And then I smelled it.
For the first time ever, I smelled adoration.
I smelled worship.
Deep and earthy. And sweet. Like the lily of the valley that blanketed Gram's front lawn, the fragrance spread through the sky with the intensity of her praise. I wondered if she had any idea how sweet her devotion was in the heavenlies. How fragrant, how honeyed, how pleasing.
The rest of the service brought many similar questions. So much to see and smell, to take in. To process. And through it all Jake was there on one side and Canaan on the other. They didn't try to explain; they didn't ask me if I was okay.
They let me see.
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 . . ."
"You'll be the first to know."
"Thank you." He kisses my forehead and then settles back in the seat. "You going to nap the day away then?"
"I wish. I told Kay I'd meet her at Jelly's for lunch. You want to come?"
"I can't," he says. "Phil called. They need me at work."
"Again?" Between my classes and his extra shifts we haven't had much time together, and I'm all needy and crave-y right now. We could use a date. I nestle closer, trying to hold on to the last minutes I'll have with him today. "So does that mean no surprise?"
"Would you mind waiting? I could give it to you now, but-"
"No, you're right. I'd rather have time to thank you adequately. You have time for a quick bite at least?"
He kisses my forehead again, apologetic. "I have to be there at one."
I groan, but only a little. It's not his fault they're shorthanded, and if the Throne Room is to be trusted, we'll have the rest of our lives to be together.
"Good thing you had pancakes for breakfast."
"Yeah," he says, his shoulder suddenly rigid, "good thing."
I roll my face toward his, loving the feel of his shirt against my cheek, but hating whatever emotion suddenly has his face in a choke hold.
"What, you don't like my dad's pancakes?"
A muscle in his cheek twitches, but he says nothing. He pulls his beater onto our gravel driveway and parks it behind Dad's truck. I sit up, preparing myself for whatever's bubbling behind the silence.
"What's going on, Jake?"
It's another minute before he says anything, his fingers deathly still on my leg.
"Your dad hates me."
The words are flat. There's no anger in them, but I don't need the halo on my head to see the storm brewing in Jake's eyes. Dad's really gotten to him.
"I'm sorry about this morning. He can be a jerk sometimes. He doesn't like change, and having his Sundays interrupted is like the-"
"It's not just this morning. It's . . . Canaan's seen fear on your dad. He's seen it multiply when he looks at me."
Dad afraid of Jake? The thought is ludicrous. "Jake, this-"
"Have you seen it? The fear-have you seen it on your dad?" There's something of an accusation in his tone, and it irritates me.
"I see fear on everyone, Jake, all the time. I've seen fear on Kaylee when she's scrubbing a table at Jelly's, for crying out loud. I see fear on the pizza delivery guy and the mailman. I've seen it on Miss Macy. Jake, I've seen fear on you."
He blanches, but I press a hand to his chest, doing my best to still his thundering heart.
"Everyone's afraid of something. But I swear to you, I've never seen anything excessive on Dad. Nothing that he hasn't just shrugged off. If Canaan's seen it-"
"He has."
"It's not you," I say, squeezing his hand. "It's not you at all. It's . . . when he looks at you he sees . . ."
"God," Jake says, his voice quiet. "And your dad hates God. He hates that your mom put her trust in God and then she died."
I shift, moving away from him, from words that wedge into my ribs. I've come to grips with the reality that I may never understand my mom's death, but it still hurts when it's put out there like that. That for whatever reason God chose not to heal my mom.
"He thinks you trust your mom's God because I do. He can't see me without thinking of your mom. Without thinking of her death."
The car feels smaller. All this talk of death and hate, suffocating.
"I think you're overstating things a bit," I say, finding a shaky version of my voice. "I'm his daughter-the only one he has. He's jealous of my time and overprotective."
"No, it's more than that." Jake shakes his head. Fear is invisible to me without the halo in place, but I hear it in his words, see it in the heaviness of his shoulders. "Canaan's overprotective. Your dad's got a vendetta or . . ."
He looks at me, really looks at me. I'm not sure what it is he's seeing, but the hard shell of frustration that so quickly encased him begins to melt away. The rigidity leaves his arms and neck, and he hangs his head.
"I'm sorry," he says. "It's not you."
"Of course it's me. Dad's a part of me, of who I am." I run a finger from his ear down his jawline, wishing I could make this better for him. He closes his eyes at my touch, tiny bead-like tears pressing through his lashes. My heart breaks, and I press my lips to his. "I'm sorry this is so hard. I'm sure he'll . . ."
"Come around?" Jake finishes. "But what if he doesn't?"