“So I would say you’ve got to choose to believe in the goodness of God—and let’s be real, all evidence, Biblical and theological, says that He is—to believe he’s got your best interest at heart. And doing that is something made more possible by engaging in a real relationship. Having a meditative spiritual practice where you rest with God. Studying the Bible, reading books and joining discussions that get you thinking more about its lessons. Spending time in prayer. Going to church, engaging in worship. Sharing your joy with God, as well as your pain. All that helps you shore up that relationship so you can choose to believe God’s goodness. Not only can you choose to, but in that circumstance, it might even seem weird not to.” Contemplation paints itself in his patrician features. “What do you think? Does make sense?”
The woman’s nodding.
Holy hell. I didn’t realize this was so…conversational.
I watch as he talks to her more about God knowing and experiencing the pain of a suffering child, both through His son and all of humanity, and the look on the woman’s face is transformed from agonized and tearful to peaceful as she sits back down.
He answers two more questions. Then in his laid-back tone—I dub it “pastor-friend”—he goes back over his thoughts and some suggestions for things people can do to put his recommendations into action. I turn off the TV, feeling awed.
He’s so…natural. It was such a big arena—Pearl took me through the sanctuary that first shit-tastic day when he approached me in the atrium—but the tone of what went on inside it felt more like a coffee shop talk. It was nothing like I thought a televangelist’s sermon would be.
I’ve read before that he approaches things from a more “humble” perspective than other megachurch pastors. Now I guess I get it. It’s almost like he’s just offering his commentary as food for thought.
I run my hands through my hair then get up and pace the living room. He’s just so…Luke. He has so much power, and he uses it with so much care.
I’m still feeling shook when he shows up around 4:30 PM wearing gray sweats and a Hogwarts T-shirt and carrying two bags of Japanese food. His hair is sticking up in the front, and his Ray-Bans are hanging from his shirt collar. He gives me a little smile. I wrap an arm around him.
“My man. That was crazy.”
He looks amused when I pull back. “Not sure that’s what I’m going for.”
I explain while scooping our food onto plates, and we sit at the kitchen booth. “I gotta tell you, dude, I just didn’t know how good you are.”
His eyes are on his plate, but I see some color come into his cheeks. His eyes flicker to mine. “What?” His brows twist as he gives a little funny smile. Embarrassed.
My foot rubs his leg underneath the table. “Good shit, preacher. Really good.”
His blush deepens, and it’s so damn cute.
He mumbles something.
“What?”
He lifts a brow, just barely glancing at me before looking back at his plate. “Rose-colored glasses, I think.”
“The numbers don’t lie, bro. I checked on my phone before you came on, and Wiki says your numbers are still growing like…a lot.”
“Growing.” That makes him grin, and I laugh.
“I missed you.”
Sundays are the only day that we don’t really text at all. He’s around so many people before and after the service, the risk of someone seeing is too big. And I think he’s just tired after that level of engagement.
“You more.”
My guy’s shy and quiet for the next little bit. I have to work to draw him out. I bring up Janis Joplin, and we start talking about her songs. That does it. He forgets himself, and we war out if “Piece of My Heart” or “Me and Bobby McGee” is the better song.
“So…” I’ve been waiting to ask this for a while. “Who exactly owns this place here?” I move my hand in a circle. “It can’t be the church…right?”
He smiles, a thin line. “Who do you think?”
“Pearl?”
He grins. “That is where she got her name. And what made me notice her first application. But no.”
I screw my face up. “Is it yours?”
He looks down briefly before his eyes meet and hold mine. He nods, just once. It’s a tentative motion, and his face takes on a look of caution.
“This is your house?”14VanceOne of his brows lifts, and I know what he’ll say as he says it. “One of.”
“Did you ever live here?”
He shakes his head. “Not this version of it,” he clarifies. “I lived here briefly two years ago, when my home was undergoing some renovations. After I moved back to my place—or the place I live right now—I sent that reno team straight here.”
I laugh. “You made this the Joplin house?”
He nods.