Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father

I clear my throat and take another deep breath. I have a feeling I’ll be taking a lot of those this year. I’m nervous. I feel…embarrassed, somehow. Naked, maybe? Will I say the right thing? Silently, I beg for help, and my mind goes blank but my mouth moves.

“Thank you, God,” is all I can say before tears flood my eyes. If I felt naked before, it’s like I’ve removed my skin and have been ordered to walk through town that way. Skinless.

I can’t say Jesus for some reason. It’s too real, too close. I know I should. I’ve read the blogs, the books, and watched the movies. I know that’s what you’re supposed to do in prayer. Talk to Jesus. These girls on either side of me seem to be best friends with someone I know I’m supposed to be as close to, but, suddenly, I feel a million miles away from.

I can’t say Jesus.

Seeming to sense my loss of words, Bridgette closes for us. “In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”

“Amen,” we say in unison, an odd quiet settling around us.

“Sorry,” I chuckle and decide to stretch the truth slightly, “prayer makes me emotional sometimes.”

Eden’s face carries an almost drugged calm. “I totally get what you mean. Prayer is amazing.”

“Are you majoring in Ministry?” Bridgette asks of Eden as she leans back on her elbows.

Eden shakes her head. “I want to be a pastor’s wife.”

Then, I blurt it out. “Funny. I didn’t see that on the course offerings.” I slap my hand over my mouth, my face raging with heat.

By some force of grace, Bridgette and Eden burst into laughter.

“I know.” Eden giggles. “I just meant that I don’t want to pastor. Well, I don’t feel God wants me to pastor. I want that in the man God chooses for me…if that’s what God wants, too. I’m majoring in Music and Worship Studies, though.”

“A perfect match,” Bridgette asserts.

A lot of the blogs from PKs—Preachers’ Kids—I read this past summer seemed to indicate that their mothers were somehow involved in the musical portion of Jesus’ street team. This allows me to nod along with Bridgette in confidence.

And, frankly, Eden just looks like she’d be a perfect pastor’s wife. She’s charismatic in a soft manner. And, I mean, come on—she almost got me to say Jesus in prayer. She’s good.

“Come on,” Eden stretches as she stands, “let’s go get dinner and meet up with the guys.”

“Guys?” I question, feeling like a late invite to the party.

“Mmm hmm,” Bridgette nods with a mischievous smile. “All the guys.”

The excited looks on the faces of my roommates make me blush and laugh along with them. As we near the large dining hall in the center of campus, however, my nerves take over.

In a tiny dorm room with two champions for Jesus, I nearly lost my wits—almost spilling about my dad and my general lack of knowledge of anything they were talking about ever. How am I going to fare, I wonder, when plunked in the middle of several hundred? Of them.





CHAPTER THREE


Strong Enough


Upon entering Mission Hall, the largest dining hall on campus, my ears are suddenly those of superheroes. I’m not hearing a gentle hum of conversation. Rather, I seem to be picking up on nearly every conversation around me all at once.

“If you’ve read Not a Fan, then you have to read Follow Me next. It’s, like, bringing me to this deep place in my faith that I didn’t even know existed.”

“Have you heard Rand Collective’s new song? Brilliant, right?”

“Man, I hope God chooses her for me.”

The last one is said in the quietest whisper, and I only hear it because whoever said it did so just as my roommates and I walked past. I’m certain they’re asking about Eden, since she blushes, but it’s the strangest thing. The guy who said it is blushing just as much—his head down and his friends looking anywhere but at us. It’s like he really didn’t intend for Eden to hear him. I chalk this up to the biggest social difference between students here and those at any other university I applied to: relations with the opposite sex.

Rules are strict here—as they are at most other evangelical universities—regarding such relations. Couples are not permitted to kiss on the mouth or do any sort of intimate touching on or off campus. Hand holding is the maximum skin contact, and the kiss on the cheek needs to be discreet and respectful of each person and everyone around. Whatever that means.

We aren’t even allowed to go off campus with members of the opposite sex unless a bizarre set of requirements are met. For instance, according to the student handbook, if I want to go with a boy to dinner, we need to have a chaperone with us.

I’m serious.

Further, if groups of friends want to go out, they’re “strongly encouraged” to have an odd number. So, three boys and two girls, or two boys and three girls—you get the idea—I imagine to discourage that evil “pairing off” thing young people tend to do. The whole thing left my head spinning, honestly, and I decided before I got here that I was going to avoid the whole dating situation all together.

Maybe that’s their goal.