Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(48)

I grin, needing some levity. “What if he took the same path?” I ask. “What if you stuck with him and he still felt Jesus calling him into ministry? I mean, you were a Women’s Studies major who went into public policy. At some point, it would have given out, don’t you think? Or would you have been his wife? A pastor’s wife,” I reiterate for emphasis.

Mom takes a cleansing breath and lets out a satisfied moan. “And, that’s where my trips down memory lane always lead me. We were star-crossed in some ways, I guess. Never meant to be.”

In one swift sentence, my church-going, Episcopalian mother downplays the importance of the role Roland plays to thousands of people every single day. She could sit in the pew, but doesn’t, somehow, believe enough to have maybe married her true love, when he was called to God?

What does she even believe? If you’re not all in, why wade around?

My internal thought, a line from one of Roland’s most recent sermons, startles me.

“Are you okay?” she asks, standing again.

I nod, quickly, not wanting to challenge my mother’s spiritual beliefs at this point in time. “Just tired.”

She stands and places her hands on my shoulders. “Thank you for being the kind of mature, rational daughter with whom I could have a conversation like this.” She smiles, and it reaches her swollen, tired eyes.

I nod, kissing her on the cheek. “Of course.”

“Get some sleep,” she says when she reaches my door. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Several minutes after the door closes, I find myself still standing in the center of my room, wondering what the hell just happened. My mother admitted she would always love my father, but, honestly, it’s only her version of him that she’ll always love. That part makes me feel a little better, I guess, now that I don’t have to worry about her leaving Dan to get back together with Roland. Which, according to her own words, she wouldn’t do anyway, because she’s dismissive of his career. One on which he’s staked his life, and the lives of all he preaches to. Even hers.

I fall into a fitful sleep. As I feel my heart softening toward my friends at CU, and to God if I’m being honest with myself, I can’t help but wonder how far down this road I can travel before Mom’s heart hardens toward me.

When will she think I’ve “done the Jesus thing” long enough for her comfort? Politics aside, how long will it be before my relationship with God challenges my relationship with my mother?





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN





Steal My Show





Kennedy.




Thanksgiving Day is here, and I’m so hungry for my grandfather’s cooking. This is the second Thanksgiving since my grandmother passed away, and we’ve taken to holding the holiday feast at our house. My grandfather still insists on bringing the turkey, which he puts the finishing touches on once he arrives at our house. Within minutes, the whole house smells like the turkey’s been cooking here over night.

“Gramps this smells so good. How do you do it?” I hover in front of the oven and take a deep breath.

He puts his hand on my shoulder and offers a dry chuckle. “What, they don’t feed you at that fancy school of yours?”

“Oh, I eat just fine, trust me.”

Gramps hasn’t said much about my attending CU. He’s well aware of Roland and all the ugliness there, since Mom lived with him and my grandmother while she was pregnant, and for a short time immediately following my birth. But, oddly enough, he hasn’t said anything about my choice to be closer to Roland. Faith wise, I don’t really know where he stands. As is typical for most New England families, we don’t really discuss feelings, other than anger and resentment, so aside from his annual petitions of grace over our holiday meals, I’m not sure where he stands with God.

Especially after my grandmother was killed in a car accident last year. Sometimes, if I catch a glimpse of him when he thinks no one is looking, I swear I can still see the fresh terror in his eyes. They’d been together since high school, and to have their time on Earth ended by a frazzled mother who ran a red light has been a hard thing to overcome.

For the first time since it happened, though, I’m wondering about the faith of it all. Did the woman who was driving the minivan believe in God? Does she now? Did she count it as grace that she and her children were spared in her few seconds of error, despite the fact that my grandmother, alone in the car, died at the hospital some hours later due to a severe brain injury?

“Gramps?” I ask after checking to make sure the rest of the family is out of earshot. “Why didn’t you ever sue the woman who hit Gram?”

A year ago I wanted to know based on the indignation I had that someone did this to my family. Mom told me not to talk about it with my grandfather. Ever. But, now, as I stare into the still-youthful eyes of my mostly jovial grandfather, I can’t help but feel like something more was behind it.

He hardly seems shocked by my question, but looks around just like I did to make sure no one is listening. “Come,” he says, walking through the kitchen and toward the side door, stopping to pour two cups of hot cider before leading me out onto the deck.

Grabbing my scarf on the way out the door, I unfold it to drape around my shoulders, warming my hands on the mug of cider.