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.
“If those of you in the front row could follow us backstage during the closing song, that would be great.” He nods to Kennedy’s mom—Wendy I think her name is—and casts a quick glance my way.
Thank you, Jesus.
I’d been worried that I wouldn’t see Kennedy again until our New Testament class tomorrow, given that she’s on temporary lockdown at Roland’s house, and I figured there would be no chance I’d get to her after the service today. Seems someone was looking out for me there. Probably Kennedy. She always appears to be a step ahead of everyone here, despite her self-doubt to the contrary. And except for that bit with Joy. None of us saw that coming. I didn’t see her when we were filing in, but it’s no wonder. If I were her, I wouldn’t want to be seen for a very long time.
As soon as the drummer clicks away the final beat, I rise to my feet and jump one step down to the stage, filing behind the associate pastors and Wendy.
“You’re Matt Wells,” she addresses me over her shoulder. Her eyebrow is arched and there’s a tiny grin on her face.
A soft laugh precedes my response. She just quasi-introduced herself to me the way Kennedy did for the first time a few weeks ago. Not a question. A solid statement indicating she knows more about me than I may have given her credit for.
“Yes ma’am,” I nod and make brief eye contact with her before she turns her attention back in front of her as we move behind the heavy black curtains and backstage.
“Keep going straight to the green room,” Roland’s assistant, Jahara, instructs us.
“Green room?” I mumble over my shoulder, knowing Kennedy’s roommates are behind me. I know New Life is a combination church and TV studio, but … a green room?
“Guess so,” Bridgette’s shaky whisper gives away her nerves. She always seems nervous.
I keep my eyes forward, trying to catch a glimpse of Kennedy. She’s been walking at the front of the group, her head down and her steps quick. As we round a corner, she lifts her eyes and waves first to her mom, then leans her head a little to the side and seems to catch my gaze. I offer her a smile and a nod. I’d love to talk to her alone, but I’m assuming our special privileges regarding time together during the aftermath of the Joy storm are on their last legs. Unless I’m invited to family dinners at the Abbot residence, my one-on-one time with Kennedy is on indefinite pause.
The group finally slows as Kennedy, followed by the rest of us, files into what I’m to assume is the green room. Though, in true New Life style, this is no ordinary green room. Not that I’ve ever seen one in person before, but I’ve heard they’re generally like doctors’ waiting rooms. Not a lavish conference room with food and drink set up, and not to mention the couches and chairs scattered around the room.