Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(2)

Heck.

“Jesus you are the author of forgiveness. Of Love. In First Corinthians you tell us that love is patient, Lord. That it’s kind. But you also tell us it is not self-seeking, nor is it easily angered. Above all else, Lord God, you tell us love keeps no record of wrongs. That it doesn’t delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth.”

I breathe deeply through my nose. That section of scripture is familiar to me from the handful of weddings I’ve attended. Always used as a way to highlight a couples’ commitment to one another. I’ve not told Roland that I love him. Because I’m not sure I do. I don’t even know if he’s talking about him and me in this prayer. Or about him toward me. Have I done wrong by him? Honestly, I’m too tired and dizzy from the last few days to tease out the motivations behind this public prayer.

Zoning out while Roland finishes his opening petition, I’m somewhat relieved that I don’t see Joy—not wanting to face her while I’m directly in the middle of all of this. Instead, my eyes rest again on Matt, who hasn’t moved his gaze from me since I stepped away from the podium.

Matt Wells.

In the span of a few days, he’s gone from someone I needed by my side in order to attend a Bible study without looking like a complete failure, to my closest ally at Carter University. The largest, most politically embroiled Christian college in the United States. A school that just got a heck of a lot more popular with the revelation that the pastor’s daughter—whose identity was secret—has been a student here for the last two and a half months. Completely under the radar.

Matt certainly put all the pieces in place in short order. His dad, a former pastor, is a friend of Roland’s and currently a victim of pastoral burnout. A subject about which I lack any useful knowledge. Oh, and somehow, Mom knows who he is. I need to remember to get to the bottom of that.

All I know is Matt knew Roland’s “kid” was going to school at Carter. Once the rest of the school found out, thanks to Joy, Matt rescued me. He literally carried me to his dorm and then drove me to Roland’s house as the curious and enthusiastic masses descended on the dorms.

I haven’t seen him in the day-and-a-half since my mom got to town, though. And for a moment I’m desperate for the naiveté I embodied three days ago. When I was the “only one” who knew Roland was my birth father. When I was just the liberal valedictorian from New England with muddled motives for attending CU.

Alas, as I look through the crowd once more, I see as many eyes are on me as are on Roland. My anonymity is long gone, and I have to accept that. I’m Roland Abbot’s daughter. A preacher’s kid trying to get to know her father after a lifetime away from him. In front of the entire nation.

Roland Abbot isn’t just a wildly popular pastor inside the borders of Asheville. He’s an internationally regarded televangelist. Raising money for hospitals and aid centers in Central Africa, Southeast Asia, and remote places in Western Asia seems to be what he does in his free time since he doesn’t have a wife or other children. He’s been vague as to the reasons behind his currently-single status, but I can’t help but wonder if he’s somehow punishing himself for the way things went with my mother. There’s little time to consider that can of worms as Roland begins his address.

“Thank you all for being here. Thank you, also, for your patience during the last few days as Kennedy and I, and our families, have had quite a bit on our plates.” He smiles through the words, and a chuckle sprinkles the crowd.

“Now,” he continues with a deep breath, taking a step away from the podium, “I’m not here to discuss the details behind what happened to bring Kennedy’s identity to light. This is a House of God, and I think it should be used to praise Him!”

I jump as his voice echoes off the walls and through my head. The crowd claps and interjects with choruses of “Amen” and “Hallelujah.” Just like that he’s vibrant Pastor Roland again. Did I expect him to continue the somber—honestly depressing—rhetoric of my absence from his life? After all, I am right here. By all accounts he should be rejoicing. I’m here, with him.

Thinking back to the sermons I’ve heard about the life he missed with me, I don’t know if I can recall a single time that he ever stated he wanted me back in his life. It seems he just accepted the living consequence that I never would be.

“Yes!” Roland claps his hands once and silence sweeps the crowd. “Yes, Lord. Thank you, Jesus, for seeing us through the darkest hours. No matter how long those hours might be. No matter if those hours turn to days, weeks, months, or many years. God will see you through to the finish line.”

Shifting in my seat, I beg the swirling nausea to stay in my stomach and not all over the carpet of New Life Church. Hand-dyed carpet, no doubt. People are expecting a lot out of me, according to Matt and the PK bloggers that have long coveted the knowledge of my existence. They’re expecting more than I think I can give. I don’t want to be the poster child for anything, let alone Evangelical children.

People will dig. And when they dig they’ll find the work I’ve done at Planned Parenthood, and anti-war rallies I’ve attended. And, never mind the gay rights protests I helped my mom organize. I squeeze my eyes shut. They’ll dig and they’ll throw my own dirt at me. Work I view as important, they’ll call dirt. Matt says the PK’s are anticipating that I’ll speak for them, somehow, but how many of them know what my words will be? Can they still stand behind me when they know of the liberal skeletons in my closet? When they realize I’ll never work for Focus on the Family?