Revival Season - Monica West (recommended ebook reader TXT) 📗

As Ma pulled into a space of flattened grass, I took inventory of the other cars that were already there, covered with a sheen of dust from driving up and down these country roads. I unbuckled Hannah from her seat and slid my left arm behind her back. Her leg braces made hollow sounds as I brought her down the minivan’s middle aisle, careful not to jostle her too much, even though she wasn’t as delicate as she seemed. The light from inside the tent illuminated the surrounding grassy area, and heads turned as we made our way inside. Some unfamiliar faces nodded politely while others just stared, their fans flapping in front of their faces, stirring the stale scent of old perfume and cigarettes. I wondered if they were thinking about the pregnant girl the way we all were. Wondered if those up front were there because they wanted to be close to the holy man or if they wanted to be close enough to bear witness to another fall.

We walked down the plastic aisle runner to the stage, where a sheet of fake grass was being rolled out. Caleb was there, standing behind the podium like Papa, complete with his hands on his hips. Onstage, he was no longer my brother; he was a miniature preacher, ready to reach out to the audience and lay holy, healing hands on people. He was placing bottles of water in strategic locations for when Papa would need them—one on the left side, and one on the right side. Papa always reached for the left one first, about twenty minutes into the sermon. The entire congregation seemed to hold its breath while he drank, waiting for his words to come out on the other side, promising people jobs, the ability to walk, the deliverance of wayward children, and everything in between.

The rugged crucifix hewn together from rough plywood boards had already been raised with cables behind the stage. Papa insisted on that type of cross rather than the fancier backlit ones. Jesus died on a simple cross, he said, and a simple cross was good enough for a preacher man like him.

We found our seats in the cordoned-off fourth row since we were never allowed to take the best seats in the house. All that was left to do was wait. An hour felt like an eternity in the still, humid air. With Hannah next to me and Ma fanning herself with the service bulletin, my lips mouthed the words to a prayer. No one else would say it, but we all wondered whether enough people would come out to see him. Papa had packed tents from Texas to Mississippi, but this revival season came with more questions than answers. I crossed my fingers and toes and prayed. It was always the same prayer, only this time it was more fervent: Dear Lord, bring souls to this revival to be saved. Amen.

Then, as if in answer to my prayer, more people started filing in. Mothers fresh from work in wrinkled uniform shirts with babies perched on their hips. A man whose fingers were black with grease marched down the middle aisle in probably the only suit he owned. Families, daughters my age, sons. Single people. Old people. I tilted my chin upward. Thank you, God.

The keyboard began a hymn, and the line of elders and deacons snaked down the middle aisle. Papa was at the end of the line, right behind Reverend Davenport. People rose when they saw him, and he took several extra moments to wave and shake the few hands that were lucky enough to be close. I watched him bask in the power that only a full tent provided, and by the time he reached the podium, he was the old Papa again. In my lap, my hands slowly released the leather cover of my Bible that I didn’t realize I’d been clutching.

When we faced the front again, he was in the pulpit with his hands gripping both sides of the plexiglass podium. He raised his arms and cleared his throat—a signal for everyone to get quiet. He brought down his hands, and the volume lowered with them. “You can do this,” I mouthed, even though he wasn’t looking at me. He rarely did during sermons.

All heads turned toward the stage for the call to worship. I didn’t know which one Papa would choose. As I looked to the pulpit, he spoke.

“ ‘Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; His love endures forever.’ ”

I smiled when he recited Psalms 106:1. It had been the subject of my devotional the week before we hit the road for Americus. I whispered the next couple of verses, even as Papa moved on to the opening prayer. Who can proclaim the mighty acts of the Lord or fully declare His praise? Blessed are those who act justly, who always do what is right. Remember me, Lord, when You show favor to Your people, come to my aid when You save them, that I may enjoy the prosperity of Your chosen ones, that I may share in the joy of Your nation and join Your inheritance in giving praise.

The murmuring of people behind me interrupted Papa’s prayer. I turned my neck in the slightest, fearing I’d see the unicorn T-shirt again or the light of a cell phone camera on him like last summer, but all their heads were down, and the only sound was from lips vibrating against each other as they recited their own prayers. Maybe it was all going to be fine. I caught back up to Papa as his voice waned.

“In the precious name of Jesus, our Savior and our Lord, I pray, Amen.”

“Amen,” came the choral reply. With each confident step back to his chair—one, two, three, four—my body tensed as the rest of us waited on a razor’s edge. Then he eased his weight back like he knew the seat would be there to catch him.

A row of