Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father

An odd question from the outside, sure, but not from where I sit in my casual (but nice) plain navy blue t-shirt and knee-length khaki skirt. It’s an outfit I might wear from time to time at home, but at Carter this will be a regular ensemble. Their dress code is strict, focusing on modesty—skirts mustn’t be above the knee, shirts should cover the chest, etc. The whole affair is essentially business casual. While the rules are relaxed only slightly on move-in day to allow for all students to wear jeans—which are usually only permitted in residence halls during non-class time—I’ve decided to play it safe. I have enough red flags pinned to me already.

Mom turns the car left and we pass through the gates of the main entrance to the university. Excitement triples inside me as I swallow the beauty of the grounds. I visited probably ten public and private universities between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, and nothing was as shiny as this campus. It’s so perfect I can’t even believe it’s real grass, and I almost ask Mom to stop the car so I can touch it.

I grin as I plan one more gentle act of rebellion from the passenger seat of the car. Reaching forward, I press the “6” on the stereo, and suddenly the sounds of Casting Crowns—a wildly popular Christian band—fill the car. Mom’s eye-roll once she hears the lyrics, and her turning down of the volume elicits a laugh from me.

She hastily pushes another button, and Boy George serenades us. I laugh harder, and she finally joins in.

“Kennedy,” she says in a moment of seriousness when the song ends, “I don’t understand how you’re being so calm about all of this. There isn’t even anything here you want to do.”

I lean my head back on the headrest. “No, Mom. There’s nothing here that you want me to do. I’m undecided, remember? Anyway, I don’t know why you’re being so insane. I’m an adult.”

“These kids…” she starts in a wide-eyed whisper as if we’ve taken a detour onto another planet.

“Are people,” I cut in.

“Who can vote,” she snaps back.

I ignore her. “They’re people with parents and high school diplomas and dreams for the future. Besides, they’ll probably be more afraid of me than I am of them.”

I barely believe what I’m saying. Politics aside, the kids who enroll at Carter University are bonafide Jesus Freaks. Capital J. Capital F. I might be Christian as far as the outside world is concerned, but my fledgling knowledge of the Bible and sporadic church attendance won’t fly inside this lion’s den. Which is why I’m keeping it all a secret.

My knowledge of the Bible (which is slim) and my commitment to walking with Christ on a daily basis (I don’t even really know what that means) will be on silent lockdown while I acclimate to my new surroundings. Most importantly, though, no one—and I mean no one—will know that Roland Abbot is my birth father until I’m good and ready. Which might be never. And I made him promise to uphold my wishes regarding that before I sent in my deposit.

“Here,” Mom slides an envelope out of her bag as she parks in front of my new dorm, “this is from Dan.”

Dan is my stepdad. My mother married Dan Sawyer when I was four, so I barely remember life without him. I’ve never called him Dad. I’ve never called anyone Dad. I don’t have a burning desire to call Roland that, since I know “the D word” is kind of a social construct, but it’s just a confusing proper noun thing going on in my head right now.

Anyway, Dan’s been far more mellow about my attending Carter than Mom. We’ve always been kindred spirits, and he says he’s not threatened about my wanting to acquaint myself with my birth father. At least I have one ally.

“What is it?” I question as I slide my fingernail under the seal.

“Save it,” she cuts in. “He wants you to read it after I leave. He was so upset the business trip coincided with bringing you to school.”

I tuck the envelope into my backpack and exit the car as Mom pops the trunk. I don’t have much with me. According to the student handbook, the posters and pictures I have hanging in my bedroom at home aren’t suitable for my dorm walls. Musicians with too-little clothing or too-foul lyrics, male models, and even TV series posters are all either borderline unacceptable or in the land of Sodom.

I chuckle to myself at my first Bible-like quip. I’ll have to remember that. Seems as though my summer of listening to the Christian music stations, following televangelists besides my father, and combing the internet for Christian teen and college blogs has started to finally permeate my brain.

There might be hope for me after all.

That’s not all I’ve done to indoctrinate myself with the ways of The Way. I stocked up on good Christian teen reading. Books like Don’t Kiss Frogs: How to teach your heart to wait for Jesus, Lust and Losing: Partners in Crime, and finally, Why I Waited. Yes, all of these books are about sex, or the avoidance of it. Based on my small sample size, there is truthfully more attention paid to sex in Christian books than regular books.

The residence halls are buzzing with student helpers, emotional parents, and new students. Everyone is smiling. Everyone. Mom and I seem to notice this at the same time, because she turns to me slowly with a very Stepford wife-looking smile on her face.

“Stop,” I whisper while laughing. “You know, for a Christian, you are awfully judgmental,” I tease, my voice still hushed.

Mom arches an eyebrow as she removes my toiletries from the trunk. “Let’s revisit this conversation on Thanksgiving break, hmm?”