Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father

by Andrea Randall

  I briefly consider sending one back, but decide against it in favor of using the bus’s WiFi in order to log on to Facebook for a few moments free of the CU internet police.

  Sweet Jesus.

  I have over a hundred notifications since last logging on a few days ago. I’ve mostly avoided the site due to the aforementioned internet militia, but I realize I need to stay connected to my friends and my old life even if it means eating up a chunk of my data plan to circumvent the monitoring. There’s nothing graphic on my page—posted by me, anyway. But I want to do my best to keep BF under wraps.

  I sort through all the notifications, which consist mainly of group invites and comments on rare statuses, before I decide to make a post.

  Me here, reporting from Planet Jesus. Everything is good. Just got a job at a local coffee shop. Praise the LORD for that.

  I click to post it, and immediately feel a little guilty. My attitude really does suck about this place. I can’t immerse myself if I think I’m better than everyone. The problem is, I realize when the bus pulls to a stop in front of our dorm, I don’t think I’m better than everyone. I think I’m worse. Sinfully so. I’m feeling condemned and underprepared to fight for the words in the Bible, as so many of the students around me are doing.

  As my roommates and I walk the flight of stairs to our room, I decide to go for it. To dive in and become one of the students here. I know who I am outside of these walls, but I need to learn who I am inside of them to decide, for sure, if I want to stay here. If I want to get to know Roland. If I want to call him my dad.

  You can do this.

  Maggie’s words make more sense now. This doesn’t mean sucking it up and getting through. This is discovering who I am. Maybe who I am in Jesus, though that question seems dangerously scary.

  What am I afraid of?

  An hour later, I’ve set my fears and questions aside and am engaging my roommates in a stellar round of girl talk. So far, I’ve learned that Bridgette always wanted blonde hair, so much so that she had a bad run-in with hydrogen peroxide and sunlight two years ago and Eden tried to straighten her hair with an iron when she was twelve. All things normal girls go through. Also, Bridgette got her period when she was twelve—like me—but Eden was sixteen.

  “I thought there was something wrong with me!” Eden laughs between breaths. “I never wanted an older sister so badly in my life. Can you imagine me asking my brother?”

  My stomach hurts from laughing so much, and I’m feeling my shell soften at the idea of diving in. All the way. Speaking of all the way…

  “Eden,” I ask in as serious a voice I can manage with all the chuckling, “do you have a crush on Jonah?”

  Eden’s face flushes and she goes silent. Bridgette covers her mouth with her hand and her shoulders shake with giggles.

  “I…” Eden seems flustered.

  I put my hand on her knee—Maggie’s tactic for calming—and try to be supportive. “I mean, it’s obvious you do, but does he know?”

  “It’s obvious?” Eden takes her pillow and covers her face with it as she curls into the fetal position on her bed.

  “Kinda…” Bridgette bites her lip as she shares my opinion.

  Eden sits up in a flash and eyes me in near horror. “Did you say anything to him?”

  “What? No. When the heck would I have said anything to him, anyway?”

  She runs a hand through her hair. “I don’t know, you two seem all friendly.”

  “I’m not like into him, if that’s what you mean.” I feel defensiveness taking over and I wish I hadn’t brought it up at all. No matter how nagging the question has been in my head.

  “You’re not?” Eden asks, stunningly surprised.

  I shake my head and look at Bridgette, who seems equally shocked. “No, guys! Come on. I’m not in to Jonah. I assumed you two were dating, Eden. Or whatever it is you do…”

  Eden points to Bridgette. “She courts. I date. Or…would if the opportunity came up.”

  Drawing my knees to my chest, I rest my chin on my knees. “I thought you all, like, courted. Isn’t that an evangelical thing?”

  Eden and Bridgette look at each other for a moment, then Bridgette starts. “Not really. It’s more of a family and personal decision thing.”

  “Courtship is where you find someone and get engaged and then just hang out, right?” I pull on references from reality TV shows. Though, admittedly, it’s hard to keep it all straight.

  Bridgette shakes her head. “That’s also different. For instance, we have friends of our family who had zero physical contact before marriage. No kissing, and no holding hands.”

  I’m sure I look as horrified as I feel. “You’re kidding. No hand holding?”

  Bridgette cracks a wry smile. “No hand holding. But that’s not what I feel God is asking me to do, and my parents and I have prayed a lot about it.”

  “Thank you, Jesus,” I intend to say in my head, but verbalize instead. Thankfully, my roommates laugh.

  “Also,” Bridgette continues, “courtship isn’t always synonymous with engagement. That’s a TV thing.” She winks at me in apparent recognition of the reality show I’ve been using as my study guide to evangelical relationships. “In my family, it’s basically like dating with a lot more accountability. Chaperones on dates and all that, but we’re not obliged to marry the person.”

  I move to speak, but Eden beats me to it. “If you’re planning to wait till marriage to have sex anyway, why do you need a chaperone on a date?”

  I nod in approval of this question, shocked that it came from Eden’s mouth.

  Bridgette moves so her position is mimicking mine. Knees hugged to chest. “Temptation is sometimes stronger than doing the right thing. I don’t want to get sucked in and then regret. I don’t know if I’ll always need a chaperone, but for now, I just don’t…trust myself.”

  Eden nods, apparently accepting this answer. “I get it. With the guys at camp, I would remind myself all the time that I want to wait for marriage. Even if I started staring at a guy for too long.”

  For all the trusting my friends say they do in Jesus, they sure seem to trust him very little in this area.

  “Can’t we pray for strength to do the right thing?” I ask, stating what I believe to be obvious. “Just ask God to help us always make the right choice?”

  “Sin is strong, Kennedy,” Bridgette states with a slight tremble.

  “God is stronger.” The words are out of my mouth before I’ve had time to consider them. It’s like they weren’t my words at all. I’m sure I look as shocked as my roommates do.

  “I mean,” I try to qualify my lofty-sounding statement, “it’s good to have accountability. None of us are perfect. I just think you guys should give yourselves more credit. And,” I point at Eden, “you need to ask Jonah out on a date.”

  She beams from perfectly glossed lips. “Do you think so?”

  Giggles fill the room again. “Yes!” Bridgette encourages. “You so totally should! Silas and I could chaperone! We’d get approved in a second since we’re brother and sister.”

  “How would I ask him?” The girls are off and running, and I’m feeling slightly left out. I didn’t volunteer to chaperone—since I still think that whole business is bizarre—but I doubt she’d ask me to, anyway.

  No. Negative thought.

  “I’ll help you ask Jonah out.” I offer the only strength I have in this discussion.

  Boys.

  “You’ve gone on dates, right?” Bridgette asks me. Sort of asks. It was more of a statement.

  I nod. “A couple.”

  “Have you kissed a boy?” Eden’s eyes widen in anticipation of my answer.

  I nod again. “A couple,” I repeat.

  Bridgette leans in and whispers, “What about sex?”

  This is a defining moment. I could be as ambiguous here as I’ve been about everything else. I could lie. Or I could tell the truth.

  “No. I haven’t had sex.” I de
cide the truth is best here, since I’m kind of shady everywhere else.

  “Are you planning to wait till marriage?” Eden takes over, interrogation style.

  I shrug, continuing the honesty. “I’ve really never thought about it.”

  They stare at me with a look of fascination and fear, like I’m one of those robotic dinosaurs at a museum. In the museums Bridgette goes to, the dinosaur would probably be eating a person, so the fear part is dialed up a bit.

  “You’ve never thought about it?” Bridgette asks.

  I shake my head. “No. I swear, the kids here talk way more about sex than they did in my public high school. Sure, it’s all about waiting for it but, honestly, I’ve never heard the word so much. That and sin. Sex and sin. What is that?”

  Bridgette and Eden break into laughter, and Bridgette speaks first.

  “Oh my word, you’re so right! What is that?”

  Neither of us have the answer tonight, it seems, so we continue our chat about boys. I’m doing most of the talking, since they want to know about kissing. Evidently, Eden kissed a boy on the cheek two summers ago on the last day of camp. Her father was less than pleased, but didn’t have a total fit. She intends to be thoroughly kissed by the time she’s married, what with having to wait for sex and all. Bridgette, on the other hand, is currently kiss-free and unsure where she stands on kissing before marriage. At the talk of hand holding, though, her eyes smolder. I make a note to avoid watching the first time I see her hold hands with a boy. By the look on her face, it promises to border on promiscuous.

  Still, I feel relaxed and completely unjudged during the kissing discussion. I talk to them about Colin, the boy in seventh grade who kissed me at the school dance, and Xander, my on again-off again boyfriend through high school who kissed me any chance he got. I leave out discussion of Trent, though.

  The time might come for that conversation later.

  “Why did you two break up?” Eden looks like she’d be taking notes if it wouldn’t make her look weird.

  “He was constantly hassling me for sex. I said no, and he got frustrated.”

  “Why’d you say no?” she continues. “I mean, if you haven’t really given the whole not before marriage thing much thought?”

  I roll my eyes, but hope I don’t sound too condescending. “There are reasons besides the Bible to avoid sex. Honestly, I just didn’t want to get pregnant.”

  That’s it, folks. My driving conviction for avoiding letting a boy’s rough hands wander all over my body as the opening act to the rest of the experience was to prevent offspring. I realize there are more serious reasons, like God or STDs, but pregnancy terrifies me. Especially so young, thanks to my leading role in my mother’s cautionary tale. Sure, my life was great, but at what cost? To her, me, and, as I’m aiming to learn, to Roland?

  My roommates accept my answer, and Eden and Bridgette appear eager to move on to getting Jonah and Eden out on a date. We spend the next hour outlining the future love story of Jonah and Eden while I fight an unfamiliar and unwelcome twinge of envy. At what, I can’t be certain.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Give Me Your Eyes

  “Your sermon was great today,” I say to Roland in earnest on this Sunday morning as we sit, once again, in his kitchen. I ordered turkey today just to be safe.

  “Thank you. What’d you like about it?” He sits across from me at the same island that held our failed lunch attempt last week.

  Leaning back, I take a deep breath, exhaling as slowly as possible. “I liked that you talked about your…realness.” I shrug and stare at him.

  Though I’ve watched Roland’s sermons off and on for quite some time, seeing him in his element gave me a completely different feel for his authenticity. While it’s clear that his once-a-year sermons on his sinful youth are focused on the scary sin part, for the most part Roland appears to be a normal guy just trying to figure this God thing out.

  “You admit you don’t have all the answers, but say you know the one who does,” I continue. “That’s pretty brilliant.”

  He offers a quick, humble grin. “It troubles me that, in this world today, honesty is lined up with brilliance.”

  “People love trying to be someone else,” I add. He nods, and I blurt out, “Tell me about Jesus.”

  Roland’s eyes nearly bulge from their sockets and his head lurches forward some.

  “I mean,” I remedy, “I know about Jesus. I just want to know about your experience with him. Your…testimony, I guess.”

  He inhales deeply through his nose. “I thought you said you’ve watched all the sermons.”

  “I don’t want the TV version.”

  His eyebrow arches a fraction of an inch. “Kennedy, you just said you liked my honesty. I don’t have two different versions of the story.”

  “Just…tell me. Don’t tell a crowd.” I clear my throat. “Tell it to me.”

  For the past week, I’ve been hearing lots of my floormates talking about their testimonies, ways Jesus has transformed their life and the lives of those around them. They’re impassioned, brazen, and bold. Each story I hear leads me closer to mine, giving words to feelings that have been stored in my heart. While I don’t yet have a vision of a personal Jesus, I know that there is a God greater than I am, and Jesus came to prove it. But, staring at my birth father, I’m desperate to know if his journey is anything like mine. My mom and I never talk Christianity. Well, we hadn’t until Roland came back into the picture. Sure, we go to church—though I go lots on my own—but we don’t talk about it. I figure if I have a person in my life who has made this his mission, I need to try to put the pieces together.

  “I grew up in Michigan, normal life. A brother and a sister, married parents, and I was captain of the high school basketball team.”

  An aunt and uncle and grandparents.

  An unintentional side effect of this story, I’m realizing too late, is pieces of my genetic history falling into place.

  “I went to UConn on a basketball scholarship.”

  My jaw drops. “You’re kidding. UConn basketball is, like…Division One.”

  Roland smiles all the way to his ears. “You bet it is.”

  “How on earth did my mom get involved with a basketball player?”

  My mom is liberal, according to her bumper stickers and buttons, but—I’m realizing the more time I spend here—she’s quite close-minded about other things. I’m finding it hard to picture her hanging out with the athletes in between bouts of volunteering at Planned Parenthood and the Women’s Resource Center. She’s open-minded for the underdogs, I guess.

  Roland chuckles. “I met her in a Politics of Religion class.”

  I choke on my water, and some of it shoots out of my nose, an embarrassing trait I’ve not been able to overcome since I was in first grade. “That’s…brilliant.”

  “I started as a political science major, like she was. We met in that class sophomore year when we were grouped together with a few other kids for some project. I don’t even remember what it was now.”

  Oh, he remembers. By the intensity in his eyes, he remembers.

  “Anyway,” Roland continues as if he’s heard my private thoughts, “we started talking…then dating—”

  “Then having sex,” I cut in, anticipating the wrong turn their innocent dating was about to take.

  Roland’s face falls. “Yes. But that wasn’t all. Sure, I realize now that I should’ve waited till marriage for sex, Kennedy, but your mother and I engaged in a very loving relationship. We studied together and went on dates; by all accounts we had a very sweet relationship.”

  “What was wrong, then? Besides the sex?”

  He covers his hand with his mouth for a moment. “I was lying to her.”

  My jaw clenches and my throat squeezes while I wait for him to continue.

  “I fell in with a couple of guys from the team that were into drugs and alcohol.”

  “Drugs?” I whisper. “I must have missed that
part of the sermon.”

  Roland takes a heavy breath. “I tried them once…weren’t for me. But the drinking was and I hid that from your mom. She didn’t realize what a problem it was at first. I was just out partying, I’d tell her. With the guys. Then…I started cheating on her.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut as though they’re my ears and will somehow prevent me from hearing this.

  She’s never told me any of this.

  “I’d already had sex, you see, and it was not only no longer a big deal, but that mixed with the drinking clouded all of my moral fortitude. What’s the big deal, right?” Roland is remorsefully animated as he shrugs and holds out his hands as though he’s acting the part of his twenty-year-old self.

  “Soon enough,” he goes on, “I wanted sex all the time. Sex and alcohol. I made a sport out of it so much that it got me kicked off the basketball team. No second chances.”

  “Really?” This story is causing conflicting emotions in me. The star basketball player falling in with the wrong crowd is tragic. The All-American boyfriend screwing around on his girlfriend is sickening.

  Or is that tragic, too?

  Roland nods. “I was hungover all the time, or late to practice. Your mom had picked up on my behavior a few weeks before that, and we began fighting constantly. We were too young to have that kind of relationship. No one should have that kind, but by the time it was clear I was a full-blown alcoholic, she felt stuck. Like she couldn’t leave the sick guy.”

  I scrunch my eyebrows and look off into the distance. He fixed the clock on the coffee maker, so I can’t hone in on the blinking numbers. While my mom has never read me the riot act about Roland, she has sure never bothered to paint a picture of sympathy around him, either. Nowhere in conversation with her would I have guessed that she felt trapped.

  “Things just got worse. The alcohol had soaked through my brain and I took advantage of her kindness. I continued sleeping around on her when I was drunk—which basically turned into a twenty-four hour a day sort of thing.”

  “Wow,” I mumble. “Jesus is getting quite the introduction…”