Drew Starkey Imagines

Easter Sunday

The Carolina sun was already spilling golden light through the gauzy white curtains of your bedroom window when your alarm chimed softly. Easter Sunday had arrived — one of your favorite days of the year. The air felt fresh with a sense of renewal, and the sky outside was a delicate shade of pastel blue, dotted with the occasional cotton-candy cloud.

You slid out of bed, your bare feet touching the cool hardwood floors as you moved to the closet where your Easter dress hung waiting. It was new, something light and flirty — an aqua blue mini dress speckled with delicate white blossoms, complete with ruffles along the hem and bodice. The dainty spaghetti straps gave it a soft, feminine touch, and the way the skirt swished made you feel like springtime in motion. You paired it with white strappy heels and simple gold jewelry, the look effortlessly bright and joyful — perfect for Easter Sunday.

After doing your hair and makeup you walked to put your dress on.

Just then your phone buzzed with a text.

Rafe: "Sunshine, I'm outside. You ready to go praise the Lord?"
You laughed softly, heart swelling at how he always found a way to make you smile. A year ago, that sentence would've sounded like a joke coming from Rafe Cameron. But not anymore. Not since the two of you had started growing — together, and in your faith.

You added perfume, strapped on your heels, and gave yourself one last final look in the mirror before grabbing your bible and heading down the stairs.

⸻

Rafe was leaning against his truck, dressed in a white long sleeve button-up tucked into khaki colored slacks. His hair was neatly swept back, and his usual bad-boy confidence was softened by the warm grin he gave you as you stepped outside.

"You look like spring itself," he said, pulling you in for a gentle kiss on the cheek, mindful of your lipgloss.

"You clean up nice, Cameron," you teased, slipping your hand into his as you both got into the truck.

The drive to the church was quiet in the best way — windows cracked slightly to let the scent of blooming azaleas drift in, fingers laced across the center console. Rafe's thumb rubbed slow circles on your hand, a small gesture that said everything.

⸻

The church sat nestled beneath a canopy of pink dogwood trees, their petals drifting like confetti as families filed inside. The parking lot buzzed with laughter, little girls in frilly dresses chasing each other, parents clutching coffee cups, and grandmothers in wide-brimmed hats pinning corsages to their husbands' lapels.

Inside, the atmosphere was bright and welcoming — clean white walls, tall windows letting in streams of natural light, and simple floral arrangements of lilies and tulips near the stage. A large wooden cross stood at the center, draped in white to represent the risen of Christ. Soft worship music played gently in the background as people took their seats, the air filled with the subtle scent of fresh flowers and brewed coffee from the lobby. It felt peaceful — holy, but not heavy. Just a place where everyone could come as they were.

Rafe placed a protective hand on your lower back as you led the way to the row of seats where both your families sat — your mom already chatting softly with Ward and Rose, who were surprisingly subdued this morning. Since Rafe had been making changes in his life, his parents had started following suit — slowly, but surely. There was less yelling, more family dinners. You liked to think maybe some of that had started here, in this very church.

As you took your seats, the worship band took the stage, guitars and keys blending into a soft melody as the lead vocalist began to sing — the lyrics projected on the screen above the cross, inviting everyone to lift their voices in praise. You glanced over at Rafe. He was watching the stage, eyes serious, hand gripping yours just a little tighter as the music swelled.

The pastor stepped forward, a kind older man with a warm smile and a voice that carried without effort.

"Today, we gather not just to celebrate a story," he began, "but to celebrate a promise. That death is not the end. That hope is never wasted. That love has the final word."

Rafe's jaw tightened, and he sat up straighter.

The pastor continued, recounting the story of the empty tomb — how the stone had been rolled away, how Mary Magdalene had run to the disciples in disbelief, how Jesus had walked again, conquered the grave.

"God didn't just bring His Son back to life," the pastor said, voice deep and steady. "He brought us back to life. Every day, we are invited into that resurrection. Into a new way of being. A new heart."

You felt Rafe's hand shake slightly in yours. You looked over and saw his eyes glistening, his gaze fixed forward, as if he were truly seeing — not just listening — for the first time.

When the choir began "Because He Lives," Rafe didn't sing, but you felt his heart in the way he held you a little closer.

As the congregation bowed their heads in prayer, Rafe leaned over and whispered, "Thank you... for helping me believe this stuff is real. For showing me it's not too late to be... better."

Your eyes filled with quiet tears as you nodded. You squeezed his hand, resting your head on his shoulder for a moment.

"And for helping them too," he added, eyes flicking toward his parents, who sat a few seats ahead — their hands linked, heads bowed.

⸻

After the service, the air outside buzzed with joy. The courtyard outside the church was set up for Easter brunch, with long tables draped in pastel linens, vases of tulips, and trays of colorful finger foods that looked almost too pretty to eat. Mini quiches, fruit tarts, deviled eggs with paprika dusted on top, and crystal pitchers of mimosas glinting in the sun.

You and Rafe found a spot beneath a tree, its branches heavy with blossoms. As you sipped your mimosa, he reached out to tuck a flower behind your ear.

"I like this version of us," he murmured, eyes never leaving yours. "Happy. Peaceful. Real."

You smiled, brushing your fingers down the front of his shirt. "Me too. You've come so far, Rafe. I'm proud of you."

He looked down, his cheeks coloring slightly — a rare sight.

"I didn't think I could change," he admitted. "But you... you saw something in me. And I didn't want to let that go. I didn't want to let you go."

From across the lawn, your mom waved you both over to take a photo, calling your names like she had when you were kids. Rafe groaned playfully, but obliged, wrapping an arm around your waist as you both smiled for the camera. Your dads clinked glasses nearby, laughing about something, while Sarah chased one of the neighborhood toddlers in a cloud of giggles.

It was... perfect. The kind of moment you'd hold onto for years. Soft, safe, and sacred.

Later, you sat on a picnic blanket as Rafe fed you a bite of lemon tart, wiping the powdered sugar from the corner of your lips with his thumb.

"Next year," he said thoughtfully, "I want to help lead the sunrise service. Maybe share something. Like a testimony."

You blinked, surprised. "Really?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I want people to know what's possible. That even someone like me..." He paused, looking around at the joy surrounding him, "...can be saved."

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and sweet, your heart bursting with love and gratitude.

Because this wasn't just a holiday. It was the beginning of a new season — not just of spring, but of life, love, and everything yet to bloom.