Chapter 10
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August
I f not for the guilt-induced compromise I made with Gabby after our argument on Friday night, I never could have imagined walking into the megachurch where my sister spends the majority of her free time. And if not for said compromise, I would have timed my arrival to be well after the threat of small talk in the lobby was over and the song service had ended. But today, I remind myself, is about supporting my sister. Which is the only reason I’m here five minutes early. That, and the chance to have a little chat with Tyler, man to man.
While I’ve dropped her off here dozens of times to meet up with her tutor and, eventually, her friends from the youth group, I’ve never attended a full service. It’s been a sore spot in our relationship to be sure—one I’ve tried to smooth over as gently as possible. But despite my efforts, she still doesn’t understand my reasonings. And honestly, that’s probably for the best. Gabby deserves the comfort s he’s found in her faith, even if comfort is the last thing I feel when I walk through the large lobby.
My first real observation of note is the vast difference between this church and the small neighborhood chapel Gabby and I grew up attending with our parents. For that, at least, I’m grateful.
If this church was a video game, I passed the first level with bonus points when I scored a parking spot that wasn’t a fifteen-minute hike to the front doors. Level two is to dodge every welcome greeter posted outside the sanctuary doors with breath mints and bulletins. This challenge takes a bit more strategy, but as soon as I see an older gentleman get caught in a conversation about his grandkids, I make my move, undetected. Level three should be fairly straightforward: find a seat near the back where I can avoid being asked to fill out one of those visitor information cards advertised all over the lobby like it’s Times Square.
The visitor marketing campaign looks to be an exchange program of sorts, the card for a free gift located at one of the kiosks near the cafe. But not even the coolest free pen or plastic water bottle in the world is enough to convince me to take a second glance at that card. Perhaps if the incentivized gift was an indefinite no-small-talk pass, the number of responses would be infinitely larger.
I’m side-shuffling down a row near the back of the sanctuary, in search of the perfect seat for invisibility, when I spot a face through the massive crowd that must be a doppelg?nger. Because there is simply no other explanation for why Sophie Wilder would be in this room, much less for why she would be speaking to a young woman near the stage who resembles my sister.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
“If you’re in a hurry, you can go right on ahead and pass me, mister,” quips the white-haired woman blocking the middle of my row with her walker. “I know where I’m going, I just don’t know how many more times the good Lord is gonna make me waddle these aisles before I get there.”
“Oh, sorry.” I hold up my hands. “My comment wasn’t meant for you.”
S he looks around before quirking a barely-there eyebrow at me. “You lonely, son?”
I nearly choke. “What?”
“People talk to themselves more when they’re lonely. It’s a fact.” She scans the large auditorium. “Just ask any widow and widower in here, they’ll tell ya.”
Okay, so maybe it’s not only small talk I’d like to avoid. “I, uh, I’m sure you’re correct.”
Still hunched over her walker, she gives me a once over. When a flicker of awareness crosses her face, I grow even more uncomfortable. “You a member at this church?”
I want to lie. I want to lie so badly that my tongue is already forming the word yes . “No, ma’am.”
With a nod, she braces one age-spotted hand on the handle of her walker and then pulls out a wad of colorful flyers from her front basket. She thrusts them at my chest. “There’s a blue newcomer’s card in that mess somewhere. Make sure you fill it out.” She winks. “They’ll give you a free pen.”
Level three: failed.
“Thanks.” I pull the blue card out of her stack and then glance up to see the instant Gabby and Sophie find me. They wave for me to join them up front, where they have apparently secured some seats . Wonderful.
“Those your friends up there?”
“It appears so,” I say flatly.
“Then here, you’ll need these, too.” She reaches back down into her basket again to hand me a tiny package I recognize immediately. “Disposable earplugs,” she clarifies. “They’re a great-grandmother’s best friend.” The irony in this day has reached an all-time high.
With that, she turns and plants herself on the chair with a huff that sounds like the deflation of a bike tire. “What’s your name, son?”
“August.”
She sticks out her hand, and I lean down to shake it from where I’m still standing in the center of this row. “I’m Bonnie Brewer. I sit h ere every Sunday so I can get to my handicap spot in the parking lot before some teenager trying to get their Holy Hamburger from In-N-Out can mow me down first.” She chuckles and coughs. “Enjoy the service.”
And with that, she starts flipping through her deconstructed bulletin again.
“Thanks,” I say. “You too, Mrs. Brewer.”
As I turn to exit, making my way around knees and over purses and bags and coffee cups, I hear Bonnie’s craggy voice call out after me, “Don’t be a stranger!”
I head to the front of the auditorium, where Sophie is chatting with a young couple in the seats in front of her. But Gabby waves at me, Tyler by her side.
“Hey, man. Thanks for coming this morning,” Tyler says with a too-eager grin. It’s remarkable how clearly he speaks—even without the help of aids or a cochlear implant. Was that a testament to his mother being a speech therapist? I’m sure it couldn’t hurt. From what I’ve researched on the subject, early intervention is highly recommended.
Gabby stands comfortably by his side when she reaches for my arm. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
I nod, feeling the need to unbutton my shirt collar at the sight of them standing so close. How had I been so blind to miss the forming attachment between them? “I was hoping to catch you two before you left the driveway this morning.” I make sure to look Tyler in the eye, wondering if he’ll be able to lip-read what I’ve just said. Gabby has bragged many times about this superpower of his. No time like the present to put it to the test.
He dips his chin in acknowledgment. “Sorry I missed you. I came to the door, but Gabby said you were in the shower. We were hoping to get here in plenty of time to rehearse.”
I’m about to respond when Gabby interrupts.
“What?” she asks Tyler, obviously having missed the start of this exchange. She touches her left ear, and I know the large crowd is making it difficult for her to differentiate our voices from the back ground no ises. I need to see if I can adjust the controls on her app this week. When it works, it’s much more convenient than having to wait for an appointment with her audiologist.
Instead of repeating himself vocally, Tyler signs in ASL to Gabby. She nods and responds in kind. I watch, feeling more like a third wheel than I have since my awkward middle school days.
Is that ... is that how Gabby feels in conversations with hearing people?
“Yes,” Gabby vocalizes, and it takes me a moment to realize that she’s responding to the conversation she’s having with Tyler. Then she turns to me. “Our announcement went super well during first service. Pastor Kreissig says we’re welcome on this stage any time. We’ll be on right after the worship band finishes. We attended first service already, so we’ll probably stay backstage, which is why there are just two seats up here for you and Sophie.”
At the sound of her name, Sophie twists in my direction, and for an instant, I forget how much I dreaded coming this morning. I don’t ever get to see Sophie on the weekends—and I can’t ignore the way my pulse doubles its cadence at the thought of more time with her. Her dress is a soft pink that ties at the waist and grazes the tops of her sandaled feet. She’s styled her long hair down today, the ends curling several inches below her shoulders. I note the tiny trail of freckles along her cheekbones and the way she radiates sunshine when she smiles at me.
“Hey,” she says, her eyes twinkling bright, “I was hoping you weren’t going to make me sit alone up here.”
“I didn’t realize you would be here,” I answer honestly.
“Your sister invited me. That’s okay with you, right?”
I catch Gabby’s mischievous grin as she trails Tyler backstage. I can’t interpret everything she signs, but the gist of it is clear enough. She texted Sophie last night. Probably hijacked my phone in my sleep to do it, too.
You’re welcome , she signs just as she disappears behind the stage curtain.
I clear my throat and focus once again on Sophie. “Of course it’s fine. Do you ... enjoy sitting this close to a stage?”
“ I don’t mind it,” she says, taking her seat and prompting me to do the same. “Your sister was the one who saved them for us.”
Naturally . Only Gabby would choose to sit in the second row of a church that seats more than a couple thousand. Next time I negotiate a deal with her, I’ll need to be much clearer on the terms I’m agreeing to.
Sophie’s leg starts to bounce beside mine as she cranes her neck to look around. “This is not at all what I expected when your sister invited me to her church .” She laughs. “I’ve performed in theaters a quarter of this size.”
“What were you expecting?” I ask, grateful for such a beautiful distraction in a place where I definitely need distracting.
“Something ... I don’t know. Less modern, I guess.” Sophie shrugs and rubs her palms down the fabric of her dress. “I haven’t been inside a church since before my Gigi died—and that was only sporadic. And it was nothing like this. But I’ve missed going, more than I realized.” She touches her chest softly. “ Oh , that reminds me.” She bends to slip a familiar blue flyer from her purse. “A nice guy in the lobby told me that if I fill this out they’ll give me a free gift.”
I give myself extra points for holding back a groan. Instead, I circle back to one of the few personal things she’s volunteered about her childhood.
“Does that mean you didn’t grow up attending church?”
“Hardly.” She pulls a face. “My father is the reason my Gigi could only take me with her on occasion. Mostly when he was out of town on business. He forbade it.”
“Forbade?” I repeat. “That sounds a bit—”
“Medieval?” She nods. “It is. He thinks all this is foolish. ‘Dramatic sensationalism,’ he’d call it. Gigi’s convictions infuriated my father, and like always, my mom was caught in the crossfire. Their religious differences nearly cost my parents the winery. It was a mess. Still is, I suppose.” She sighs as if she hasn’t just lifted the lid on Pandora’s box. I have no less than a dozen questions drumming against my skull, waiting to be asked. If church is what it took for Sophie to open up, then I’ll count today as a win. “But despite all that, I believed what my Gigi taught me about God and sin and eternal life, even if I haven’t always followed it as closely as I should.” She touches the dainty gold cross around her neck. “This was hers. It was the one thing I rescued from her estate without asking permission.”
From my periphery, I see the band step onto the stage, adjust their in-ear monitors, and ready their instruments.
“What about you?” she asks. “Did you grow up going to this church with your family? Gabby seems so comfortable here.” Her smile is so sincere and harmless, and yet her words tear at a scar I’d rather leave closed.
“Not this church, no, but—”
Before I can finish, the lights drop suddenly, and the first few strums on an acoustic guitar are played.
Sophie startles beside me and grips my arm. “Ooh, what’s happening?”
Dread settles in my lower belly. “It’s the—”
“Good morning, Seaside Community Fellowship! Will you please stand with me and pray as we enter into a time of praise.” The worship leader is fairly nondescript in his trendy blue jeans, button-up shirt, and brown leather boots, but Sophie looks from him to me and whispers, “This feels like a concert.”
I want to agree with her, but commenting at all will make me feel even more like a fraud than I already do. I have no right to be the spokesperson of an organization I’ve avoided for years.
Her eyebrows jump as an upbeat song begins to play, and I can’t ignore the unique chord progression as the entire congregation begins to clap and sing. Except for the two of us in the second row. But likely for two totally different reasons: Sophie doesn’t know these songs; and I simply can’t stand to sing them anymore.
Unlike Sophie, my entire upbringing was guided by my parents’ faith in God. Even before I could read the Bible for myself, my parents had told me the stories using picture books and other illustrations from around the house. Once, my mother got extra creative and tried to show me the parting of the Red Sea using gelatin mix and food dye. It didn’t really work, but I also never forgot it.
I t’s difficult to tune the band out when you’re so close to the stage you can see the untied shoe of the bass player and fixate on the way the keyboardist misses every fourth chord in the chorus. Why isn’t she hitting the E-flat? But it’s easier for me to focus on all these superficial things than what’s happening beside me as Sophie begins to participate by singing the lyrics to the third song. This one’s slower and less musically advanced than the others. It’s also one of the songs we sang at my parents’ joint funeral after their bodies were recovered and flown home from India.
Sophie’s ethereal voice is nearly enough to still the quake behind my ribcage. But not quite. Because every stanza she sings exposes the chasm between God’s mercy and my inexcusable failures.
Finally, the song is over, and we’re being asked to greet our neighbors and take a seat.
“That was incredible,” Sophie whispers. “Does this happen every Sunday?”
I nod once, hoping to dismiss the role of church advocate she’s wrongly appointed me. That job is better suited for someone like Bonnie Brewer, who is smartly seated a hundred rows back.
“Morning, friends,” the man I believe to be Pastor Kreissig says. “What an awesome day to be in the house of the Lord, amen?”
“Amen!” congregants around us shout.
“Before we open God’s Word to the Gospel of Matthew, I want to invite a few specials guests to join me on stage. If you’ve been around Seaside for any length of time, you’ve probably interacted with the Pimentel family at some point. Whether they’re passing out communion trays, directing our holiday children’s productions, or spearheading our interpretation ministry for the deaf and hard of hearing, they are almost always around. You may remember the successful fundraiser they testified about right here last spring for the purchase of that old theater on Ramsey Street?” A few people in the audience cheer. “Well, today they’re back with an important message. I hope you’ll be as moved by their invitation as I am.”
Sophie straightens next to me and clasps her hands under her chin as the lights go dim. “This is it.”
W hen the spotlight comes up on Gabby, I can’t help but hold my breath at the sight of my sister alone on that stage. She’s strolling in silence when she lifts her head and sees someone in the distance—Tyler. She waves him over and the two immediately launch into a full-blown conversation in ASL. They’re going back and forth for quite some time while the audience watches on without interpretation. I’m able to catch every fifth or sixth sign, maybe, but between their speed and their angle on stage, it’s nearly impossible to comprehend much at all.
As soon as the spotlight on them clicks off, they freeze in position, while another one blinks on and illuminates Tyler’s mom, Portia Pimentel.
She signs as she speaks. “How many of you have been on the outside of a conversation you couldn’t understand no matter how much you wanted to? How did it make you feel? Frustrated? Left out? Isolated?”
Beside me, Sophie gasps and immediately shrinks in her seat.
“What are you doing?” I bend and whisper.
She points to the stage discreetly. “Portia is Tyler’s mom?”
I nod. “You know her?”
She makes a small, indeterminable sound in the back of her throat.
“...for many deaf and hard of hearing people, what you just saw on this stage is a reenactment of what they deal with on a daily basis, only in reverse. Without a hearing interpreter trained in ASL to help bridge the gap between the hearing and the non-hearing, our worlds remain segregated. Our conversations remain isolated. And for so many wonderful deaf and hard of hearing members in our community, that means they may never know the saving love and grace of the gospel,” Portia says with fervor. “In fact, studies show that ninety-eight percent of the deaf and hard-of-hearing community has never been shown the story of Jesus in their native, visual language of ASL. As the wife of a deaf husband and mother of a deaf son who both use ASL as their primary form of communication, we are passionate about helping our hard-of-hearing friends find h ope in a lonely world. We are a family committed to the outreach of inclusive communication.” Portia smiles broadly. “Which is why we’re starting an ASL class at our community theater in September. If you’re interested in learning more about the needs and benefits of interpretation and this beautiful visual language, then please meet us at the kiosk right after the service. And now, let’s add some interpretation to Tyler and Gabby’s conversation.”
The spotlight on the teens flicks on again, and the two start over. Portia interprets for both teens, and the audience responds almost immediately by laughing in all the right places. Gabby is telling Tyler a hilarious story about a summer camp prank gone awry while Tyler adds his own commentary to the mix. The church is roaring, which easily proves Portia’s point. I have zero doubt there will be a long line at her kiosk today. I also have no doubt that Gabby will be the most zealous recruiter among them.
The three receive a standing ovation when they take a bow and are joined once again by Pastor Kreissig, who does a final push for the ASL classes at the Twilight Theater. And then I see the exact moment when Portia pauses at Sophie’s presence in the audience. There’s a story there for sure. If we weren’t so close to the front, I’d ask Sophie about it right now. But instead, we’re asked to settle in for the next thirty-eight minutes while Pastor Kreissig walks us through the parable of the lost sheep.
Growing up, this parable was akin to a bedtime story. There’s hardly a fresh take left when it comes to a Good Shepherd who leaves behind the ninety-nine to chase after the one, and yet I’m growing increasingly more agitated the longer this manipulative tale draws out.
My parents died chasing after the elusive one.
A little over two and a half years ago, a regular, everyday couple from Petaluma, California, were moved by a missionary’s PowerPoint talk at their church exposing a need in rural India where school buildings were in high demand and skilled construction workers were few. They asked if I’d go with them, encouraging me to spend some intentional time with my teenage sister and serve “the least of these” together, the way we’d done in years past as a family of four. For a myriad of reasons, I turned them down and wished them well on their adventure, never knowing how many times I’d replay that decision in the days, weeks, months, years to come.
Never knowing how deep of a hole regret could dig.
They left home as soon as Gabby completed her eighth grade year, in hopes the trip would grow my sister’s faith and teach her how everyday people can make an extraordinary difference in the world. Yet there was nothing extraordinary about the deaths my parents died in an overcrowded train car that slid off the tracks or the trauma that will haunt my sister forever.
People often comment on my sister’s remarkable resilience, on her unwavering courage and selfless love for others amidst her own painful past. And it’s true. All of it and then some. My sister has long been the bravest person I know. But it’s the faith she claims as the source of such strength that I can no longer pretend to share. Not even for her.
Sophie shifts to lean forward in her seat, her gaze hyper-focused on Pastor Kreissig as he goes in for the kill shot. “If you identify with the lost sheep I’ve just described, please believe there is no place too far, too hopeless, too dark, too sinful, too apathetic, too unreachable for your Good Shepard to find you. He’s already called you chosen; the question is, will you choose Him?”
I watch a lone tear slide down Sophie’s cheek and stain the soft pink fabric of her dress as she follows the prompts to bow her head and close her eyes. And it’s in those quiet, isolating moments that follow, when she raises her hand to go up for prayer, that I realize how truly alone I really am.