Something She Can Feel by Grace Octavia Read Free Book Online Page B

seat in the front row by one of the ushers. She smiled toward Jack and through the corner of my eye, I saw Jr shift in his seat and whisper something to May.
    â€œNow, Journey, you may have someone new to kiss your boo-boos and pay your bills,” Daddy went on, looking at me as everyone laughed at his usual humor. “Evan, you’d better be paying her bills!” He squinted his eyes as Evan laughed and kissed me on the cheek. “But today, on your birthday, your daddy wants you to know that he’s always gonna be here. You can be grown. You can even be gone. But you got only one daddy. And I have only one Journey. I love you. Happy Birthday!”
    â€œThank you, Daddy,” I mouthed and then blew him a kiss.
    â€œI promised myself I wouldn’t cry,” my mother said, taking the microphone. She’d been saying that for years, but I’d never seen that woman miss an opportunity to cry in public. She wiped a tear from her eye. “It’s only once every few years that your birthday falls on the same day of the week. And whenever it’s a Sunday, as a child of God, I like to make reason of it.” Her voice turned strong and she looked out into the crowd with focus. While my mother taught elementary school for many years when I was young, she now led the women’s ministry and served as the CEO of our church’s women’s center downtown. It took a while and a lot of nerve for her to finally take up a leadership role in the church. While most people loved her, there were some detractors—a constituency of five or so women who’d been linked or linked themselves to my father through nasty gossip and church chatter over the years. It always seemed like some woman who’d refused to leave the church was claiming my father was her man and leaving my mother. And while it hurt her deeply and I could see the distrust building in her eyes, he never left us and the rumors always eventually subsided. While I knew much of what people—mostly lonely and desperate women who’d turned from worshipping with him to actually worshipping my father—said was untrue, like my mother, I knew some had to be otherwise. And whenever we walked into a room, I felt her doubt and anxiety as she wondered who’d been in the company of her husband. But that anxiety had long faded and my father was growing too tired to fill up his calendar. So my mother grew stronger with her new attention and with that came her Word at the pulpit. Which everyone seemed to love.
    â€œToday, my daughter celebrates her thirty-third birthday on a Sunday. Those of you who know your Word know that this is her Jesus year.”
    Daddy shook his head and the older people began to clap.
    â€œThe Bible lets us know that our Savior died at the age of thirty-three,” she went on. “Now, I’m not saying this to bring you down. We don’t need tears today. But when you really think about it, no one should be crying anyway. Because the day Jesus died also marks the day we were given eternal life. Something was renewed that day on Calvary. Yes, Lord. Something was reborn.”
    â€œAmen!” May said, standing up and clutching her Bible in its red leather case.
    â€œAnd it was grace. It was glory. It was the opportunity to rectify your life through the blood!”
    My mother jumped back from the altar and bounced on one leg as my father held her up.
    â€œAnd when you—church and Journey—reach your thirty-third year of life, you have to remember that,” she said. “Remember that sacrifice and take stock!” She turned and looked at me as the sun came shelling through the skylight at the top of the dome and caught the embers in her eyes, the golden streaks in her hair. “Take stock and see what you’ve given, what you’ve done, what you’ve sacrificed, and know where you’re going. Appreciate your life and the fact that you’re still here,