And that was enough. They kept busy worshiping alongside the other believers—believers who hadn’t seen what I’d seen and had still chosen to follow.
Would I have believed if I hadn’t seen?
It was a question I couldn’t answer.
We shook hands with these other believers, learned their names.
And then I shed brand-new tears when the minister, Pastor Noah, stepped to the pulpit and opened his Bible. I’ve since learned that he’s Dad’s age, but with a clean-shaven chin and callous-free hands, Pastor Noah looked a good decade younger than my father. Until that morning, I thought the Christmas story began with “’Twas” and ended with “and to all a good night.”
I’d seen nativity scenes, of course, and knew about baby Jesus and the Virgin Mary, but it was all so childish, so implausible.
But that morning I heard the story—I really heard it—the pastor shining like the great star above Bethlehem as he explained. I saw the truth of it in his eyes, in the eyes of the believers around me, and I understood why a Savior had to be born. I choked with joy as I played connect the dots with a series of Bible verses and finally understood just why that tiny baby had to grow up and die.
Every Sunday from then till now has been filled with the same wonder. I like the stories, especially the ones about angels, but I don’t understand everything I hear or read. Canaan’s been good to put things in historical context for me, and Jake’s made it his mission in life to help me memorize Scripture. He says we’ve been given weapons and we have to know how to use them.
Try as I may, I can’t imagine my words doing much to a demon. Not one so massive and terrifying as Damien. But there were a lot of things I couldn’t imagine before. So I’m doing my best to learn.
Stephanie sits at the piano again this morning. The halo’s on my wrist, so I’m not seeing or smelling the worship like I did that first Sunday, but I’m enamored nonetheless. I’ve never heard the song she’s singing, but the words feel at home in my head and in my heart.
May the vision of you be the death of me. And even though you’ve given everything, Jesus come.
I don’t sing. That would ruin the song entirely. But I close my eyes and imagine what these words would look like on the dance floor, what the melody would demand of my arms and legs, of my torso and the tilt of my head.
“Shane & Shane,” Jake whispers quietly. “They wrote this.” Shane & Shane is Jake’s favorite band. He’ll have a copy, then. Good, because I simply must dance to this.
After the service, Pastor Noah cuts through the crowd. He shakes Jake’s hand and squeezes me lightly, leaving the scent of aftershave hanging about my shoulders.
“And Canaan?” he says. “Where is he this morning? I was hoping to have a word with him.”
“He’s working,” Jake says. “Out of town for a couple days.”
“Could you have him call me when he returns? I’d like his thoughts on something.”
“Sure.”
I make small talk with Becky, the pastor’s wife, while Jake types Pastor Noah’s number into his phone.
“We’d love to have you over again, Brielle,” she says. “Your father, too, if he’s up for it.”
“Oh, thank you. I’d like that and, um, I’ll let Dad know. You believe in miracles, right?”
“I do,” she says with a laugh. “I absolutely do.”
The ride home is quiet. I lean against Jake’s shoulder, tired, the nightmare taking its toll. Sunlight presses through the dirty windows of his beat-up Karmann Ghia, settling around me like a blanket.
“You’re making tired noises,” Jake says.
“That’s ’cause I’m tired. Didn’t sleep very well last night.”
“That’s weird for you, isn’t it?” he asks.
“I had a nightmare. First one since the halo, I think.”
“And you had it with you?”
“I put it under my pillow like I always do, but this morning it was on the ground. Probably knocked it off the bed.”
Jake’s quiet, and that means he’s thinking. Dissecting. Trying to solve the Rubik’s cube of life.
“Don’t overanalyze, okay? I had a busy day. I was restless.”
But Jake doesn’t look convinced. “You’ve never been restless before with the halo.”
“Canaan said I’d eventually grow more accustomed to it, right? That it won’t always affect me so intensely.”
He scans my face. “Yeah, I guess. If it happens again, though . . .”