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

and heaving—and slowly, methodically, began to repack the overturned boxes. I felt frozen in place, but watching this diminished version of Papa was painful. It must have been excruciating for Caleb and Ma, too, because we all turned around and continued loading the car in silence. This time, there would be no map with directions to the next revival site, no prayer for a record number of souls saved or healed. We slipped away before the Dixons arrived home—the gold gate clanging shut and permanently separating us from a world we would never inhabit again.

The minivan skittered across the double yellow line that divided us from the semis speeding in the opposite direction, their horns blaring staccato rhythms before droning off as they passed. Papa, gripping the wheel as though it would fly away if he let go, swerved the minivan back onto our side of the yellow paint. The road was hypnotic as it rose in front of us, lulling me to sleep in the seat behind where Caleb and Hannah were huddled, her head under the fold of his arm instead of mine, the cast on my right leg propped up on pillows on the empty seat beside me where she should have been.

When I woke up, a bright, bold sunrise shone through the windows of our car that was no longer moving. Papa had stopped by the side of the road, and a slight breeze entered through the open doors. I looked out and saw Papa step onto a narrow path, lifting a few branches before moving onto an expanse of sand that led to a surface so glassy blue that sunlight bounced off it and refracted in multiple directions. The Atlantic Ocean. He had never taken us to the ocean before—I’d only seen it from the road, my forehead fused to the warm window as a seat belt pinned me in place.

I stepped out on crutches as Papa inched toward the ocean, his heavy dress shoes sinking into the sand. Caleb carried Hannah into the blinding early-morning sunshine while Ma, a few steps behind Caleb, held Isaac. Dwarfed by the ocean, Papa dropped to his knees in the sand; his head and hands fell forward as though he were being tugged by a different gravitational pull. Ma reflexively rushed to his side and stopped a few feet away as his forehead reached the sand and his arms stretched out in front of him. His voice rose from the sand, quiet at first, but shouting before long. His prayers were angry, his chest heaving.

“Why—why—why?” Each word sputtered out like he couldn’t muster enough steam for the whole sentence. He took a breath and composed himself. “Why me? You are the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; You keep Your promises. I have been Your faithful servant, and You have turned Your back on me. What have I done but serve You? What have I done but try to be like You and do Your will?”

I thrust my crutches into the sand and took a few steps back, even as Ma stepped closer to him. We were intruding on something private.

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” His voice reached an angry crescendo as he cried out the same helpless words that Jesus did when He was dying on the cross, when He felt abandoned by God. Papa repeated the question louder and louder as the tide washed in and receded, erasing the tracks that his fingers had traced.

Before Bethel, the trip back to Texas had always been full of reminiscences. We’d laugh as we shared different versions of Remember when Papa did this? This time, we waited silently in the minivan as Papa walked back from the beach. Ma and Caleb had come back to the car after Papa’s words had broken into sobs, after he’d been lying prostrate on the sand for minutes that dragged on.

Papa didn’t say anything either as he climbed in, jerked the car into gear, and pulled away from the ocean. In radio static and silence, we sped down streets that pressed in on us and turned down a highway that unfolded into more monotony. An hour ticked away without anyone uttering a word—although the words from Papa’s prayer on the beach seemed to echo through the upholstery. Papa was never a man to admit when he was wrong—he fought against facts about the order of presidents or the population of the towns we visited for revival season. Well, just because that book says it’s true doesn’t mean it really is. It was his standard response to avoid saying that he’d made a mistake. But he couldn’t rely on that excuse now. He had finally broken—I had been the one to break him—but there was no joy in the admission.

Papa stopped for gas at a station about six hours away from the ocean. The rest of us exhaled when he left the van, but we didn’t say anything to fill the vacuum of silence. Ma made eye contact with me in the rearview mirror, nodding her head toward the mini-mart. I took my cue to scuttle inside and use the restroom. I’d barely climbed back into the car before Papa accelerated and peeled away. The dull pain in my ribs became sharp as I knocked into the door. Papa was watching me as I winced, but his eyes revealed no sympathy.

We drove nonstop in the reverse direction—west instead of east—weaving in front of semis without signaling, going above the speed limit even when night fell. When Ma would have normally told him to stop at a hotel for the night, she let him continue driving.

A large sign loomed overhead: WELCOME TO TEXAS. There was no glory in going home—it felt like surrender as we passed drugstores and playgrounds and even the darkened steeple of Papa’s church. A red light stopped us by the wrought-iron arches leading to the cemetery where Isaiah was buried. I wondered if Ma and Papa