Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father

Them.

All of the PK’s who don’t feel they have a real voice. A tribute, if you will. Like The Hunger Games. And, honestly, that’s exactly what it feels like I’m stepping into.

Th applause dies down and everyone who was standing settles into their seats. I, too, make my way to mine. Moving like a robot on the outside, feeling what it might feel like to be drunk on the inside. Every muscle bends and swirls like Jell-O that’s been left in the sun, but I manage to get to my seat in a relatively dignified manner. Taking a deep breath, I look to the front-row once more, and receive smiles and a few thumbs-up from my roommates—Eden and Bridgette—as well as from Jonah, Silas, and even Asher—my boss from Word.

“Let us pray.” The crowd’s murmurs morph into thick silence as Roland takes the podium.

It’s the most formal petition to prayer I’ve heard from his lips. Normally he settles for “let’s.” But, then again, normally his long-lost daughter doesn’t take the stage and identify herself as his daughter in front of eleventy billion people.

What have I done?

Three days ago I was artfully navigating the dual life as a Carter University student I’d resigned myself to. I went to class, work, and Bible study just like everyone else, and saw my televangelist father on the side. Okay, so I don’t know how long I planned to keep the second part a secret, but I certainly hadn’t planned on my spiteful floor mate, Joy Martinez, outing my relationship with the beloved Pastor Roland.

An affair, of all things. That’s what she printed on the posters she handed out in the dining hall. That Roland and I were having an affair. After all, that was the only reasonable explanation for how much time the charismatic church leader was spending with the girl from Connecticut with a questionable salvation status. Right?

Taking a deep breath, I lift my head in search of Joy. I begged for her to not be suspended or expelled. I need to have a chance to speak with her, to figure out why in the world she would do such a thing. I likely won’t be afforded such a chance if she gets expelled from school and is sent to live the rest of her days in shame.

Regardless, the last seventy-two hours have been a bitch. Yeah, I said it. A total bitch. I haven’t been able to have a conversation lasting more than five minutes with anyone except my mom and Roland, apart from the first night after the “scandal” broke and Matt Wells revealed he is a PK who has followed the legend of my existence for the last several years.

“Dear Lord,” Roland’s fierce, yet soft voice pulls my attention back to him. And God. “Thank you for family. Thank you for forgiveness. Thank—“ Roland clears his throat as his voice grows tight. A rare misstep in his typically fluid delivery of prayer. “Thank you for second chances, Lord.”

Second chances.

I note that Mom’s eyes are closed, as are most of the rest of the crowd, but this is different. Hers are squeezed shut like she wishes they were her ears and she could block his words. The second chance he’s speaking of has to be his, since I’m still in the middle of the first chance, and there’s no chance for a second time around from my mom. I think that ship sailed when he signed away his parental rights to me before my birth while they were barely two years older than I am now. Scared as hell twenty year olds.

“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. 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 if 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 on Matt, who hasn’t moved his gaze from me since I stepped away from the podium.

Matt Wells.