The Journal

by Ronnica Z Rothe

  Wednesday I went in to Millennial Books as usual, with more on my mind than just working to pay for the journal. I was finally going to work up the nerve to ask Hasan to find me a Bible.

  Hasan was busy with a customer when I walked in. Since I had been doing my job of keeping the books dust-free and organized, customers did seem to be more satisfied, and they had been coming in greater numbers. I was glad that I was helping the business not only because that meant I could make my case to work for more books, but also because I could see how happy it made Hasan to help these new customers share in his love of books.

  As I started moving books from the bookshelf to the cart in order to start to organize them, one caught my eye.

  The black spine of this book on the 2020s read, The Death of Christianity in America by Anthony Michaels. When I first started working at Millennial Antiques, I felt like I had to work really hard and never took time to investigate books that piqued my interest, but after a few weeks, I occasionally allowed myself to give in to the temptation of an old cover. Opening the book, I quickly read the chapter headings, and then turned to the end.

  “In conclusion, Christianity is dead in America. While some older parents have successfully inculcated their children in the doctrines of the Christian faith, these children don’t come back to the church after they leave the home and enter secular jobs and colleges. Statistics show us that the American churches are shrinking by an astounding 23% each year. Christians are not able to reproduce fast enough—though they may try—to make up for the lost congregants walking out their doors, a fact even more alarming when we consider that 70% of Christians are over the age of 50, past child-bearing age. It is estimated that by the year 2045, there will no longer be enough church-attending Christians in this nation to sustain a single denomination. This, of course, assumes there was a desire among various churches and traditions to join together, while the truth is that they’re more polarized than ever. Indeed, Christianity as we know it is dead.

  “This is nothing new. We’ve seen the same pattern happen to Europe and the Middle East in years and centuries gone by. Just like America rose as the center of Christianity, another nation will soon rise and carry on the Christian faith. A book—the Bible—does not survive millennia intact for no reason. A faith does not last as long as Christianity and die out immediately when it faces problems, even problems that have existed—and largely been ignored—for decades.

  “Instead, researchers have found that the Church in South America is nearing its peak, but will continue on in its heyday for some time. The rising Church in China, recently free of governmental persecution, will continue to grow and spread its wings.

  “Christianity may migrate, but if history tells us anything, it’s that it’s incapable of death.”

  Interesting. I had no idea Christianity ever was in South America, China, or even the Middle East. This will have to be something that I look into. I also hadn’t realized just how old Christianity was. I knew the Bible was old, but for some reason, I thought the pilgrims were the first Christians. Looks like I had more to learn.

  When my shift came to an end, all the books from the 2020s were still a mess. I straightened up as much as I could and rolled the overflowing cart of discards to a place where it would be out of the way until it was time for work tomorrow.

  As I walked up to the front, I saw that Hasan was without a customer for the first time in over an hour.

  “Hey, Amala. I didn’t get to talk to you when you came in. How are you?”

  “Okay,” I said, giving my customary response. “I did see that you were busy when I came in this afternoon. Business seems to be picking up, doesn’t it?”

  “It sure is. I think you’ve had a lot to do with that. A new customer came in late last week, and I was able to find the novel he was wanting in about a minute. He was impressed that we had it and could locate it quickly, and wrote a great recommendation on a book-lover’s club website. Other members have been coming in all week—some making very long pod-commutes, too. One even came from Charlotte.”

  “He must really love books if he’s willing to pay 150 eCreds just to get here!” I exclaimed my surprise.

  “And you haven’t even seen the bookshelf behind the counter, where I’ve had to set aside a lot of books that people want me to ship to them. I may have to ask you to work more days...would you be interested?”

  “Sure. I could work 4 days a week after school, and maybe come in Saturdays for 4 hours. Would that be good?”

  “That’d be wonderful. Tomorrow when we have some time, why don’t you pick out another book?”

  I left Millennial Books with my first smile since the incident.

  Searching

  I got home that evening a few minutes late. Though I had been on my best behavior for the past two weeks, Mom seemed to have forgotten it and revealed her anger to me through her eyes.

  “Where have you been, young lady?” I always loved when mom pulled out that pet name.

  “Uhh, nowhere. Just a little busy, is all. I’m sorry I didn’t make it home on time. Would you like me to make dinner?”

  “I would have loved for you to have made dinner. But in order to do that, you have to be home on time. If I wasn’t home early for once, we wouldn’t be eating dinner at all.”

  Mom was being a little melodramatic—it only took 15 minutes for the one-pot to its work and we ate late more often than not. Besides, I only recently had taken over the responsibilities of cooking dinner. There was no actual arrangement that it was my job, just an understanding that I could load the one-pot just as easily as Mom.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, with a twinge of sarcasm in my voice, “I won’t do it again.”

  “You say that now...go ahead and set the table, please,” Mom responded tersely.

  Dinner was quiet. Mom didn’t seem to know what to say to me. While Chester had his last bite still on his spoon, she was already clearing away the dishes from the table.

  “I’ll be leaving for the office momentarily. I need to be in the office in case green bean riots break out as anticipated. You two know what I expect of you.”

  I sighed. So that’s why Mom was so irritable—she was stressed. I knew that if there were rioting, the green bean supply would likely run out. No green beans and Mom may very well lose her job. Carolinians were surprisingly particular about their vegetables.

  I got up from the table and walked into my bedroom, shutting the door. Soon after, I heard the outer apartment door open and close—Mom was gone. I sat down at my desk with every intention of completing my homework quickly and accurately. Over the last couple of weeks, I had found that being a good student wasn’t too hard. Focusing on homework while music was blaring was always a great way to block out that night.

  This time when my mind wandered, it landed on Beth’s journal instead of a filthy man towering over me. I still wanted to find a Bible. While Hasan may well find one for me—I know that I had never seen one at the store—there was a good chance he might not find one, either. Since I could sneak out of the apartment without Mom’s watchful eye, this would the perfect time to take a look at the entryway cabinet. Perhaps I would find what I was looking for.

  As I quietly left our apartment—Chester was watching a video in the living room, and I didn’t want to risk drawing his attention and having to explain myself—I took a right down our hallway and went up the stairs. The stairs opened up into the building’s dim entryway which was empty, to my relief. I crossed over to the cabinet bending down to remain out of sight of anyone who might enter the main door.

  Inside the cabinet I did find remnants of the church as I had rem.mbered There was a stack of strange-looking felt-lined bowls and a plastic tub of vintage jackets, scarves, and umbrellas. There was a stack of other books, mostly in good condition, that I pulled out to take to Hasan: The Purpose-Driven Life, a book by Max Lucado, The Shack, a book by Beth Moore, and My Utmost for His Highest.
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br />   I reached my hand back into the cabinet and felt around. I found a few stick pens—confirming the age of the cabinet’s contents—but no Bible. I was a little disappointed, but at least I had those other books to show for my trouble. Perhaps Hasan would be able to offer me a few trades for them.

  After coming up empty, I went back down to my room and placed the new-found books in my bag. I didn’t even pretend to work on my homework before I pulled out the journal again.

  October 22, 2001

  It has been a week since Dad has moved out, and it still doesn’t seem quite real. I trick myself into believing that he’s simply in Atlanta or Cincinnati on a business trip like usual, though I know that his absence will soon become too real to ignore. Mom has continued “family dinners” on Wednesday nights, though neither Dad nor Meg show up. How can we be a family if it’s just the two of us? Fifty percent is far from passing.

  Faith has been great—I’m so glad to have her as a friend. She is helping me to understand that I’m not responsible for Mom and Dad’s marriage—it’s not my fault, and it’s not my responsibility to fix it, even if I could. While they are calling it a “separation,” Mom has already started planning for our annual Spring Break beach trip, and I know she has no plans of including Dad.

  I’ve been continuing my reading in the Bible. I’m up to John chapter 11, where I found the story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. I’m not really sure if that’s possible, but I found this part of the story amazing:

  “When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come with her also weeping, He was deeply moved in spirit and was troubled, and said, ‘Where have you laid him?’ They said to Him ‘Lord, come and see.’ Jesus wept.”

  Seriously? Jesus CRIED? He knew that Lazarus wasn’t going to stay dead (or wasn’t dead, or whatever)! But if I was him and my friend died, I’d definitely cry, too. That gives me such a different picture of who Jesus was...he wasn’t just some superhero, he was human.

  October 30, 2001

  Tomorrow is Halloween. It used to be my favorite holiday, but I’m not loving it this year. I’ve dressed up to trick-or-treat every year until now even when Meg told me I was too old. This year I just didn’t feel like planning a costume. I hope we don’t even turn on the porch light as I don’t want to have to deal with sugar-filled, grubby trick-or-treaters.

  Faith invited me to go to a haunted house last night with Jason and some other youth group members. I still think Jason is pretty cute, and he definitely seems to be flirty when he teases me. I was SO scared...I’m not sure I ever want to go to a haunted house again! It was the man with a chainsaw that did me in. Jason told me afterwards that there’s no chain on the saw, but it looked real to me!

  “By this all men will know that you are My disciples, if you have love for one another.”

  Jesus said this about his disciples. From listening to Pastor Steve, the youth pastor, I’ve learned that Jesus’ followers today are sometimes called disciples, too. I think it’s interesting, because that’s why I hang out with this group, even if they sometimes try to scare me! They do have a love for each other. They’re the nicest group I’ve hung around with, even though they definitely aren’t perfect.

  The next day I tried to get through the school day without incident and just make it to Hasan’s. No such luck—Ryan chose this day to confront me for abandoning Clara and her. Apparently she didn’t think giving me the cold shoulder was quite getting the point across that I was “in trouble”—in danger of losing my best friend status—and my coldness in return wasn’t a signal to her that I wasn’t going to seek forgiveness for the “wrong” I did to her.

  When we were finishing up our English lectures and were about to head to lunch, Ryan looked over at me. Since our falling out, I had taken to sitting in the front row of Ms. Oscar’s classroom instead of in the back with Ryan. Clearly, she had noticed that I was avoiding her too, and I was benefiting from it as it was making me a better student. When she saw that today I was back to my usual mediocre status as a student, only paying enough attention to the lecture to avoid the wrath of Ms. Oscar and after-school detention, she thought she found a chink in my armor.

  “Hey, brown-noser. You forget that you’re supposed to be the perfect girl, did you? Perfect Girl didn’t complete her homework?”

  I knew I should have ignored her when she started throwing verbal insults like that. I just couldn’t do that. I have allowed Ryan to get away with too much in our friendship, so I stupidly decided to play her game.

  Attacking the most gossip-worthy thing I could think of, I aimed, “Got tired of having one-night stands with boys? Trying to get your kicks elsewhere, huh?”

  In Ryan’s mind, pointing out my indiscretions was fair game, but Ryan doesn’t put up with anyone questioning her decision making. She makes no claims of being perfect but she likes to think she has it figured out when it comes to boys.

  Ryan aimed lower. “Say what? I wasn’t the one perving on the old man.”

  “What?” I asked, genuinely in shock. I had no idea that Ryan had any idea of what went on in the living room that night. I really thought her problem with me only dealt with my leaving the apartment before they were finished in the back rooms.

  “Yeah, I chipped with Xavier the next day. He said that we weren’t the only ones having fun that night. That old dude—who happens to be Jamari’s uncle by the way—bragged to Jamari about how much fun he had with you. I can’t believe you would be with someone that disgusting. He clearly hadn’t changed or bathed in days!”

  I had heard enough. And worse, everyone else had heard it all too.

  I ran out of the classroom, down the hall away from the cafeteria, and out the front door. I hopped into a waiting pod, and entered the first address that popped into my head: the address for Millennial Books.

  Asking

  If I thought that being given the cold-shoulder by my closest friend was lonely, I just had to wait until the entire school had ostracized me. I never was particularly popular, but I could now guarantee that soon everyone in the school would know who I was...and more embarrassingly, what I did.

  When I came back to school the next morning, I tried to pretend like nothing had changed. Sure, I had probably lost my best friend for good, but I had survived for two weeks without her, so I was already getting used to it. I no longer turned to the person next to me to make a joke when Professor Larry or Professor Julie Anne said something particularly corny, or when Ms. Oscar made that fish face she sometimes did when she was apparently thinking of something else.

  Not only had the entire class witnessed our fight, but also Ms. Oscar had heard Ryan’s accusations from the day before, so she was, for once, in the know. When she told me I had a history test to make up from the day before, she did so matter-of-factly without her usual disdain and disapproving look. She actually looked sorry for me, as if I was an object of pity. It was bad when the disliked minder felt bad for you.

  She wasn’t the only adult in my life who was cutting me slack. When I showed up four hours early for my shift at Millennial Antiques, Hasan didn’t even ask what was wrong. He read my face like the books he loved so much, and knew it was best to leave me alone, not even offering a hug, thankfully. I simply walked to the back of the store and got to work continuing to organize the 2020s section. I didn’t care if those extra hours counted towards the journal or not; it felt good to have something to keep me occupied in body, if not completely in mind. I already was having a hard time forgetting that night, but now every time I saw anyone from school, my past would be reflected in their face as they looked on me in mockery, in shame, in pity, and in judgment.

  I worked hard that afternoon. Without being asked, I jumped right in and started boxing the books that needed to be mailed. When I offered to take them to be shipped, Hasan simple smiled and nodded. He knew I was looking for anything to do; I was just so glad he didn’t ask me what I was trying to avoid by doing all this work.

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nbsp; At school the next day, I quietly completed all that was required of me, but nothing more. I didn’t make eye contact with anyone, afraid that they’d discover more of my secrets hidden just behind my pupils. I did everything as quietly as I could, doing my best to blend into the teenage crowd to which I no longer felt like I belonged.

  Friday was my day off from work, but more importantly, Friday meant I had a reprieve from school: two days of freedom from raised eyebrows and whispered giggles that I pretended to be oblivious to. With any luck, someone else would make a fool of themselves over the weekend earning them the top spot in the Bramble High gossip feed on Monday.

  As I walked into our apartment after school, Chester was plopped down in his usual spot on the couch with his video game. To my surprise, he wasn’t the only one in the apartment.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so surprised. Grandma had been over a lot recently. While Mom was able to stave off any green bean riots, things were not all quiet on the vegetable front, so she’d been working long hours. Despite the potential fate of the vegetable crops, Chester and I at least have been eating better thanks to Grandma’s cooking.

  I almost skipped over to Grandma, who was busy unloading the dishwasher in her green dress and white flip flops. “Hi, Grandma!” I said as I almost tackled her, barely catching her before she fell into the open appliance.

  “Oh, watch it, sweetie! I’m not as spry as you are. These brittle bones will break!” Then after a brief pause in which she sized me up she asked, “Has it been one of those days?”

  Of course Grandma would be able to tell something was wrong...grandmother’s intuition. Thankfully, I could come up with a story to cover what was really bothering me. I couldn’t tell her the real problem. That’s just not something you talk about with your grandma.