I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to feel wanted.
Heather approaches a podium in front of the intricately carved staircase. She adjusts the microphone and clears her throat. “Welcome to our symposium on discipling partnerships,” she says. Everyone turns, eager to listen. “First, I would like to thank Kingdom on Campus for hosting this event.” Heather leads a round of applause. “Without their tireless efforts, these symposiums simply would not be possible. And this incredible turnout is a testimony to their success.” More clapping.
As she talks, I can’t help but become distracted by this room: the dark paneled walls, stone fireplace, and wood-beamed ceiling. It all seems from another century. The stained-glass lantern above looks like it should be flickering onto a crowd of floor-length velvet dresses. Loud applause pulls me back to reality just as an attractive blond lady wearing a silk fuchsia dress takes the microphone from Heather. She seems more like my stepmom than any professor I’ve seen around Boston.
“Thank you so much,” the lady says in a surprising Southern accent. She puts her hand on her chest as if grateful, and moves it to Heather’s back in a gesture of pride. Heather beams at her approval. “As the sector leader for our campus missions, I’m so proud of Heather’s dedication to spreading our message on the importance of discipleship. And as our top volunteer, Heather made the highly successful Boston Needs project a bigger success than ever. Thanks to the generous outpouring of special donations from students like you, nearly seven hundred poor and needy families were served. With your help, we hope to double that amount next time!”
As everyone applauds, a surge of curiosity about the focus on charity work prompts me to make a mental note to ask more about Boston Needs. “Now for the part you’ve been waiting for. Members, it’s time to find your guests and tables.” The adjacent room is full of small, round tables topped with place cards. “We’ll spend the rest of the symposium getting to know each other and determining your discipleship needs in this beautiful venue. Our goal is to help you, wherever you may be on your journey. This is the reason we’re all here, so go! Go, go, go!”
The ascending rumble of people searching for one another amplifies the room. I start to move with the crowd, but Heather comes up from behind me and snags my arm. “Oh, no, we’re VIP,” she says.
Her hand still on my arm, Heather leads me up a mahogany staircase. The din of voices quiets as we climb past an enormous castlelike window where the car lights flash and glow on the other side of night. Heather leads us into an empty room and sets my Bible Talk worksheet on the table. “Sit, sit, sit,” she instructs. I pull out a chair as Heather takes a pen from her bag and begins studying my answers. She makes a tsking sound. “Okay. Now, see? This is why it’s better to wait and study together as partners for the BTs,” she says.
Soon the worksheet I spent hours completing is covered in accusing blue ink. Maybe I should have followed the instructions and waited to complete the BTs with Heather, even though I thought I understood the interpretations.
“I’m so sorry for working ahead. I was trying to …” I trail off, desperate to fill the silence with something other than the critical swipes of Heather’s pen, but not wanting to say the wrong thing. “Could we maybe discuss what I did wrong? Talking it out really helps me remember later on—”
“Where’s your Bible?” Heather interrupts, looking up from my worksheet.
“Oh, uh, here.” I dig through my backpack and put it on the table.
“Emily!” Her tone is the one used for puppies that do something bad and cute at the same time. “Your Bible has a due date!”
I laugh. Then I realize she’s serious as she waits for me to elaborate.
“I didn’t have one, so I got it from the library.”
Heather blinks at me. I fidget under her stare.
“How do you not own a Bible?” Her voice is strained, her mouth a tight straight line.
“I guess I left it back home? But I can get another one. I mean, buy one.”
Heather picks up my King James Version, scrutinizes the cover, and sets it back down. “Well, don’t buy this one. Be sure to get the NIV translation. It’s easier to follow the study guides accurately with the more modern version.”
“I kind of like all the ‘ye’s’ and ‘thine’s.’”
She smiles, once again kind (if not a little amused). “Well, think of the study guides as the Cliff’s Notes, then. They’ll save you tons of time with interpretation.”
“Knock knock.” The lady who was speaking earlier walks into the room. Heather stealthily slips my library Bible under the table and pushes hers between us to share before introducing me to Meredith.
“Well hello, Miss Emily. I’m so glad to meet you.” She’s even prettier up close. She carries herself like she’s famous, as if she knows everyone is looking at her.
We shake hands as I respond, “Nice to meet you, too.”
“Now, don’t mind me,” Meredith says. “I’m just going to hang out over here in case you have any questions.” She settles into the other chair at our table as Heather continues reading.
I smile, but Heather seems more self-conscious now as she looks over my worksheet. Her eyebrows furrow in concentration, like it’s an assignment she has to ace for a grade.
“I heard you talking about your Boston Needs program. I’d love to learn more,” I say to Meredith, filling the silence in the room. “I’ve been volunteering for and donating to Senior Meals all semester.”
Meredith’s eyes light up with interest. “That’s wonderful!” she says.
“Maybe we could even team up with them? I could put you in touch with the director.”
Meredith shifts in her chair, but her small smile never leaves her face. “Well, we typically keep our community work separate from other organizations, so the Kingdom can spread the donations where they’re needed without any outside conflicts, and to be sure all the money actually goes to the causes.”
“Oh. Of course,” I say. I have no idea how that side of a nonprofit actually works, so I don’t question it. “Well, I’d still love to be involved with your community project.”
“That’s great, Emily. We collect special donations for Boston Needs at our Boston Garden services. I’d love to see you there so we can talk more and get you plugged in.”
Heather abruptly pushes my marked-up worksheet back to me with a solemn look. “I think we should study together next time.” She sounds worried and glances at Meredith.
My face grows hot with embarrassment. Meredith politely clears her throat. She takes my place card from the table and writes something under my name. “Here,” she says, handing it to me. She cuts her eyes at Heather and taps the back of her pen against the table to close it decisively. “It’s crazy how simple it is. You don’t even need a Bible for this. It’s all you need to know.”
The card reads: DISCIPLE=CHRISTIAN=SAVED.
“With Emily, I think we can just get down to the important part,” Meredith continues. Heather doesn’t seem to notice Meredith’s chiding tone directed at her. “Emily doesn’t need as much guidance as some others, but she looks like she could use a prayer.”
They both take my hands as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. I hesitate, unsure of what I’m supposed to do. Though unexpected, the gesture is surprisingly reassuring. I follow their cues when they bow their heads and close their eyes.
“Dear God. Thank you for your wisdom and protection. Thank you for Emily, for her spirit of generosity and for guiding her to people who truly care about her.” Her voice is composed yet affectionate, not ostentatious like the annoying preachers on television, but also not mechanical like the recitations I grew up saying. It’s like she’s talking to a well-respected friend. “Please protect her from pain and from stress and from sadness. And guide her through this journey.” She squeezes my hand just before saying amen and letting go.
When I open my eyes, they’re smiling. Meredith looks at her watch and s
tands. Except for her blond hair, I realize she’s not at all like my stepmom up close. Meredith seems effortlessly understated, and more striking as a result, like a model in a magazine. Maybe focusing on inner things radiates outward over time. Patti loves to primp, yet there’s always something “off” in the end, like a too-bright lip color, or clumpy eyelashes from absentminded swipes of mascara. People used to say Patti was the opposite of my mother—never to me, of course, but I heard things. Since I lost my mom when I was so young it’s hard for me to remember much about her myself, so I filed those things away like notations for a scrapbook.
“Well,” Meredith says. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Emily.” Her hand gently pats my shoulder. “I hope to see you again very soon. Until then, my biggest hope is that you’ll continue praying on your own. The secret of prayer is that it actually works, sometimes in the most unimaginable ways.”
* * *
“Wow,” Heather says, looking out my dorm-room window. After the symposium, she was unusually quiet, so I suggested we come back here to hang out.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s a crazy view.”
“Well, forget the view,” Heather says, casually pointing to my neck. “I couldn’t stop staring at that amazing necklace at the symposium. It’s absolutely beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Thanks.” I touch the irregular bumps of my mother’s charms hanging around my neck. My hand hovers there instinctively, as if protecting the single thing that’s most valuable to me.
Before moving to Boston, I wore it to my high school Senior Day. I’d had it forever, but never had an occasion where it felt appropriate to wear. When Dad noticed it, he struggled to swallow as his eyes glazed over into a faraway stare. I knew why. She isn’t here to see me graduate. What he didn’t understand is that wearing it somehow made me feel like part of her was with me. So I brought it to college, where I could wear it freely. The thought of being without it outweighed the possibility of losing it. When Sadie and Christina started getting high a lot, I never took it off—even slept in it—for fear that one of them would swipe it to sell for drug money in a moment of desperation.
As I watch Heather cheerfully exploring my room, I can’t even fathom her doing something like that. She stops at my desk, picking up photos and putting them back down. She lifts the picture of Dad and Patti. “Awww. Are you close to your parents?”
“I guess,” I say. I don’t love talking about my family, especially with new people, but I’m relieved things feel normal with Heather, especially since it got a little awkward after our time with Meredith at the Castle. Meredith took my marked-up study guide with her on her way out and I could tell this bothered Heather a little.
“You must really miss them, being so far away,” Heather says.
I think about Dad. Even though I was little, I could tell he’d changed the day we lost my mother. It’s as if, in that moment, who he was had been completely swept away. Suddenly his life was full of new things—work, clubs, community events, boards of directors—things that would take up time but never pierce deep enough to get through the wall protecting his heart. I always suspected no one would ever know the weight of what he had lost. Not even me. Then once he married Patti a year and a half later, everyone said what I already knew: He became a brand-new man.
“Yeah,” I say to Heather. “I mean, I guess. My dad stays busy, even when I’m at home, so I’m kind of used to not seeing him very much.”
Heather gives me a sympathetic smile as if she understands. Her eyes fall back to the photo. “Your mom is gorgeous,” she says. “What’s she like?”
Shocked by her question, I notice with relief she’s still holding the same photo. “Oh. That’s Patti, my stepmom. I have no idea what my mom was like.”
Heather looks at it again in confusion. Her expression softens as an awkward silence expands between us.
“My mother died when I was little,” I explain without even thinking. It’s surreal to say it. Everyone at home already knew, so there was never a need to say it out loud. I suddenly feel exposed.
Heather leans forward and gently places her hand on my arm. Her eyes are glossed with concern. “Emily, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
I can tell she actually means it, but an unfamiliar anxiety creeps up my throat.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I look down, and I’m surprised when a tear drops on the carpet below me. I’ve never talked about my mom, not really. Not even with Summer. It’s not like I avoided it, it just never needed to be said. I was the girl with no mom. What else was there to say? Now the prospect of talking about her with a practical stranger—with anyone—overwhelms me. “I mean, I don’t, I can’t remember …” Why can’t I remember? My throat tightens.
“Em.” Heather squeezes my arm and I look up at her earnest expression. “She’s in heaven. And it’s a real thing, just like prayer. You know that, right?” Her smile beams with the confidence of a person who truly believes it—who actually cares enough to want me to believe it.
“You’ll get to see her again,” she says.
Her words hit me with a physical ache: I’ve never wanted anything more than this promise.
STEP 5: What does your disciple want more than anything? Show how the Kingdom’s steps to salvation are the only way to attain that exact thing.
My Mother Is a Fish
They say I was too young to remember my mother’s death, but the truth is, I remember exactly what happened that day.
People believe what’s most convenient when they’re trying to cope with a tragedy themselves. When you’re little, the adults try to sugarcoat anything too horrible to explain. They’ll even make it up as they go along with an eager smile that’s meant to be reassuring. Once I was able to register the conflicting expression as pity, I knew I would always be known as the girl who lost her mother.
Back then, no one wanted to talk about what happened. But specific details have haunted me all these years, like clips from a movie, those peaceful flashes of mundane imagery to throw off viewers before the unthinkable happens. A fishing boat sliding behind the sharp rocky jetty. The tall concrete building behind us, towels draped over railings. A flock of brown pelicans. The shore littered with boogie boards and colorful beach toys.
We were at Orange Beach, all the way over near the Pass. We used to go there every summer. My mother would always swim in the ocean, just behind the breaking waves—the kind that surprise you with their force in the shallows, then recede so fast you have to wait it out before trudging back to dry sand. I still remember the thrill of being knocked down by the wall of water. The stinging blur of the saltwater in my eyes after each assault.
Back at the shore, battered and out of breath, I turned back to wave at my mother. She smiled and waved back. I watched her vanish into a swell. She resurfaced farther out each time until she finally became a distant bobbing dot in the vast ocean. Daddy was reading a book under a blue umbrella. His eyes crinkled into a smile, first at me and then periodically at the distant horizon where my mother was still swimming.
I worked to create the most elaborate mermaid dress ever made. My fingers dredged the outline of a mermaid tail, and then I began filling it in with the shells in my orange bucket, only pausing for rushed collection missions to the clear-foamed edge of the tide.
I didn’t even realize anything was wrong until I heard strangers yelling toward the shore. Daddy stood up so fast he bumped his head on the umbrella. The young surfers charged out with their boards to help. Even under the clipped roar of the Coast Guard helicopter, I just sat there methodically arranging seashells on my mermaid dress because I knew good and well that my mama was sitting right beside me, her wet hair spilling down her tan shoulders like seaweed stuck to her arms, her usual smile telling me it was all fine because she was right there and nothing else going on around me was real. The charm necklace she always wore glistened against her clavicle. She was humming “You Are My Sunshine” when s
he touched my face. “My sweet girl,” she said. And I knew with all certainty that she was okay because we finished that mermaid dress together—her big hand crossing over my little hand again and again until every shell was pressed into place.
Even as I sat under the sterile lights of the hospital waiting room, I insisted that she must be okay because we finished our mermaid. (I was holding a seashell! I had proof!) I still remember a tall stranger in the waiting room, an elderly man, staring at me as if both mesmerized and helpless, tears rolling down his wrinkled face. That’s when a terrifying sludge of fear slid into my consciousness, smothering my breath. In a flash, I saw the mermaid was washed out, her face a gaping hollowed-out crater of sand, the shells scattered by the rising tide and sucked back into the churning ocean. I felt the icy panic spread through my entire body as a horrible sound forced its way out of my mouth. I’ll never forget how that elderly man stared at me in horror, how he clutched his hands under his crossed arms, how he finally had to turn away.
And then my entire life as I knew it faded to black.
But my understanding of what happened didn’t last long. She was my mom—she couldn’t be gone. So I made up another less-traumatic version: My mother had become a mermaid. I would say this to anyone who would listen.
I drew pictures of my mermaid mom at school, and told everyone stories about her life under the sea. When this started, my teacher sent me to the nice lady in the office near the principal to draw more pictures for her and “just chat about things.” I would tell Mrs. Sanderson how Mom shows me her slimy tail, just like a fish, and how it sparkles in every color imaginable. It’s so real. She smiles and kisses my forehead, then swims off to be with her other mermaid friends. She says she can always watch over me this way, but I hear her only in my mind because she’s already swimming away. Her voice sounds like Glinda the Good Witch, from my favorite movie.
Those Who Prey Page 4