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

had loved me once—that love couldn’t have just disappeared. And I had loved him once too.

“Here’s one more.”

“Miriam, this isn’t going to fit,” he snapped. “The trunk is already full. This box will have to go in the back seat with you.”

My shock at the sharpness of his raised voice sent the box out of my arms and onto the driveway. Hannah’s toys flew out as the cardboard flap opened. Tiger, a rag doll, and other colorful plastic baubles that kept her quiet at night rolled down the driveway. I rushed after them, snatching Tiger from the fate of the waiting sewer grate. I stuffed all the toys back into the box, Tiger’s floppy head drooping from the side in his own silent protest, before I shoved the box in the back seat.

As we settled in the car, Ma said the obligatory parting prayer: “Lord, watch over these, Your children. Use us to do Your will. Amen.” Papa looked over his shoulder as he eased the minivan down the driveway and rumbled onto the road. I never liked to watch the house receding in the rearview mirror—to know that when we came back in three months, the structure, though physically the same, would feel different. But the house hadn’t provided me with the comfort it usually did this past year, so maybe different would be okay.

Normally, families lined the side of our street to wave goodbye to us. The littlest kids from homeschool would hold poster-board signs that they’d decorated in the last few days before summer break—rudimentary crayon letters formed barely legible words that Ma had dictated while standing over their shoulders. Papa would put down his window and we would hear the shouting of our last name—Horton, Horton—accompanied by applause. We would wave like celebrities until reaching the stop sign, when the crowd died down. Today, the sidewalks were empty and silent as Papa drove slowly down the street. With each glance out of the window, he waited for someone to realize we were leaving and come outside, but no one did. Ma sang to Isaac to quiet his cries as we got onto the highway—her lilting lyrics about climbing Jacob’s ladder modulated into higher octaves and drowned out the music from the radio. The rest of the minivan joined in with her at the chorus: “Soldiers of the cross.”

FIFTEEN

Shelby Church of the New Covenant—the third and final stop on this new iteration of revival season—was at the end of a dirt road, miles away from the highway and anything else that resembled civilization. It sprang from the dust that surrounded it like a mirage—wavy at first, and then the sharp perpendicularity of white towers, gold turrets, and a sloped cathedral started to take shape. Ma and Papa always warned against places like this, places that worshipped vanity more than God, yet there we were, pulling into the biggest parking lot that I had ever seen, turning off the engine, and piling out of the car.

I stretched my legs, looked up at the cloudless sky, and closed my eyes. A miracle will happen here. A light breeze ruffled the trees and blew across my face, confirming the conviction that had just settled in my soul. I will heal Hannah here. Despite my fervent prayers every night, the conviction hadn’t come among the modest crowds during the previous weeks in Tennessee or Arkansas—crowds that Papa had stood in front of, staring at me as he proclaimed that he’d healed members of his church from diabetes and heart disease. But now time was running out—the miracle had to happen in Shelby if it was going to happen at all.

Caleb pushed open the heavy gold doors that led inside, offering a partial glimpse of the sanctuary. The carpet looked like no one had set foot on it before. I wanted to take my shoes off to feel the plushness beneath my toes.

“Reverend Dixon?” Papa asked into the empty room. The words echoed off the dozens of rows of gleaming white pews.

“Reverend Horton, welcome!” A short man with thick gold chains around his neck came out from behind the pulpit where he must have been crouched. All along I’d been trying to imagine what the man who pastored this church would look like. As he descended the stairs to get on our level, he was smaller than I imagined—a couple of inches shorter than Caleb. A white short-sleeved dress shirt contrasted his deep-brown skin and revealed a thick layer of coarse hair on his arms. The clink of gold bracelets resonated through the empty sanctuary as he reached out and shook Papa’s hand that enveloped his like a catcher’s mitt. Papa forced a smile as he introduced us.

“Anyone in the mood to go to the revival space?”

I wanted to settle into the place that would be our house for the week, but my opinion meant nothing as Papa told Reverend Dixon that he’d be happy to. As we followed Reverend Dixon’s gold luxury SUV along a winding North Carolina road to the revival location, I pressed my face against the warm window and watched the trees pass by at a rapid pace. Reverend Dixon turned a corner, and the familiar outline of a tent took shape: with its swirling yellows and blues, it could have been mistaken for a circus tent.

We stepped out of the car. Papa jumped out first and walked around the perimeter, examining the tent’s stakes that had been driven deep into the ground. While he traced his forefinger on the tent’s vinyl walls, he was seemingly trying to measure how many souls he could deliver and heal in one night’s time. Caleb hung back for a minute after Papa went into the tent—his reluctant support of Papa had become more obvious this revival season. Hannah and I stayed with Ma and Isaac in the back of the tent while Papa walked up and down the aisles. His fingers grazed the wooden folding chairs