Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(3)

There are so many theological questions I don’t have answers to, either. Evolution. Where does life begin? What happens when it ends? I just don’t know, and what opinions I do have, have absolutely zero basis in scripture.

I fear that once everything is brought to the surface, I’ll not only be demonized by the ultra-conservative people around me, but be left behind by the PK’s who have pledged their allegiance to me.

Offering Matt a small smile, I return my attention to Roland, who is fervently praising God with his charming grin. He catches my stare and offers a quick wink before launching into verses from the Bible that talk about God “coming through” for all of us.

The nausea is getting harder to hold back.

Has Roland’s victory become my darkest hour?





CHAPTER TWO





The Reason





Matt.




She did it.



Still out of breath listening to the end of Roland’s sermon, I can’t take my eyes off of Kennedy. I grin that she’s wearing a dress, since she normally pushes the dress code to the limit with her skirts with pockets and almost too-casual t-shirts.



This morning, though, she’s wearing this dark blue dress that stops a few tragic inches below her knees and she’s got a yellow sweater around her shoulders. Her hair is long and loose, not curly like her mom’s but dark brown like it. It’s a little wavy, I guess. Kind of like Roland’s, but I wouldn’t have ever drawn the connection based on their hair. Their eyes, however … that is scary unreal. Carbon copies that, when I saw Kennedy for the first time, stopped me in my tracks. I’m a guy, so I don’t wander around paying attention to other guys’ eyes, unless they’re replicated on a gorgeous girl. I would have known who she was the second she introduced herself since I knew her name, but when I saw her that day I went to Word with John and Jonah, I knew that I was looking at Kennedy Sawyer—long-lost daughter of Pastor Roland Abbot.

Today her face is pale, even for a Yankee, and she keeps wiping her hands on the front of her dress. I worry that maybe I was too intense when I begged her not to dog out on us. Us. The PK’s who have been looking for something—someone—to call our own. Someone who gets it. She doesn’t realize she gets it, but she does.



This semester, and her previous eighteen years have prepared her in ways she doesn’t yet understand. Seeing more of her father on TV, at church, or planned lunches is a typical day in the life for a PK, especially one with a popular dad like Roland or my father. Always just on the outside, in the shadows, Kennedy is the perfect person to put a face on PK’s and how most of us want to be represented because she hasn’t been indoctrinated the same way the rest of us have. She won’t harbor the same guilt the rest of us might by fighting against an institution two millennia in the making.

I know she’s a Christian, but we basically come from two different planets there. If I question it I’m “backsliding.” If she questions it she’s “learning.” I need her to keep questioning. To help give me a voice. Roland’s closing words pull my focus back to him.

“Let’s pray.” He takes a deep breath and clears his throat while the rest of us close our eyes. I bow my head to help me focus. “Father God, we ask that you …”



I zone out. I know that God is supposed to be our ultimate father, “even when our earthly fathers fail,” people have told me, but it’s kind of a hard concept to buy into when you’ve been burned over and over again by your earthly father. How can I trust that the “perfect love” is perfect when I’ve seen more evidence to the contrary? I wonder how Kennedy feels about the “Father” talk.

I wonder how she feels about a lot of things, actually. The most I’ve seen her act like what I think is herself was a few days ago when I tagged along on her mission to Planned Parenthood to check on her roommates. Despite her stance against what Bridgette and Eden were doing—handing out pictures of aborted fetuses to people walking into the brick building—Kennedy was first and foremost concerned with their safety. It was mind-blowing to watch, and gave me a tiny peek into the kind of person she is. Still, I know very little about her. Silas tells me that his sister, Bridgette, has talked with Kennedy about what being “born again” means, and he frequently prays for his twin and her roommates during our nightly floor meetings, but the way his prayers are tailored, it seems like he’s praying specifically for Kennedy.



“Help remove the lies of the devil,” he’ll say in his forever-serious voice. “Keep Bridgette’s eyes on you as she spends the year living with people who might not share the same heart for you.”

That one ticked me off. He should know better than to judge the hearts of others.

So should I.

Lifting my head, I take a peek at Kennedy. Her eyes are closed but her head isn’t bowed, allowing me to study the vertical line running between her eyebrows as she scrunches them. I can’t tell if she’s concentrating or in pain. Or both. I lean forward a bit and glance at her mom, to my left and down a few people, who has almost the same expression in prayer. Interesting.

“Amen,” we say in unison when Roland concludes his prayer.

The worship band resumes their places on stage to play a closing song, but Roland takes the mic one last time.