Revelations by Julie Lynn Hayes Read Free Book Online Page A

pleasure in telling me, probably at her instigation. The same way my devotion to the Master is too well known to be any secret. What do I care what they think? I don’t. Thomas is dark, like him—and before you begin to infer anything, just don’t. Thomas sings backup vocals with the group—he has a sweet voice, but it’s not strong enough for solos, which is fine, Philip has those covered.

    But nobody’s voice matches Jesus—not for purity, or clarity, or sheer beauty. I can’t help the shivers that consume me when that man begins to sing—the seraphim wish they possessed his ability. But that shouldn’t really surprise you, should it? He is His son, after all. And he is perfect.
    What’s amazing to me, even after all this time, is that some things never do truly change. (Yes, I’ve changed subjects again—do try to keep up). Nothing is really new under the sun, as the saying goes. And everything comes around again.
    Or is that everything old is new again? Fashions—clothes, hair styles, mannerisms, expressions—they come and they go, circle, make the circuit, and return. But beneath it all, people stay the same. There’s a reason why stereotypes are stereotypes, and why clichés often ring true.
    I watch the young people that fill the tent. Most of them gravitate toward the stage, a few stop by the table to converse with Thomas, because he can relate to them on their own level. Another reason why I chose him. The parents tend to be more wary, at least some of them, perhaps concerned with what they’re afraid is going to happen to their offspring—as if anything that concerns the word of God could be bad? Or anything that proceeds from the lips of Jesus? Yes, I know, they don’t realize he is Jesus—that’s the whole point. You needn’t remind me, I know the facts of the case better than anyone. What do they think we are then? A Christian pseudo-rock band with a message? Perhaps. What’s more important is what the kids come away thinking about. That’s what counts, after all. They’re the ones we’re here for. It’s the young ones I hold out the most hope for. The only hope, actually. Their parents are beyond redemption. Don’t believe what they tell you—you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Place your money on the puppies.
    As I watch, my attention is caught by a middle-aged man, probably a father of one of these young people, or at least that’s my assumption. He leans across the table, caught up in earnest conversation with Thomas. There’s something almost disturbing in the man’s expression, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, or why I think so. But there’s something about him I just don’t trust. Thomas lays a commiserating hand upon his arm, and the man recoils. In disgust, perhaps? I like him even less now.
    As I make a move in their direction, intending to play peacemaker—or judge and jury, whichever is required—the man straightens up, stuffs a pamphlet Thomas has given him into his pocket, and shambles off. Hopefully to leave, but no, I see he’s joined up with a young man; glancing from one to the other, it’s not hard to deduce they’re father and son. The boy seems less than pleased to see his parent; I can see his animosity in his expression, even from where I stand. He pulls away from his father, and walks off, which is when I stop paying attention. Note to self: ask Thomas about that later. No time to worry about it now. My mind is taken up with far more urgent concerns.
    It’s almost time for everything to begin now. I’m making a final circuit of the tent, watchful for last minute snafus. Matthew is whispering conspiratorially with Andrew at the soundboard, and as I draw near I’d swear he looks guiltily in my direction. I’m not sure what it is he can feel guilty about, but there must be something. Probably something I’m not privy to, some plans they’re making that don’t include me. I give him a bleak look. Keep your secrets, little man,