Faith

Chapter Twenty-Eight

2 Corinthians 12:10 (NIV) --  That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

As I brought the eyeliner up to my eye, my hands shook terribly. I had to bite my lip and steady my eyelid to avoid poking myself in the eye. Still, I smudged liquid eyeliner and restarted twice. This morning started in a rush. I almost overslept because I had forgotten why I needed to wake from my slumber.

With my makeup completed, I grabbed the black skirt and dusty rose sweater that I laid out last night. Along with tights and boots, I slipped on my outfit. When I played with my hair in the mirror, debating whether to wear it up or down, I heard someone enter the house downstairs.

"Shoot," I muttered and flew downstairs. "Sam, I'm almost-" I started to say but stopped, mid sentence, when I saw who stood in my living room. "Dad?" I asked, dumbfounded.

He gave me a surprised look. I eyed his arm, wrapped in a cast, and the bruises decorating his face and winced at the sight. "Yeah, I look like crap. No need to remind me."

"Sorry," I blurted out then turned around.

Dad stopped me before I continued upstairs. "Why are you up and ready?"

Over my shoulder, I yelled back, "I'm going to, uh, church with Sam."

Within no time, I was ready and Sam was waiting outside my door. I got downstairs right before my dad could start asking questions and we left. The ride, brief and silent, was over quickly.

Sam carefully pulled his truck into the first available parking spot. I smoothed down my black skirt, and now wished I had listened to Sam. He said I don't need to dress up, jeans were fine, but I didn't listen. My legs were cold underneath the uncomfortable skirt.

Nervously, I kept adjusting my skirt, even as I climbed out of the truck. Sam beamed at me as I joined him at the back of the truck, and I smiled back. The smile didn't quite reach my eyes. My stomach tossed and turned with anxiety as the two of us neared the church.

The church itself was quite modern. The doors were made of glass, not heavy wood like a traditional church. There was a small steeple with a church bell, but besides that tower, the church could have looked like any office building in town. I have never been to a church quite like this one.

Even so, I couldn't help but panic. The last time I attended a church service was the Sunday before my mom died, when the hospice workers let her outside one last time.

Sam pulled open the glass door and held it for me. I stared down the carpeted hallway but made no efforts to move forward. I could see the sanctuary from here. When I didn't walk inside, Sam asked me, "Are you okay, Kaitlyn?"

"Yes," I muttered, before tears spilled from my eyes. Sam instantaneously released of the door and it banged shut. He had his arms wide, as if to embrace me, but no hug came. Sam dropped his arms and instead carefully touched my forearm.

"What's the matter?" he whispered to me.

"The last time I went to church was with my mom," I sobbed. I brought my hands up to my face, holding the tips of my fingers under my eyes to catch the tears. Despite best efforts, I was certain my makeup was messed up. 

"Go sit down," Sam softly commanded. "I'll be right back." Sam walked instead, and I collapsed onto the wooden bench next to the entrance. It was a futile attempt to stop crying, and I settled with wiping the steady stream of salty tears.

Multiple people entered the church, some giving me glances of pity, but no one stopped to talk to me. Many people started to make an effort, but they must have decided to leave me alone. I was thankful for that.