Revival Season Monica West book recommendations for young adults TXT 📖

sternum like a worm. The furrows radiating from the main scar made the entire wound look like outstretched tree branches thrown into relief against the flatness of her chest. There were at least a dozen surgeries behind those scars—we had prayed for each of them. In all of that time, Papa hadn’t been able to make her heart whole again. Who was she to think that I could?

“Help me,” she pleaded after my eyes hadn’t moved from her chest.

I turned the knob all the way to the right and stepped into the glow of the church hallway.

Later that night, the veiled moonlight was replaced by an inky darkness that was thick and heavy as it poured inside the open bedroom window. My bedspread was a lead blanket as occasional lights from passing cars danced across the wall. I closed my eyes, and Dawn’s features—the hollow in her cheekbones, the unexpected dip of her Cupid’s bow—materialized. The burning emptiness of my stomach ached in the place where dinner would have been, but I hadn’t been able to eat after Dawn’s questions.

What harm could it do? The question carelessly dropped from Dawn’s lips as though it was just about harm. But I knew it was bigger than that—it was about sin. According to First Corinthians, spiritual gifts were doled out to men and women equally, but according to Papa, women weren’t allowed to exercise those gifts over men. So even if a woman could speak in tongues or heal, it would be sinful to act on this ability. When Papa preached those sermons, I had written down his words as gospel, nodding as he spoke. Sitting awake in my bedroom, the words to his sermon ricocheted in my skull, louder than they had been when he preached them. But there were other questions that followed: Why would God give us gifts that we couldn’t use? Why had my words over Micah worked—even if just for a little while?

Dawn had asked me what harm there was in trying. She didn’t understand that it would cause a scandal along the lines of something the church had never seen. My father, the head of the church, had tried to heal Dawn on multiple occasions. Anything I did to discredit him would disrupt the delicate ecosystem of our church, throwing everything that the Lord had established, and Papa had built, into chaos.

In the days that followed, I tried to forget Dawn’s request, but my attempts to push her to the back of my mind only meant that I thought about her with every Bible recitation and before-meal prayer. By the time we stepped out of the car at the next Friday’s healing service, I spun around when I heard a crackle, only exhaling when I discovered that the sound had been branches in the wind.

I bowed my head and said a prayer before stepping inside the sanctuary—the selfish prayer that Dawn wouldn’t be in service today. On the other side of the heavy sanctuary door, Dawn was nowhere in sight to hear my mumbled prayer of thanks. Papa took his box of holy oil bottles from Ma—brand-new for today’s service—and marched into the pulpit with more confidence than he had last week. As each minute ticked closer to the beginning of service, Papa’s movements were looser and more languid as mine contracted until my muscles became ropes pulled too tight.

“ ‘Give thanks to the Lord for He is good,’ ” Papa commanded.

“ ‘His mercy endures forever,’ ” the congregation responded.

“All who have come to be healed, come to the altar for a touch from the Lord.”

The usual suspects got out of their seats—next to me, Micah shifted and leaned forward. I looked over at her—this would be the worst time for her to have another episode.

“Are you okay?” I tapped her leg, reaching into my pocket reflexively for a piece of candy. Papa was making his way to the ground—too busy to see Micah having a relapse. But she was still, not shaky, and her skin wasn’t clammy to the touch.

“Micah,” I repeated. I held the wrapped candy in my lap for her to grab. But she didn’t see it as she craned her neck forward and made eye contact with her dad. Deacon Johnson looked back at her and winked. Micah stood up and stretched her legs, then she took careful steps into the aisle.

“Micah,” I thought I whispered, but it must have been loud enough for Ma to hear two rows in front of us. Her finger shot in front of her lips, but her eyes widened when she saw Micah standing. She shook her head, but it was too late—Micah was already in the aisle. Papa had placed his hands on an older woman’s head, completely oblivious to Micah, who was now at the end of the line.

I kept my eyes on where Micah had shifted two steps closer to the front of the line. My heart sped up as Deacon Johnson came from the altar to stand by her side. As he put his arm around her shoulders, I waited to see him lean over and tell her that she was making a mistake. But instead, they inched closer to the front where Papa still hadn’t looked up.

Unlike her traditional slouched posture, Micah stood with her shoulders pulled back. I had just seen her that morning, and in all the time we’d spent together, she’d given me no inkling of what she was about to do. I had kept my end of the bargain—I hadn’t told anyone that she had gotten sick again. And she had kept my secret about healing her. So what was she doing?

Papa saw them when they were in the middle of the line—a flash of confusion passed over his squinting eyes and creased brow. He managed to compose himself for the next few healings, ironing his rutted forehead as people fell to the ground in heaps and stepping over them to move down the line. Finally, Micah and her