Reflections of a Faithful Heart

Mondays and Me

The alarm didn’t beep; it was a gradual, gentle light dawn filled the room with a soft, amber glow. Grace stirred, nestled under a duvet of Hungarian goose down, and reached out a hand. The other side of the king-sized bed was empty and cold, remembering Marcus sleeps in the guest room, she got up. Rubbing her eyes, she checked her phone which already had a good morning text message from her Dad with the attached link of her morning devotion. she smiled her dad was so religious with these morning devotions she couldn't when he started but they've become a family tradition.

After a quick reply to her dad text, she got out of bed and began her morning routine. Quiet time with the Holy Spirit first, then gym with her trusty Afro gospel workout playlist and comfiest set of gym wear. The best way to start any Monday morning.

After her workout she found Marcus in the sprawling kitchen, the morning sun blazing a path across the gold marble countertops. He was in his workout clothes, a sleek black athleisure set, and was already pouring her first coffee. The machine was a gleaming Italian marvel that grinded, tamped, and steamed with a quiet, hum.

“For my favorite therapist,” he said, handing her the heavy, bone china mug. His smile was easy, but she saw the slight tension around his eyes, he was doing it again, acting like last night did not happen. She decided to play along “My favorite barista,” she replied, accepting the kiss he placed on her cheek along with the coffee. The rich, nutty aroma was her true wake-up call. She took that first, perfect sip, her eyes closing for a brief second of pure Joy. God sure did his thing with coffee she thought as she made her way back upstairs to get ready for work.

Her morning was silent. She padded across the heated floors of the en suite bathroom to shower in the massive, rain shower. Wrapped in a plush, white towel, she stood before her walk-in closet—a curated space of neutral tones and quiet textures. She chose a pair of tailored taupe trousers and a cashmere-blend turtleneck, the fabric whispering against her skin. The only jewelry she put on was the watch: A gift from her parents for graduating top of her class. A reminder of where she came from, and the expectations she had chosen to redefine.

She found Marcus again on the terrace, his phone in hand, scrolling through. if she could guess, it was the stock market news. “Any promising ones?” she asked, coming to stand beside him.

“Nah ,’” he said, trying to keep his tone light. He slipped his phone into his pocket as if embarrassed by it. “You look beautiful.” He changed the topic.

“Thank you, Marcus.” She leaned into him, and he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. They stood in silence for a moment, watching the city wake up. She could feel the restless energy in him, the frustration he worked so hard to hide.

“I was thinking,” she said softly. “I have a few friends who are experts in Forex trading. I could introduce you to some of them to take some courses and mentorship.”

It was an offer of escape, a chance to get better at something he's passionate about. She saw the hesitation, the pride warring with the desire to say yes. He hated that she grew up wealthy and everything was handed to her on a silver platter, always thinking so highly of herself, while he has to struggle to take care of his mom and sister.

“Let’s play it by ear,” he said, finally. “Depending on how the market go today.”

She nodded, understanding the delicate geography of his pride. “Okay. I’ll be praying for all to go well.”

She gave him one last tap, her hand lingering on his cheek, before collecting her tote and her keys.

The elevator descended directly into the building’s parking garage. Her car, a sleek, obsidian-black SUV, waited in its reserved spot. It greeted her with a soft, welcoming chime as she approached. The door closed with a satisfying thud, sealing her in a cocoon of silent, leather-scented calm.

She took a deep breath, placing her hands on the heated steering wheel. For a moment, she was just Grace, in a beautiful car. Then she started the engine, a potent purr that echoed in the concrete space, and shifted into drive. The persona of Grace the therapist, the daughter of the king of kings, calm and capable, bold and audacious, began to settle over her like a second skin as she pointed the car toward the city and her waiting clients.

At the office Grace's assistant Olivia had already set out her breakfast, wheat bread sandwich and green tea. It was the one moment of pure, uncomplicated peace Grace allowed herself before the day began. Standing in her office, now silent but soon to be a confessional for other people’s hearts, she watched the September sun gild the edges of the oak tree outside her window.

Her space was a careful negotiation. The degrees from Duke and a certificate from the Gottman Institute hung prominently on one wall. On the small, uncluttered bookshelf, between texts on attachment theory and cognitive behavioral therapy, a single, well-worn leather Bible sat spine-out, its title faded to gold leaf. It was a presence, not a proclamation. She’d learned the hard way that a cross on the wall or a verse on the desk, could feel like a judgment to a client nervously unraveling a story of infidelity or a secret addiction. Her faith was the foundation, but her practice was built on the sacred ground of unconditional love and positive regard.

Her first client, Sarah, was a regular. A sharp, successful software developer who could debug a million lines of code but couldn’t decipher the signals from the man she was dating. Grace’s notes were open on her iPad, but she gave Sarah her full attention, her hands curled around her warm mug.

“He said he ‘needs space to figure out his priorities,’” Sarah said, her voice tight, picking at a thread on the cuff of her blazer. “Which is just man-code for ‘I’m not that into you,’ right? It’s the universal disclaimer.