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Sitting here, I realize all the ways I got through that day, and it’s not with the sorrow I expected; it’s with remembrance.
I close my eyes and swear I can still hear Pastor B saying, “Our sister Bianca’s heart no longer carries the worry of how she could leave behind the boy who meant the world to her. She knows her earthly family will always open their arms to John Paul. Sister Bianca is no longer in pain. Let us rejoice in her heavenly healing and reunion with her Lord and savior. Can I get an amen?”
I didn’t say amen that day with the rest of the congregation but find myself mouthing the word now. Amen.
“Before we sing our closing hymn, I need to acknowledge that one of our own is home this Sunday, and no matter how big of a success he’s become, he and his ego still fit through the doors of his church. It’s nice to see you, son.”
Everyone turns, and I lift a hand and smile. “I’m happy to be here with you all.”
“I’m sure John Paul has a few minutes for his church family after the service. Let us sing our closing hymn and end in prayer.”
As Pastor B walks down the center aisle, all the kids follow behind him, as they always have.
Some things never change.
I try to pick out a kids who looks like Whit. One that I imagine has freckles bridged across their nose and curly black hair like hers. I don’t get but a couple seconds to try because I’m immediately surrounded by people of the congregation, being herded into the fellowship hall through the side door.
First to approach are the older women, friends of Mom’s. Next, the older men break down where I’ve messed up on the field and how to improve my game and then the teenage boys. I try to stay engaged in all the conversations while still attempting to pick Whit’s kid out of the crowd of a dozen or so of them surrounding Pastor B.
Getting antsy for answers, I promise the boys I’ll stop by the school before returning to New York and head in the direction of the kitchen, knowing that’s where Pastor B takes the kids and gives them snacks. On my way, I look around and notice Whit’s nowhere to be found either.
I step in and lean against the doorjamb, watching them all gathered around the massive stainless steel center island.
When he spots me, he laughs. “No matter the age, they always come for the snacks after the service.”
Mrs. B walks past him and pats his belly. “And that’s gospel.”
Then, she comes over and hugs me. “Good to have you home, Jonathon. You’d better hurry if you’re going to get any snickerdoodles. These little disciples will gobble them up.”
“They your favorite too?” the tallest of the boys asks.
I walk over and grab one. “Always have been.”
“Mrs. B makes them every week,” another kid states.
“He knows that. He’s been coming here since he was just a boy.” Pastor B walks over and gives me a hug.
“Pastor B,” someone calls from outside the door.
“Still on the clock.” He nods to the door. “We’ll catch up.”
I nod and then take a bite of the cookie. “Delicious, as always.”
“You’d better take more now while you can. Once the cookie monster gets in here, they’ll all be gone.” The tallest of the girls laughs.
“Is that so?” I smile.
“She can put them away like nobody else,” the girl in the pink dress says.
“It’s overindulgent,” one of the boys who looks awfully familiar huffs.
“You happen to be related to Coach Locke?” I ask, grabbing two more snickerdoodles off the plate.
He nods. “He’s my Papa B.”
“Yeah? Who are your parents?”
“Lana’s my mom, and my dad’s Peter. They’re not famous though, so you might not know them, but my uncle is Leland, and he plays baseball for the Yanks.”
