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.
In the span of a few days, he’s gone from someone I needed on my side to attend a Bible study without looking like a complete failure, to my closest ally at Carter University. The largest, most politically embroiled Christian college in the United States. That just got a heck of a lot more popular with the revelation that the local pastor’s daughter who no one knew has been a student here for the last two and a half months. Completely under the radar.
Matt knew the whole time. Maybe not the whole time, but he certainly put all the pieces in place in short order. His dad, a former pastor, is a friend of Roland’s and currently a tragic victim of pastoral burnout. A subject on which I’m ill-equipped. Oh, and somehow, my mom knows who he is. I need to remember to get to the bottom of that.
All I know is Matt knew Roland’s “kid” was going to school at Carter. Once the rest of the school found out, thanks to Joy, Matt rescued me. Literally carried me to his dorm and then drove me to Roland’s house as the curious and enthusiastic masses descended on the dorms.
I haven’t seen him in the two days since my mom got to town, though. And, for a moment, I’m desperate for the naiveté I embodied three days ago. When I was the “only one” who knew Roland was my birth father. When I was just the liberal valedictorian from New England with muddled motives for attending CU.
Alas, as I look through the crowd once more, and note that as the prayer draws to a close, as many eyes are on me as are on Roland, I accept that anonymity is long gone. I’m Roland Abbot’s daughter. A preacher’s kid trying to get to know her father after an entire lifetime away from him. In front of the entire nation.
Roland Abbot isn’t just a wildly popular pastor inside the antique borders of Asheville. He’s an internationally regarded televangelist. Raising money for hospitals and aid centers in Central Africa, Southeast Asia, and remote places in Western Asia seems to be what he does in his free time since he doesn’t have a wife or other children. He’ been vague as to the reasons behind his currently-single status, but I can’t help but wonder if he’s somehow punishing himself for the way things went with my mother. There’s little time to consider that can of worms as Roland begins his address.
“Thank you all for being here. Thank you, also, for your patience during the last few days as Kennedy and I, and our families have had quite a bit on our plates.” He smiles through the words, and a chuckle sprinkles the crowd.
“Now,” he continues with a deep breath, taking a step away from the podium, “I’m not here to discuss the details behind what happened to bring Kennedy’s identity to light. There will be plenty of time for that later in other forms of media. This? This is a House of God, and I think it should be used to praise Him!”
I jump as his voice echoes off the walls and through my head. The crowd claps and interjects with choruses of“Amen” and “Hallelujah.” Just like that he’s Pastor Roland. Did I expect him to continue the somber—honestly depressing—rhetoric of my absence from his life? After all, I am right here. By all accounts he should be rejoicing. I’m here, with him.
Thinking back to the sermons I’ve heard about the life he missed with me, I don’t know if I can recall a single time that he ever stated he wanted me back in his life. It seems he just accepted the living consequence that I would never be.
“Yes!” Roland claps his hands once and silence immediately takes over the room. “Yes, Lord. Thank you Jesus for seeing us through the darkest hours. No matter how long those hours might be. No matter if those hours turn to days, weeks, months, or many years. God will see you through to the finish line.”
Shifting in my seat, I beg the swirling nausea to stay in my stomach and not all over the probably hand-dyed carpet of New Life Church. People are expecting a lot out of me, according to Matt and the PK bloggers that have long coveted my existence. They’re expecting more than I can give. I don’t want to be the po
ster child for anything let alone Evangelical children.
People will dig. And when they dig they’ll find the work I’ve done at Planned Parenthood, and anti-war rallies I’ve attended. And, never mind the gay rights protests I helped my mom organize. I squeeze my eyes shut. They’ll dig and they’ll throw my own dirt at me. Work I view as important, they’ll call dirt. Matt says the PK’s are anticipating that I’ll speak for them, somehow, but how many of them know what my words will be? Can they still stand behind me when they know of the liberal skeletons in my closet? When they realize I’ll never work for Focus on the Family?
There are so many theological questions I don’t have answers to, either. Evolution. Where does life begin? What happens when it ends? I just don’t know and what opinions I do have have absolutely zero basis in scripture.
I fear that once everything is brought to the surface, I’ll not only be demonized by the ultra-conservative people around me, but left behind by the PK’s who have assured their allegiance to me.
I train my eyes on Roland who is fervently praising God with his charming grin. He catches my stare and offers a quick wink before launching into verses from the Bible that talk about God “coming through” for all of us.
The nausea is getting harder to hold back. Has Roland’s victory become my darkest hour?
Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal
is planned for release in November 2014
Acknowledgements
I’m always afraid I’m going to forget someone. Forgive me in advance if I do.
First, and foremost, I have to thank Charles Miles. You thought I was going to say “God”, didn’t you. ;) Gotchya. Charles, love, you have been supportive of this project when it was still just swirling thoughts in my brain. I love sharing this life with you and I do thank Him every single day for you. Thank you for taking on so much: cover design, formatting, and helping me navigate marketing. You’re a true indie-pub warrior.
Pamela Carrion. Your tireless work for Randall’s Readers and all of my promotional craziness is never unappreciated. I wish I could give you the moon, girl, I really do. You’re amazing and anyone is lucky if they have you in their corner.
Erin Roth. It’s a pleasure growing in our editor/writer relationship. The things you catch continue to amaze me. I’m also honored to have a friendship with you growing right along side this business nonsense. <3
My beta readers. Pamela, Laura, Sally, Krystle, Megan, Charles, Lindsay, Melissa B., Lisa, Stacey. You guys are stellar. The cheerleading, the questioning, the word-slaying.
Laura Wilson. Thank you for putting up with reading chunks of this story out of order via text message. Sometimes I just have to get something off my chest. To simply call you a “friend” would be lacking, but there isn’t enough room here for me to describe the gratefulness I have that you’re in my life.
Jessica Fear. Thank you for taking time out of your summer to sketch the picture that became the cover for this book. You’re an incredibly talented young woman, and I look forward to working with you on the rest of this series and beyond.
My parents for giving me a jumping off point in my faith. A place from which I could turn away, but one to which I could return.
My church families. All of them. From the time I was a young girl, through my two-year walk with the Pagans, and when I came back, you’ve all always been there for me. Guiding me. Sometimes silently, sometimes loudly. In your words and actions, direct and indirect, you’ve helped shape my views and beliefs. Specifically, I’d like to thank Pastor Randy and Pastor Sanjoy. The true questions and honest search for answers began and continue with those two men respectively.
Finally, Randall’s Readers. All of these books are really for you. My people.
Copyright
Copyright © 2014 Andrea Randall
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is unintentional.
ISBN: 978-1-63202-090-1
Table of Contents
Books by Andrea Randall
Dedication
Author’s Note
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Thank you
Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Table of Contents
Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father Page 26