Revival Season - Monica West (10 ebook reader .TXT) 📗

at the end of each row; from my estimate, there were about six hundred of them. Way bigger than most of the revivals that Papa had conducted—twice the size of the previous ones this season in Tennessee and Arkansas.

I watched Papa like a hawk as he hoisted himself up onto the stage, his microphone-less voice barely audible in the emptiness. I needed to memorize every foot of this space without him knowing what I was doing. Trying to look as nonchalant as possible, I stayed close to Ma and clutched Hannah’s arm. All the while, I mimicked Papa’s steps from the back of the tent—my sandals shuffling on grass rather than up on the stage where he was. I made my hand into an O to practice holding the microphone when the time came. I knew so many of Papa’s motions by heart already, but since this would be bigger than any healing I’d ever attempted before, it needed to be exactly right.

When everyone was in bed that night, thoughts lapped the edges of my brain. Is this the right thing to do? Is this what God wants? I had felt so sure when we arrived here, but after seeing the tent and watching Papa make his final preparations, the conviction that had settled so firmly in my heart dissipated. I looked across the room at sleeping Hannah, nestled under the covers. This was all supposed to be for her, but maybe Mrs. Cade was right—maybe this was too big a thing to attempt.

I climbed out of bed and walked over to Hannah. Three months since the last seizure—a new record. I sank to my knees in front of her, my arms stretching to where her jutting shoulder blades were exposed under the thin sheet. I closed my eyes, and a prayer formed on my lips. “Dear God, if it is Your will for Your child to be healed, give me the strength, the ability, and the power to heal her. If it is not in Your will, reveal Your will to me. Amen.”

I expected to feel lighter when I rose from the edge of her bed, but I didn’t feel much different. It felt like God, who had always been near—the breeze behind me, the heat on my face when I prayed—was receding like the sun behind a cloud. As I was getting closer to my miracle, God’s will for me was getting more obscure.

Monday morning’s sunrise teased the horizon before breaking into full-fledged splendor. When God had previously revealed Himself to me, it always happened like this. Radiant sunrises, torrential downpours, rainbows—anything that we couldn’t control was a reminder of His power. It was God promising me that Hannah would be healed in Shelby. Tonight.

Thank you, Lord.

Hours after Papa and Caleb left with Reverend Dixon, I slid into a dress and zipped it in one motion. Then I lifted a stolen bottle of holy oil from the front of my suitcase and put it in the pocket of my dress. When we marched into the tent later that evening, my posture was a little straighter than normal as we took our seats in the fourth row.

“Can I sit on the aisle tonight, Ma?”

Ma nodded as I placed my hand over the protruding bottle of holy oil so no one would notice its outline through the thin layer of cotton. Hannah settled into her spot next to me, and I laid her crutches onto the ground in front of us. After I healed her, she wouldn’t need them.

The bulbs in the tent made an electric crackle overhead that was only matched by the low din of people’s voices as they filtered inside. I could barely sit still as people filed into the tent, whispering polite hellos to one another, asking about children, and fanning themselves with programs before finding their seats. The humid air breathed sweltering puffs into the spaces where the revival tent didn’t close.

The lights dimmed and people shuffled into their seats. The choir began with “Amazing Grace,” one of Papa’s favorites, as they marched into the tent in a single-file line. Papa, wearing a new gray suit he’d bought the week before, walked up: his slow, sure steps lingered several paces behind the black-clad choir as they swayed down the aisle. He lifted his hand to greet people, smiling as flashes from the congregation’s cameras and cell phones flickered. He walked up to the stage and took his seat. From high up, he must have noticed that this was the biggest crowd of the season so far.

When Papa stood up to begin the sermon, he looked confident. He loosened his tie and asked the congregation to turn with him to Matthew 24. My tongue went limp in the bottom of my dry mouth as I flipped to the chapter about the end of days. This was a brand-new sermon that he hadn’t preached in the past two cities, and he never deviated from the sermon order during revivals. This must have been what he’d been so busy coming up with since I’d told him I healed Ma.

“The message for today is about the end of days—the signs that God has given us to show that the end is near. The Scripture talks about wars, famines, and earthquakes. These are all things that will precede His triumphant return. But He also warns us about something more insidious—a threat from within the church.”

Papa paused and drummed his fingers on the podium as the congregation gasped—the reaction that he must have been waiting for. People nodded as he lifted a water bottle and placed it to his lips, earlier in the sermon than he normally did. Why is he doing this tonight? What does he know? My heartbeat got louder, drowning out his echoing words. Maybe this was a sign that I should abandon my plan. It wasn’t too late to call it off. No one would have to know. But I shook the thought away as quickly