Chapter Thirty-One
I take another sip of my coffee and lean back in the padded leather chair I pulled into the Sunshine Saints room.
Mrs. Patricia is out of town for a family funeral so I’m on my own this morning.
Birds chirp in the branches brushing against the window and sunlight slants through the dusty glass, hitting the empty tables with a romantic glow.
The room lacks warmth without Mrs. Patricia.
Her mothering nature, the way she dotes on details like arranging the crayons and papers, makes the space feel akin to home.
I thought I’d be calmer without her here; I don’t have to double-check all my thoughts before I say them aloud and there’s no need to worry that any moment alone with her will turn into a conversation about Camp Refuge.
Instead, I’m anxious about running an entire class by myself.
The lesson is simple. I have my notes. I have the game I created. I picked out a board book for reading time. And I printed off pictures for the kids to color. All my bases are covered.
But my stomach is still in knots.
Could be that this is my third cup of coffee.
I hear gravel crunching outside and step up to the window, holding my travel mug like a lifeline as I watch parents lead their tired toddlers to the front steps.
Two full hours to fill. Starting now.
For the first ten minutes, I stand by the entrance to my classroom, waving in familiar faces and catching new faces who look lost. That’s the thing about Sunday school; there are usually a few kids who come every Sunday and some who we will only see once.
That’s how it was when I was in Sunshine Saints.
Jameson, Yasmin, and I were always here.
We always had each other, and if one of us was sick, we could still count on someone else to be there, someone that we knew.
I head to the front of the room, shifting on my feet as I start with an opening prayer.
Mrs. Patricia usually asks the kids about their week or their weekend.
I figure that’s a great way to use up some time, so we go around the room and everyone shares something from their week.
The contents vary from winning a game of dodgeball to finding a great rock at the park.
When it’s my turn to talk, to start the lesson, my hands get shaky. The kids don’t seem to notice, and maybe my death grip on my Bible helps.
“Today, we’re going to discuss the parable of the sheep and the goats.”
I glance around, trying to make eye contact with everyone in the room.
Mrs. Patricia said it helps the kids to behave, to know that I am paying attention to them.
Looking into their eager faces, their interest genuine—albeit tired—pushes me to keep going.
I channel Mrs. Patricia, the way she fluctuates her tone to make the verses sound captivating, how she changes her voice when there’s dialogue.
“And then,” I say, lifting a picture I printed of sheep and goats, “the sheep will go to the right and the goats to the left—”
One of the girls near the front raises her hand. She doesn’t wait for me to call on her before asking, “Why does Jesus call them sheep and goats instead of just people?”
A few kids nod, their eyes wide, probably wondering the same thing.
“Well… um, you know how Jesus is often referred to as a shepherd?”
A murmuring of yeses passes over the room.
“Back then, people knew that sheep and goats acted differently. Sheep follow their shepherd, the way we follow Jesus. Goats were more independent—they did their own thing. So, what Jesus is trying to show here is that people who follow Him and His ways are like sheep following the shepherd. Does that make sense?”
“So, sheep are good and goats are bad?” the girl asks, scrunching up her face in confusion.
“I saw goats at the petting zoo,” Zamir, a regular at Sunshine Saints, chimes in. “Was that goat bad?”
This gets more of the kids going. They talk over each other about the time they saw a goat or petted a sheep on a farm. A girl at one table starts talking about how sweaters are made from sheep, and I clap my hands super loud to get everyone’s attention back on me.
“The parable isn’t talking about actual sheep and goats. The sheep are Christians, like us, and the goats are nonbelievers,” I explain. “The goats and sheep you see on the farm or at carnival petting zoos are all good—”
“Unless they bite you!”
“Zamir, please raise your hand when you want to speak. Okay?” I say over the eruption of squeals and giggles.
“Okay, Ms. Jones.”
Ms. Jones… has a nice ring to it.
I press on with the lesson, glad that the kids seem more awake and more attentive. After we finish reading the scripture, we move on to coloring.
I circulate, commenting on their color choices and encouraging the kids who are still deciding on their artistic direction.
I watch them, getting sucked into a few groups or pairs.
Friends share crayons even though they each have their own set, consulting each other about the best colors to use.
Some of the girls get distracted, trading plastic flower barrettes like friendship bracelets.
That’s something Yasmin and I did when we were little.
I’m jealous of their joy, wishing I could go back in time to when this room was a place of fun and comfort and didn’t leave me with a constant sense of unease.
“Who’s ready for a game?”
I break out the “cards” I made at home and explain the rules of the Right Hand of God game I made up the other night.
The cards have printed pictures of different people, ranging from firefighters and doctors to robbers and bullies.
Believers, sheep who follow the shepherd, go to the right hand of God.
Nonbelievers, or goats, go in a pile to the left.
By the end of the game, it’s clear the kids understand the scripture. Mrs. Patricia would say today was a success.
With the art supplies put away and the tables wiped down with Pledge, I take one last look at the room.
“Clarity?”
I whip around, slamming my hip into the edge of the desk. Jameson takes a hesitant step forward, as if he might catch me, but I wave him off and press a hand to my side. My hip is sure to bruise, but I’ll live.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s fine,” I say, forcing a breath. “Dana’s with your aunt. If you’re here for her—”
“I’m not. I, uh, wanted to talk to you.”
I exhale, keeping my expression neutral. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” he interrupts, meeting my eyes. “I do.”
Silence settles between us, Jameson fidgeting with a loose thread on his shirt, looking nervous and maybe a little lost.
“The way things went down at camp wasn’t right.” He shakes his head, his voice quieter now. “The way I handled it wasn’t right. I should’ve stood up for you. I’m sorry I didn’t.”
My throat tightens. When Jameson sent me that text, I didn’t simply lose him as a friend. It was like he was punishing me by taking himself away. And while I’ve come so far in accepting myself, I didn’t know how much I needed to hear those words until now.
“What changed?”
He hesitates, letting out an exhale so big, it seems to carry more than air. “When Yasmin said you weren’t a real Christian, I realized that’s not true. At least, I don’t think it is. She can’t judge you or decide that about you… which is exactly what I did.”
As I was researching today’s lesson, I came across scriptures about sin and judgment, specifically about how people can’t judge each other. Only God can. And now Jameson is here, echoing that back to me…
“Nothing has changed, you know? I’m—” I take a breath, pushing against all the pressure to not say the words. “I’m with Hannah. We’re together. And I don’t think that’s wrong or something I’m supposed to repent for.”
I don’t know if Jameson wants to be friends again, but if his apology is a step in that direction, he should know who he’s trying to be friends with.
He nods slowly, his eyes flickering with something thoughtful. “Do you know what Mrs. Patricia says about you?”
Not what I was expecting him to say.
“Uh, no.”
“She told my aunt that you’re special, someone the kids can look up to. That you put your heart into everything you do here and you’re an example of what she hopes all her saints will turn into.”
“She said that?” I ask, leaning against the desk now, not because I’m in pain but because I feel like I could fall over.
Jameson nods. “Dana tells us about the lessons when we pick her up. She even said ‘Ms. Jones’ showed her the right way to pray.” He chuckles at the thought before his eyes settle back on me. “You make a difference because that’s who you are. It’s who you’ve always been.”
I blink, overwhelmed. Mrs. Patricia thinks I have something to offer Sunshine Saints, not the other way around.
Which would mean she’s not trying to use Bible study as a way to send a message about my sexuality.
She wants me to teach, believes I have an impact, even after what happened at camp. She believes that I belong here.
I look at Jameson, and even though he’s the guy I’ve been friends with for more than ten years, he’s simultaneously… not. He’s different, maybe because I don’t see him the same after everything that’s happened or maybe because he’s changed.
“I forgive you,” I say, meaning it. “And I appreciate you apologizing.”
I don’t know if that changes anything between us, but I don’t think it needs to. Jameson isn’t the person I thought he was.
And thankfully, neither am I.