The Broken Ones (Jesus Freaks #3) Read online

  Continuing my quest not to panic at the simple notion of a nineteen-year-old out minding her own business, I press Asher on the current state of his appearance. “You look rough.”

  “I want to drink. Bad.” He drags his feet behind him as he wanders into the kitchen and plunks down on a stool at the island.

  “Yeah?” I say deliberately. This isn’t the first time Asher’s stated his case in my kitchen, and I assume it won’t be the last. I fetch a can of seltzer from the fridge and slide it across the island.

  He grunts, the aluminum crack of the can opening echoes in the kitchen. “I meant something stronger than this.”

  “So? You’re an alcoholic. That’s what we do… want to drink. But if you really wanted to get drunk, you would have gone to a thousand other places than your sponsor’s house.”

  He takes a sip, looking none too happy about it. “I told Kennedy you weren’t my sponsor, by the way.”

  With that one sentence Asher tells me that his conversation with Kennedy covered far more than her attitude. “How much does she know?”

  “Everything.”

  I lift my eyebrows. “That’s a lot. All at once?”

  He shakes his head. “I hadn’t planned on it, really. She knew there was more to me than I was telling her, and she called me on it. I started by telling her about the sex and the parties and then the accident but… damn it if that daughter isn’t a carbon copy of you in some ways, man. She knew there was more. Asked me what happened earlier in the day before I crashed the car. And, just like with you, I ended up spilling it all.”

  “And now you want to drink,” I observe. “Because you were vulnerable with someone.”

  Asher sets the can down on the island with a heavy thud and points at me. “You got it.”

  I shrug. “So why’d you come here? Why not be sitting down at Johnny’s or McClarin’s or wherever it is people get boozed up on a Friday afternoon?”

  He faces me, the despair in his eyes shifting to confusion and a little anger. “Dude, are you serious?”

  “Think the drink through, man. You tell me why you’re here. And it’s not because you want to drink.”

  Asher’s jaw flexes beneath his skin. If I didn’t already know him so well, I’d probably be afraid to push his buttons. Thankfully I know him to be a bowl of mush packed inside a huge frame.

  “Well?” I press, while the back of my mind wonders exactly what Asher said, and how. And what Kennedy is doing right now. Where she is…

  Asher folds his arms on the countertops and briefly lowers his forehead onto them, taking a long, deep breath. Lifting his head as he exhales, he eyes me again. “I’m here because I don’t want to drink. The alcoholism wants me to. Real bad. But I don’t want to. And, even if I thought I did, I couldn’t anyway because your daughter prayed for me.”

  My heart skips a beat. “She what?”

  He rises from his stool and stretches his arms overhead. “She prayed for me, man,” he says again with half a grin.

  “Out loud?” I question before having time to think through the words. I don’t want it to seem like I’m passive about Kennedy’s prayer life, but I know that praying aloud isn’t for everyone. And it’s not part of the spiritual culture she grew up in.

  Asher laughs. “Yes. Not only out loud, but we were on a bench on Cottage St. So, pretty public. Well, I was on the bench. She was knelt down in front of me squeezing the life out of my hands.”

  Goosebumps shoot across my back and down my arms. God’s here. Poking me to recognize the work he’s doing in Kennedy’s life and in those around her. “Wow,” I whisper, trying not to get overly emotional. “What’d that do for you?”

  “I’d been wanting a drink all day, actually,” Asher admits. “For no particular reason other than I woke up.”

  I nod in solidarity. Sometimes the urge comes out of nowhere. Sometimes the longer it stays away, the stronger it is when it shows up.

  “But,” he continues, “when she prayed for me without hesitation or question or second-guessing… I knew it was God doing for me what I couldn’t do for myself. It’s crazy… You know I don’t usually hear God’s voice through other people. I’m more of a dreams and listening in my own head kind of guy. But as Kennedy went on it was like… so clear that God was using her as a vessel to save my sorry soul today.”

  I nod, swallowing hard, sending up a silent praise to God that Kennedy got out of her own way long enough to let God intercede for Asher. Whether she was conscious of it or not, she may have saved his life for today.

  “You know where she is now?” I ask, picking up my cell to text her. Asher shrugs. “You need a meeting though, huh? I do too, frankly.” I look at the clock. “St. Andrew’s starts in twenty. Wanna go?”

  “Yes. Yes” The color is returning to his face, which is a good sign, but not enough to bank the rest of the day on.

  I find Kennedy’s number in my phone and type out a quick text.

  Me: Hey you, just checking in. Everything okay with Asher?

  I’m grateful she has her read receipts turned on so I can see she’s received and read the text I just sent. Waiting for her to answer takes half an eternity.

  Kennedy: Weird. He’s not mad at me though, so that’s good.

  Me: Where are you now?

  I’ve already checked her location via her iPhone—a feature her mother has insisted she leave on, and Kennedy didn’t protest. So I know Kennedy’s at the University Chapel, though I don’t know why, and I’m praying she’s honest. It annoys me that my gut instinct is to not trust her. But it’s not her, it’s her age group. They struggle to work out their honesty muscles.

  Kennedy: UC. Why?

  Me: You busy? Going to be long? Or can I come by? I have something I want to talk about with you.

  Kennedy: Ask a few more questions.

  I chuckle before considering she could actually be annoyed.

  “What?” Asher asks.

  “She’s funny,” I remark offhand before returning to the text.

  “Yeah,” he huffs, “a real riot. Gets into your chest and scrambles things around until they pour out of your mouth. Like father like daughter.”

  I shake my head, shooting Asher a grin and taking pride in a gift Kennedy might not even be aware that she has.

  Me: Sorry.

  Kennedy: I was kidding. Don’t panic. You can come.

  I find it interesting that she didn’t ask to just talk when we got home, which piques my anxiety and curiosity at the same time, but I’m not quite sure why. Maybe I have to pray for the willingness to accept that being directly in charge of a young adult is going to ramp up my paranoia. More fodder to talk about with my sponsor, I guess.

  “All right,” I finally say to Asher. “We gotta make one stop on the way to the meeting. Let’s go.”

  Concern for someone other than himself washes over his face, which is another good sign that he’s coming out of his craving. “She okay?”

  “I think so.”

  ***

  The creak of the heavy wooden door at the front of the chapel echoes into the vaulted ceiling. It takes my eyes a minute to adjust to the dim, muted rainbow light cast by candles and the stained-glass windows. When they finally do, I can see half a dozen people in various stages of prayer throughout the dark, wooden pews. Kennedy said she was here, so finding her doesn’t surprise me, but her position in the very first pew does.

  I make my way to the front, performing the sign of the cross over my chest as I do. This isn’t standard practice in many evangelical circles, but something I’ve always just found myself doing when in more traditional churches such as this. It serves as a good reminder to myself at times, I guess. Arming myself with everything Jesus died for me to have.

  “Hey,” I whisper once I reach the front.

  Kennedy slides over without looking up at me. Her eyes are fixed on the massive stained-glass window at the front of the church, just behind the altar. A rendition of Jesus being taken dow
n from the cross. Bloodied and surrounded by those who love him. I always focus on the face of his mother, Mary. And I thought losing Kennedy was bad…

  “Hey,” she mumbles.

  “I talked to Asher,” I admit up front. “He told me it got kind of heavy.”

  She nods and gives a long blink. A tear rolls down her cheek and breaks my heart.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Still facing forward, Kennedy speaks. Soft but clear. “Everything’s inside out.”

  After a few seconds of silence, I ask, “What do you mean?”

  She shrugs. “It’s like… It’s like I fell down a rabbit hole and tumbled out into Munchkinland. Only… there’s no yellow brick road, and Tim Burton has taken over as mayor.”

  I stare at her for a moment, thanking God for her creativity and eloquence. I might have the gift of speech, but she’s got a gift of words that takes my breath away.

  “Yeah,” I say, as if I have a clue, “life does that sometimes.” Because I do. And it does.

  Finally, she looks at me. Her eyes are wet, but she’s composed as usual. No signs of significant distress on the surface. “The good news is that Matt and I are on even footing again. But the rest? Forget it.”

  “How so?”

  She sighs and looks to the ceiling for a moment as if composing a grocery list in her head. “Let’s see. Well, Asher’s a real person. A broken, broken one. Classes start in a little over a week, filming for a reality show starts next week where I intend to allow barely-restricted access to my life, I’ve joined the university worship band, it seems, and have to do a performance with them at the end of the first week of school. Ugh. My friendship with Mollie has gone from breezy to complicated, and it barely bothers me, and that bothers me. Silas is being nice while Bridgette is MIA, and I really want to live with you for this school year.”

  She looks at me with wide, vulnerable, hopeful eyes. Eyes that stared at me through the face of a five-year-old girl in a photograph for over a decade.

  Twisting my lips, I put a hand over hers as they sit folded in her lap. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s all going to be okay.”

  She rolls her eyes and I hold back a chuckle. “Are you serious right now?” she asks in a volume well above a whisper. “It’s going to be okay?”

  “Hear me out.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes,” I say, then wait. She roams her eyes around the room but stays put.

  “Fine,” she finally says. “What.” She barely ever says it like a question.

  “You prayed with Asher,” I start. “For him.”

  Her eyes widen. “He told you about that?”

  I nod. “You may have saved his life today.” It’s a bit dramatic, but you must meet people on their level.

  “That’s pushing it,” she calls me out.

  “The power of prayer isn’t something to be messed with. No, it’s not a magic potion or spell. It’s more than that. So much more. Never underestimate it, Kennedy. Whether in your head, by yourself in your room, or aloud with another person, prayer offers protection, comfort, healing, and redemption. Sometimes in the moment, and sometimes generations down the line. I firmly believe that where I am today is due, in part, to prayers your grandfather—your mother’s father—shared with me and for me ever since he met me.”

  Kennedy’s eyes flutter wildly back and forth across my face. “What does this have to do with all the other stuff? Asher aside.”

  I smile as broad as I can and, taking a risk, kiss her on the forehead. “Take what you did for Asher today and do it for yourself. Pray over all of those things, and I will, too. Hey, listen…”

  “Yeah?” Her hair had been up in a ponytail, but she removes the elastic and allows her hair to fall across her back.

  “I’m on my way to an AA meeting. It’s open, meaning you could come… if you wanted to. I’ve been meaning to ask, just so you can… see… but, maybe after all you’ve heard today, and from me for the last couple of years, you want to come?”

  Kennedy takes a hard breath and puffs out her cheeks. “Soon,” she answers. “But, not today if that’s okay?”

  I nod, trying to mask my disappointment but understanding completely. “Of course it’s okay. Just let me know when you’re ready and I’ll probably ask a half dozen times in between now and then, too.” I stand, not wanting her to feel like she has to be the one to leave, and I’ve got Asher in the car. “I’ll be home for dinner, okay? Want pizza?”

  She stands and shakes her head. “I’ll make us something.”

  Swallowing hard, all I can manage to do is nod before barely squeaking out, “Sounds great.”

  Turning on my heels I walk as casually as possible out of the church, when I really want to drop to my knees and thank God for this gift of a second chance with her.

  “Oh, Dad?” she calls after me, this time lifting a few heads among the praying crowd. Her voice echoes through far more than the building.

  Dad…

  She doesn’t call me that very often, and I don’t ever expect it from her, so I take what I can get.

  “What’s up?” I turn to find her walking after me.

  “Is Asher going to be okay?” she whispers.

  I give her a tight side hug. “He is. Just keep praying for him, okay?”

  She nods. “I will. See you at home.”

  “Yeah,” I exhale a sigh of gratitude. “See you at home.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  To The World

  Kennedy

  “Jesus never intended for Christianity to be a thing,” Roland states, pacing in front of our New Testament class on a fresh Friday morning. This sounds like a spinoff of his message from yesterday, so I’ll get to test how much I retained from his sermon. “In fact,” he continues, “his early followers simply called their path The Way. Jesus called himself The Way, and his earliest followers were just that—people who were following The Way.”

  Classes have been underway for a couple of weeks now, with the NBC camera crew in tow and so far, I’m happy to report, there haven’t been any casualties. When students arrived for move-in day, and a few days after, there was much excitement and giggling about the show. Some people were grumpy they weren’t asked to be a focus, although everyone is still trying to get on camera now and then—no matter how nonchalant they try to look.

  It’s not as weird being in Roland’s class as I thought it would be. But, we haven’t had any graded assignments yet, so I have time to revise my opinion of the whole thing.

  To be honest, I’m having a hard time focusing. My regular work schedule starts at Word tonight, and I’ve got Bible study, band rehearsal, and our first gig at Sunday’s service coming up all in the next three days. I know I’ll be able to balance the mechanics of the schedule easy enough, I’m just hoping I’m up to the task, emotionally speaking.

  “What we’re going to spend the next couple of weeks looking at, class, is all the I am statements Jesus made. Does anyone know what they are?”

  Cue Silas.

  “Yes, Silas?” Roland grins as if he heard my thoughts.

  Silas, directly to my left, speaks with confidence, but not the cocky vile kind he had when I first met him. His whole demeanor has changed since last year. He’s softer and gentler, in voice and manner.

  “Jesus makes seven ‘I am’ statements found in the book of John. The Bread of Life, The Gate—or Door in some translations—The Light of the World, The Good Shepherd, The Truth, The Life, and The Way—like you said.”

  Roland nods astutely. “Very good. Now you’ve all heard these statements throughout your entire lives.”

  Except for Kennedy.

  “But,” he continues, “how many of you have given thought to what each of them mean for your life? Why did Jesus bother to state these seven things about himself? We’re going to be breaking that down over the next several classes. And, at the end of it, each of
you will be given an I am statement on which you’ll write a personal essay.”

  What? I’ve skated through my time at CU without having to personalize a single thing in my coursework. When I first entered school, I was waiting for this moment—the time when I could throw all of my worldly “knowledge” into the faces of my professors. But now? First of all, my worldly knowledge has changed so much over the last several months that I’ve had to start reexamining everything I’ve once thought as true. Second of all, this is my dad’s class. I can’t decide if that makes things better or worse.

  The shuffling of papers and the zip of zippers throws Roland’s eyes to the clock. The verdict: the students are on time. Class is over. I usually participate in calling the professors’ attention to the fact that class is over, but I don’t with Roland. Again, the dad thing makes it confusing.

  I offer a quick wave to Roland as I zip my coat and throw my bag over my shoulder. I don’t make a show of lots of small talk with him after class. I don’t want the rest of the class to think I’m getting some sort of extra attention or special privilege from him, though it’s kind of a tough case to make since I live with him. And we’re filmed what feels like constantly.

  The TV crew.

  Yes, they’re sticking to the deal they made in all of our contracts that they’re only here two weekdays and so far they’ve been able to get footage on both Friday and Saturday. It was tricky but unsurprising wording in the contract. It was written to make sure a single student didn’t get filmed on both of those days, not that they would flat out choose one day. Living off campus, I haven’t been involved in the nightly floor prayer sessions, and that’s okay by me, but Eden says it’s weird having the cameras there. She says the girl named Adelaide, who is filming in her dorm, is nice and will usually only film for a couple of minutes—but it’s still weird.

  As if I’d need reasons to feel more naked in public prayer. However, my luck in that department will change on Sunday with the first service at New Life that Water on Fire will be singing at. The camera crew didn’t film at the first church service, per prior arrangement with Roland, so this will also be the first time they’re there. Filming us in our intercessions with God.