her mom was at the dining room table again sewing up a storm.
“Good morning, Gracie girl,” she called, peering over the top of her glasses, “I just want you to know that if you grow another inch, I’m going to need scaffolding just to hem your skirts.”
Gracie giggled grabbing a piece of bacon out of the skillet, as she glanced at the latest conference schedule on the kitchen counter. “I can’t help it! That German bread grows tall girls, mom.”
Her mom held up a half-finished sundress, turning it side to side with a playful squint. “This one might lean a little to the left. Just walk confidently as you lean and no one will notice.”
Gracie laughed. “That’s what you said about my last haircut.”
“Shu-up,” her mom playfully grinned, “I’m basically running a boutique here.”
Sewing had become her superpower. Clothes in Spain weren’t cheap, especially for missionary families on a budget, and instead of dragging Gracie all over the city to find something they could afford, she just made it herself. By the time Gracie zipped her suitcase up for the upcoming conference, she had a full new lineup of outfits—all handmade, each one stitched with love (and a touch of floral trim).
The missionary conference in Lloret de Mar was just around the corner, and Gracie was ready. They’d been attending every other summer since 1981, and it was always a highlight—sun, sea, spiritual refreshment, and all her favorite MKs in one place.
Usually, she was nothing but excited. But this year, her heart was carrying Micah like a quiet, constant thread. Not heavy. Just present.
The Conference
Three days later after a four and a half hour drive, they pulled into the hotel parking lot in Lloret de Mar, Gracie felt something shift - like a sweet exhale from her heart. The hotel looked exactly as she remembered it: white stucco walls, pale blue shutters, a beautiful, winding entrance lined with flowering hedges and swaying palms, and the most amazing hot chocolate you ever had in your life. The kind that made you want to sneak back to the breakfast bar three times.
She knew the place like the back of her hand.
To Gracie’s thrill, Cindy and Meredith were already there.
Cindy, an MK from Paris, had been her best friend since they were ten—the kind of friend who knew your embarrassing stories, your spiritual highs and lows, and Gracie could make laugh until her sides hurt. She spent the summer of ‘83 with her in Paris. Eiffel Tower. Croissant-fueled chaos. Louvre Museum and discovering that the Mona Lisa was no bigger than your annual school portrait. And that unforgettable afternoon when a man threatened to jump off the Eiffel tower while they were on it. (He actually did. Thankfully, construction nets caught him. But still. Who could top that story?)
Meredith, on the other hand, was like a walking espresso shot—fast-talking, full of life, and always carrying something weird in her bag. This year’s lineup included expired Tic Tacs, a melted Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker, and a magazine poster of Ralph Macchio, her current movie star obsession. She could make Gracie laugh until she snorted. And she did—often.
And then there was her brother.
Josh.
Gracie hadn’t seen him in several years. She remembered him clearly though—scrawny, braces-wearing, with the energy of a puppy and the eyes of a kid writing a love poem in his head. He used to follow her around these very conferences. Quiet, hovering, always a few steps away. If she sat on the left side of the auditorium, Josh would somehow end up seated to the right—always watching.
There was that infamous year when all the MKs performed a special choir number for the parents. Three hundred missionaries packed into the room. All the kids faced forward. Except Josh.
Josh turned sideways and sang directly at her.
Gracie had been both mortified and weirdly flattered but mostly mortified.
Now here he was again—still shorter than her, braces gone, bowl cut improved, but the intensity was the same. That wide-eyed, hope-soaked stare. Like she was a sunrise and he was trying to memorize it.
One of Gracie’s favorite parts—besides the whole “reuniting with the Western Europe MK fam” thing—was the MK morning sessions.
There was something that felt safe about gathering with a room full of other MK’s who just got it. Not fully American. Not fully European. Most of them spoke two or three languages and still didn’t know how to answer the question, “Where are you from?” But when they came together—worshiping with their whole hearts—it felt like home.
So when the strum of the guitar started up with the familiar chords of “I love You, Lord, and I lift my voice…”—Gracie felt it deep in her spirit. This was safe ground. Holy ground. A space where she didn’t have to explain who she was. She could just be.
Sure, there were always the “cool MKs”—the ones who hung out in the back, too polished or too aloof to really lean in. But Gracie had never belonged to that crowd. She gravitated toward the ones who weren’t afraid to worship until their mascara ran. The ones who walked up for prayer without waiting for a signal. The ones who truly wanted Jesus more than anything.
Well…except for that one year in 9th grade. But those days were over and done with.
Evening services were for everyone—MKs, missionary parents, and guest speakers from around the globe. The room would be packed to the brim. If you didn’t get a seat early, you were standing in the back, hoping for a miracle.
Brother Greenaway, the Missionary Director from the States, didn’t even need a microphone. His voice could boom through three stories of stucco walls without any effort. Big John led worship with his full-throttle voice and even fuller-throttle hand gestures. His hands didn’t just raise—they soared like flags in battle.
But the real fun?
That happened after the evening services.
MKs in packs would head down into the cobblestone heart of Lloret de Mar—a bright, buzzing tourist town where the shops stayed open till midnight and the smell of grilled seafood and warm churros danced through the air. Dinner in Spain didn’t happen until 9 or 10 anyway, so it was perfectly normal to sit down for a late-night meal, then wander through souvenir shops, eat more ice cream than your parents needed to know about, and race each other on the go-kart tracks by the beach.
Gracie loved everything about it.
Especially the grilled BBQ chicken they served poolside at the hotel every afternoon. She swore it was the best in the world—smoky, tender, and just the right amount of crispy skin. The afternoons were spent sunbathing or splashing in the water, the same hotel pool where Gracie had been baptized back in 1983. Her parents were beaming that day, and her dad snapped picture after picture, so proud he had one enlarged to hang in their home.
Except…
This was Europe. And in Europe, modesty wasn’t exactly universal.
Let’s just say the background of that beloved baptism photo featured one topless sunbather.
“We died laughing,” Gracie always said. “She was in every picture.”
The Elevator
Just a few days into the conference, Gracie found herself caught in a different kind of drama—one that only missionary kids could cook up.
Cindy, who had recently been asked out by a curly-haired MK from Portugal, pulled Gracie aside with eyes wide and urgent. “You have to help us,” she whispered, glancing around the lobby like a covert agent.
“Help you with what?” Gracie asked, already half-laughing.
“A kiss. Just one. Please. You know how my parents are—we’re never alone.”
“Wait…what?” Gracie blinked. “You want me to be the decoy for a kiss?”
Cindy nodded enthusiastically. “You’re the only one I trust. Plus, you know the elevator trick.”
Of course Gracie knew the elevator trick. Every MK who’d stayed at this hotel more than once did. One of the old back elevators would stop if you pushed the emergency button halfway between floors. And voilà—instant privacy.
Moments later, the three of them were squeezed into the tiny metal box, heartbeats racing like they were smuggling Bibles behind enemy lines. Gracie hit the button just right, and the elevator jolted to a halt between floors.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered.
“I’ll owe you for the rest of my life!” Cindy whispered, then turned to her MK boyfriend, who looked equal parts terrified and thrilled.
The kiss was all of three seconds, but the victory felt cinematic. When the elevator resumed its climb and they spilled out into the hallway, Cindy looked like she had just won the lottery.
Gracie doubled over laughing. “This is so going in my memoir.”
“You don’t have a memoir,” Cindy said, fixing her lipstick.
“Not yet.”
The Heart That Stayed
Hard to imagine the week was going by so fast. Gracie wished she could freeze time. This would be her last European missionary conference, and every part of her wanted to soak it all in. These conferences had been the highlight of her life year after year. But even with all the laughter, late-night go-karting, worship, and poolside grilled chicken—her mind couldn’t help drifting to one person.
Micah.
Every day, every session, every beach walk seemed to have his name quietly tucked into the moment.
She imagined what it would be like if he were there with her. The deep talks they’d have. The way he’d raise his eyebrow in mock challenge before a go-kart race, claiming he was the reigning champion. The prayer times. The laughter. The comfort. Maybe, just maybe, he’d take her to the elevator and sneak a kiss—if he was that kind of guy. But Micah wasn’t. That’s what made him different. That’s what made her heart so tangled up in him.
So, when Josh kept showing up—day after day—Gracie barely noticed him in the way he was hoping she would.
Yes, technically, he was cuter than Micah. But Micah already had her heart, and Gracie was in a waiting season. She believed that with everything in her.
Which meant there was no room for Josh.
But that didn’t stop him.
Three conferences into this long-standing crush, Josh finally worked up the courage. It was Wednesday night, one day before the final service, and everyone would be heading home on Friday.
“Hey, Gracie Rae,” he said, catching up to her near the lobby elevator. “You wanna go go-karting tonight after the service?”
Gracie froze. Her mouth moved faster than her brain. “Sure!”
And instantly regretted it.
She hadn’t meant to say yes—not really. She just didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But now she felt like she’d betrayed her own heart. It wasn’t fair to Josh, and it definitely wasn’t fair to herself.
After the service, Gracie found herself walking numbly to the elevator, then straight to her room. Her stomach was in knots. She sat on the bed. Stood up. Sat again. Looked in the mirror. Paced. And finally crawled under the covers like a fugitive.
She couldn’t do it.
An hour passed. The heat of the Spanish evening made her sweat beneath the blanket, but she didn’t move.
Then the door creaked open.
“Gracie Rae Miller,” her mom said, her voice carrying that soft tone of disappointed mom energy. “You stood that poor boy up?”
“I panicked,” Gracie mumbled from under the blanket.
“You know that boy has liked you since you were ten years old.”
“I know, Mom… I just couldn’t.”
“Well, you sure didn’t make it easy on him. We raised you better than this.”
“I didn’t mean to say yes. I just didn’t want to crush him.”
Her mom sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. “Well, sweetheart… you kinda did. Just… slowly.”
Friday morning came faster than anyone wanted. Goodbyes were already happening in the lobby, in the courtyard, on the steps near the hotel restaurant while grabbing one last morning delicious hot chocolate and freshly baked croissant. MK life was always a cycle of hello and goodbye, but this one felt heavier. Most of Gracie’s friends were her age or older. Graduation loomed, which meant this could be the last time they'd all be together.
Cindy and Meredith were rehashing their latest go-kart drama from the night before—Cindy’s hair had almost caught fire when her kart leaked gas, and she barely missed a full-blown singe. They were still laughing about it when Gracie heard her name.
“Gracie!”
She turned.
Josh.
“I just wanted to ask… would it be okay if we wrote to each other?”
Gracie’s mouth moved faster than her hesitation again. “Yes! You can find my address in the missionary booklet. That’s our current one.”
“Awesome,” he said with a soft smile. “I’ll write you soon.”
And he did.
A few weeks later, a letter arrived—postmarked Brussels, Belgium.
Josh Anderson.
Gracie stared at the envelope, half-smiling, half-nervous.
Well… he didn’t waste any time.
Inside was a carefully handwritten note, the kind that carried effort and hope:
Dear Gracie,
I hope this letter finds you enjoying your summer break. As I briefly told you at the conference, I took this past year off after graduating and have been preaching in our youth services and helping at my dad’s church. I also work at a pizza place now, and I’ve invented a few new combinations that actually made the menu!
This fall, I’ll be starting at the Bible seminary here in Belgium. I really feel called to missions and I’m just asking God to guide every step. I’d love to keep writing once you’re back at school. Would you mind sending me your boarding school address?
Love, Josh
Love, Josh?
Gracie blinked at the last line, unsure how to feel.
The letter was sweet. Thoughtful. And kind.
She wrote back once. A short thank-you, tucked with polite updates and the faint echo of guilt. Then she folded the letter, placed it in her journal, and thought, I’ll send him my school address once I get there.
But she never did.
Josh faded into the background of summer like a song she didn’t choose. One that played softly—uninvited, but harmless.
What Gracie Rae didn’t know—couldn’t have known—was that summer would pass...
but the heart that stayed wouldn’t.