Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father(84)

Leaning my head against the window, I think of everything else on my Pre-Sunday list. I need to talk with Roland, get the scoop on media crap from Jahara, and, most importantly…I need to call my stepfather. And soon.





Peering from backstage at 10:05 am on the Sunday, I’m unsurprised to see a standing-room only crowd. I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt before running them through my hair. These waves need no help from the humidity of my skin.

The worship team is in the middle of their second song, and the room is filled with electricity. While I’d like to think it’s from the music alone, I know it’s not. Roland sent an eloquent and loving letter to the New Life congregation, assuring them that services would run business-as-usual, and stated he was relying on their support and respect for privacy during this time. He went on to say that while he couldn’t control the actions of the members of the church, he would thoroughly thank them in advance for not speaking to members of the press—allowing him the time and space to do so in an appropriate manner.

In the intervening twenty-four hours, people have seemed to listen. I spent the last day and a half in Roland’s house with Mom. Dan is traveling again, so I had to hold my conversation with him entirely by phone. I was hoping he wouldn’t be here, actually. It’s going to be hard enough as it is. Always supportive, Dan offered me nothing but strength in going forward.

“Just guard your heart,” he said on the phone last night. A funny phrase coming from his lips, but advice I’ll take, nonetheless.

Peering over my shoulder, I see Mom in the front row, next to Jahara. The tense, but melancholy, look on her face tells me she knows what the next step is, even though we haven’t directly talked about it. Regardless of how the past couple of days have unfolded, these next steps were ordered with my birth. And she knows that. The inevitable is coming to fruition and I hope to hurt her as little as possible.

Roland knows I want to speak today, and I gave him a very loose outline, just so he wouldn’t feel sidelined. I have recent experience with how that feels. Obviously, he’s supportive, but I can’t help but notice a nervous stiffness in his mouth as we stand next to each other in the dim lighting of the backstage area.

I’ve been receiving texts over the last hour from my friends as they arrived and found their seats—ones I had specially reserved—waiting for them. Craning my neck just slightly, keeping my presence back here hidden, I see them. Asher, Bridgette, Silas, Eden, Jonah, and Matt, all sitting front and center just to the left of Mom and Roland’s tight-lipped assistant. They look as nervous and uncertain as I feel, but when my eyes settle on Jonah and Matt, my purpose is renewed.

We’re counting on you. To stand up for us.

The plea in Matt’s otherwise rough exterior has spurred the revolution in my heart.

“Hey,” I whisper to Roland as the third song comes to a close, “did Jesus ever call God his birth father?”

I know the answer in my heart, I think, but should check before I open my mouth.

Roland tilts his head to the side. “No.”

My heart flutters a bit against my clammy skin. “K.” I take a deep breath.

After the associate pastor utters his post-song prayer and prepares to introduce Roland, Roland reaches out through the darkness and grabs my hand, giving it a squeeze. “Are you ready for this?” he asks, as if he knows every thought in my head.

Looking up at him, I allow a small chuckle and a smile. I shake my head. “No. Let’s go.” I take a step toward my new life, tugging on Roland’s hand slightly before letting it go.

Roland and I cross the stage together, and I stand with my hands clasped in front of me, my head bowed as Roland gives his opening prayer.

“Lord Jesus, thank you. The stories we would write for ourselves pale in comparison to the plans you have for us. Thank you for being our port in the storm, Lord, when the outside world seems to make no sense at all. Thank you for always making sense. Even when our flesh wants to riot…”

I zone out in the middle of his petition to offer one in my mind of my own.

God, please. Just…please. Don’t let me screw this up. I trust that you’ve told me to do this. That you told me through Matt that this is what needs to be done. I have an opportunity and I don’t want it, but I believe you’re asking me to take it. Also, please don’t let me throw up.

“Amen.” Roland finishes the prayer and, as we discussed, he moves to the side, offering me the podium.

I wonder if walking on water would feel this wobbly. I look to Mom, who offers an encouraging nod, then to my friends, who look the spectrum from confused to supportive. Matt anchors the latter end with a sly thumbs-up seemingly intended for only my eyes.

Lifting my chin, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer number of eyes staring at me, some who have heard about me several times a year throughout most of their lives, and some who just learned of me and my existence. How Roland faces all of these people several times a week is beyond me, but I imagine when you’re not about to strip away your entire identity, the crowd can feel energizing and less like a mob.

I clear my throat and close my eyes for a moment. Opening them, I take a deep breath. “Good morning,” I say shakily in to the mic.

Clearing my throat again to still my vocal chords, I give it another try. In a split second, I see my entire life, through my few months on the Carter University campus flash before my eyes. Never in a million, billion years did I think I’d end up here. Saying this.