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| The Last Cup |
On the brink of divorce, Charity and Nelson are challenged to spend just fifteen minutes a day talking—with no distractions. Through coffee, scripture, and tears, God begins restoring what they feared was lost. Let the story speak to your heart—scroll down to begin.
The air in Pastor Freeman’s office was thick with unspoken resentment—and the sound of two people talking at each other, not to each other.
“I’m just saying,” Nelson snapped, adjusting his cufflinks like armor, “we’re going in circles. She won’t listen, and every little thing turns into a crisis.”
Charity leaned forward in her chair, arms crossed tight. “Oh, so I’m the problem now? Nelson, I ask for one evening a week without your laptop, and suddenly I’m ‘nagging.’”
“I have deadlines, Charity. Not everyone clocks out at three with construction-paper butterflies!”
Pastor Freeman didn’t flinch. He simply watched them, hands folded over his Bible, expression unreadable but kind.
Charity scoffed, voice cracking. “You know what, never mind. This was a waste of time. We’ve been pretending for months—trying to pray through something that feels dead.”
Nelson stood halfway. “Maybe it is dead.”
That’s when Pastor Freeman finally spoke. His voice was calm, but carried the weight of years spent guiding broken things toward healing.
“Sit down, both of you.”
They hesitated, then obeyed.
Pastor Freeman reached for the well-worn Bible on his desk, flipping pages slowly. “You know what God does best with dead things?” he asked, eyes still on the pages.
Neither of them answered.
“He resurrects them.”
The room stilled.
“Marriage isn’t held together by sparks or schedules,” he said. “It’s held together by choices. Daily ones. Small ones. And right now, you’re both choosing self-preservation over connection.”
Charity looked away, blinking fast.
Nelson’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
“So here’s what I want you to do,” Pastor Freeman continued. “Starting tomorrow, spend fifteen minutes together each morning. No phones. No TV. Just coffee and conversation.”
Nelson raised a brow. “That’s it? Talk?”
Charity folded her arms again. “What if we don’t have anything to say?”
“Then sit in the silence,” the pastor said simply. “Let it speak to you. Silence isn’t always empty. Sometimes, it’s where God whispers loudest.”
Nelson exhaled, skeptical. “Pastor, with all due respect—this feels… small. Trivial.”
“Funny,” Pastor Freeman said, offering a smile. “Jesus fed five thousand with five loaves and two fish. God tends to work miracles through small things.”
Neither spoke.
The pastor closed his Bible and stood. “Do it for three weeks. Just fifteen minutes a day. Give God that much room, and see what happens.”
Charity looked at Nelson. Nelson looked back.
And somehow, in that quiet, they both nodded—reluctantly, but together.
The next day, Charity stirred her coffee with the absentminded rhythm of someone used to silence.
The morning was too quiet. The kind that hums not with peace, but with tension—the quiet of conversations left unsaid, of rooms echoing with what once was laughter. Across the kitchen table sat her husband, Nelson, face buried behind his tablet, pretending to read financial news. Charity knew better. The man hadn’t absorbed a number since January.
She reached for the sugar, and their fingers brushed. Both pulled back like strangers.
Six months ago, they’d whispered dreams over this very table. Now, even breathing together felt like a task too big to bear.
Day one. Coffee hot. Hearts cold. Fifteen minutes of nothing but each other.
Ten minutes passed before Nelson finally set down the tablet.
“How was school yesterday?” he asked, voice hoarse.
Charity blinked. “Good. We did a unit on kindness. One of the kids said being kind is ‘letting someone go first even when you really want to win.’”
Nelson chuckled, the sound dry but genuine. “Sounds like your class is smarter than half the boardroom.”
She smiled. A flicker. A single light switched back on.
By day five, the silence was no longer a wall, but a hallway.
“I read Psalm 34 this morning,” Charity said, tracing the rim of her mug. “It says, ‘The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.’”
Nelson looked up from his cup. “Guess that makes us excellent candidates.”
She laughed—a real one this time. “You think?”
“Pretty sure we’ve both been crushed more than a soda can this year.”
They talked about the miscarriage. The fights. The nights spent sleeping back to back. They didn’t fix everything—not yet—but they named the wounds out loud. Naming was the beginning of healing.
By the second week, they no longer watched the clock.
They stayed long after the fifteen minutes. Their mugs sat empty, refilled, and emptied again. They read scripture aloud, swapped memories like trading cards, and even debated the proper way to make a sandwich.
“I’m just saying,” Nelson grinned, “peanut butter first, then jelly. It’s logical.”
“You’re a banker, not a chef,” Charity teased. “And you’re wrong.”
He feigned offense, then leaned over and brushed a kiss to her temple—a simple touch that sent a ripple through her chest.
She closed her eyes.
She had missed him. Not just the man he had been—but the man God was still forming him to be.
One rainy Tuesday, Charity brought out a chipped ceramic mug with painted sunflowers.
“This was from our honeymoon,” she said. “Remember the café in Leavenworth?”
He took it in his hands. “It was snowing. You insisted on walking back to the inn even though your shoes were soaked.”
“You gave me your socks.”
“And got frostbite.”
They laughed until they cried.
On the final day of the challenge, the kitchen was filled with music—soft gospel humming in the background, the smell of cinnamon and strong coffee curling through the air.
Nelson slid a small box across the table.
Charity eyed it, wary but curious.
Inside was a simple gold ring, nestled beside a folded note.
Let’s not just keep talking.
Let’s keep choosing.
Every day. Like this. One small moment at a time.
Will you renew your yes—with me?
She looked up, heart pounding.
He stood and knelt before her, voice thick.
“I never stopped loving you. I just forgot how to show it. I want to try again. Not back to what we were—but forward to what we can be. With God. With grace.”
Tears blurred her vision. She cupped his face in her hands.
“I never stopped hoping,” she whispered. “Yes. I’ll renew my yes.”
That evening, after the sun dipped low over Seattle’s skyline, they sat together holding hands and sipping one last cup of coffee.
Not the last ever—but the last of the challenge. A symbol of what fifteen minutes can become when offered to God.
As the steam rose between them, they bowed their heads in prayer.
“Thank you, Lord,” Charity whispered. “For the silence. For the words. For restoring what we thought was gone.”
Nelson added, “And for this table, this cup… this woman.”
They opened their eyes, eyes that saw each other anew.
Outside, the city moved on—unchanged. But inside, two hearts beat again in rhythm, warmed by grace and the soft clink of a coffee cup.
