Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father(18)

“Deal,” everyone agrees. Including me. I make sure to eye Joy as I say it, forcing a smile. She offers a tight grin in return. Maybe we just rub each other the wrong way…despite having had zero conversations with each other.

My feet begin moving ahead of my mind, and I find myself exiting the aisle and heading toward the stairs.

“Where you going?” Bridgette asks.

Turning and looking over my shoulder, I say as normally as possible. “I want to thank Pastor Roland for a great sermon.”

“I want to come!” Bridgette shrieks, as if I’ve said I’m getting an autograph from a boy band member.

Joy huffs. “You’re just going to go…talk to him?”

I arch my eyebrow. “He’s just a person, right?” I question, pulling on what I know to be tenants against hero worship in this culture. “I think it would be polite to thank him for welcoming us.”

Her hardened features turn sheepish and she lowers her chin slightly. “You’re right.”

Before I know it, I have a group of four evangelical eighteen-year-olds following me down the stairs to approach Pastor Roland Abbot, lead pastor at New Life Church.

I have to repeat his title in my head to avoid calling him, “Dad.” I’ve never once called him that. Nor do I plan to. But I can rarely be trusted to have control over what flies out of my mouth.

I get that from my mother.

I’ll just go say “hi” like any other student. It’s just a normal day.

Just a normal day in Jesusville. With my televangelist birth father.

My steps quicken the closer we get to the stage. Propelled more by adrenaline than common sense, I weave through faculty, silently note Jonah in the corner of the stage talking up members of the worship band, and slow slightly before I reach Roland. It occurs to me that catching him off guard, surrounded by people who know nothing of our relationship to each other, might not be the wisest move I’ve ever made. I need to give him a second to spot me. To test his poker face before I thank him. For the sermon. On sin.

If telepathy is a real thing, it seems to have its sights set on Roland and me. At the exact moment my feet stop, a few paces back from him, his eyes shoot up at remarkable speed and lock on mine.

Keep it together. Don’t blow this.

I beg God to carry that message to him.

His focus immediately falls back to his conversation, but I notice a tightness in his smile as his Adam’s apple bobs against a hard swallow. His shoulders seem tight as he laughs, but his charisma relaxes him in the blink of an eye. A few seconds pass and he gives each member of the group a friendly handshake before they walk away.

With a long blink and a careful lift of his chin, his smile returns. Dimple and all.

I keep my smile to a grin, not wanting to stand next to him in public and have our genetics blare like neon signs in the faces of my new friends—who likely think I’m just the weird, quiet girl.

Not the weird, quiet, bastard child of their beloved hip pastor.

Bridgette nudges my side softly, leaning down to whisper, “go” in my ear like we’re in seventh grade and she’s daring me to talk to a cute boy.

“Ladies.” Roland nods to the group, avoiding direct eye contact with me it seems. “Gentlemen.”

“Pastor Roland,” I start, extending my hand. “Kennedy Sawyer. We just wanted to thank you for a great sermon.”

“Kennedy,” he says with a nod. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

His hand connects with mine, and it feels like the first time I met him. Firm, warm, and wanting more. A hug, maybe? But we’ve never hugged, and we’re not going to start now.

“It’s a great way to start off the school year—being reminded of the horrors of sin.” I give his hand a slight squeeze and watch for his reaction.

When his brain registers my words he swallows again, maintaining his signature smile while clenching his back teeth. Something in his eyes—my eyes—breaks and flashes of pain for a quick second.

“Well,” he says as he places his other hand on mine in that pastoral way, “thank God for forgiveness.”

I pull my hand away quicker than I intended, and go to stuff it in the back pocket of my jeans. Only, I’m not wearing jeans. I’m wearing a stupid floor-length skirt. Dress code. It’s black, though, and that makes me happy. Still, I’m left awkwardly setting both hands on my hips as Eden slides into position in front of Roland. My cheeks burn as I work over his words.

Stop looking at me, Joy. I see that look. I don’t know what it means, but I see it.

As Roland pleasantly interacts with each member of the group, I watch him. Easy smile. Stellar eye contact. And no hint of secrets. Though, technically, he’s never kept my existence a secret. Just now. When I’m standing three feet away. The daughter he abandoned before she was even born.

Stop it. You aren’t his daughter. He signed papers to make sure of that.

“Enjoy the start of classes tomorrow,” Roland’s voice cuts through the noise of my swirling confusion. “I look forward to seeing some of you at New Life next Sunday.”

“Ten o’clock, right?” Silas asks as he gives Roland a firm shake.

Roland nods. “You got it. There’s a service at eight-thirty am here, too.” He points to the stage.

Last year, the UC realized they were losing their Sunday morning attendance more than they’d counted on when a shiny new pastor started drawing record crowds at New Life. They adjusted their service time and strongly encourage students to attend Sunday services at the UC “to keep connected to the spiritual pulse on campus” and suggest that “for more spiritual food,” we can attend other services in town, which typically begin at ten.