Page 42 of The Voice We Find

“Something ... I don’t know. Less modern, I guess.” Sophie shrugs and rubs her palms down the fabric of her dress. “I haven’t been inside a church since before my Gigi died—and that was only sporadic. And it was nothing like this. But I’ve missed going, more than I realized.” She touches her chest softly. “Oh, that reminds me.” She bends to slip a familiar blue flyer from her purse. “A nice guy in the lobby told me that if I fill this out they’ll give me a free gift.”

I give myself extra points for holding back a groan. Instead, I circle back to one of the few personal things she’s volunteered about her childhood.

“Does that mean you didn’t grow up attending church?”

“Hardly.” She pulls a face. “My father is the reason my Gigi could only take me with her on occasion. Mostly when he was out of town on business. He forbade it.”

“Forbade?” I repeat. “That sounds a bit—”

“Medieval?” She nods. “It is. He thinks all this is foolish. ‘Dramatic sensationalism,’ he’d call it. Gigi’s convictions infuriated my father, and like always, my mom was caught in the crossfire. Their religious differences nearly cost my parents the winery. It was a mess. Still is, I suppose.” She sighs as if she hasn’t just lifted the lid on Pandora’s box. I have no less than a dozen questions drumming against my skull, waiting to be asked. If church is what it took for Sophie to open up, then I’ll count today as a win. “But despite all that,Ibelieved what my Gigi taught me about God and sin and eternal life, even if I haven’t always followed it as closely as I should.” She touches the dainty gold cross around her neck. “This was hers. It was the one thing I rescued from her estate without asking permission.”

From my periphery, I see the band step onto the stage, adjust their in-ear monitors, and ready their instruments.

“What about you?” she asks. “Did you grow up going to this church with your family? Gabby seems so comfortable here.” Her smile is so sincere and harmless, and yet her words tear at a scar I’d rather leave closed.

“Not this church, no, but—”

Before I can finish, the lights drop suddenly, and the first few strums on an acoustic guitar are played.

Sophie startles beside me and grips my arm. “Ooh, what’s happening?”

Dread settles in my lower belly. “It’s the—”

“Good morning, Seaside Community Fellowship! Will you please stand with me and pray as we enter into a time of praise.” The worship leader is fairly nondescript in his trendy blue jeans, button-up shirt, and brown leather boots, but Sophie looks from him to me and whispers, “This feels like a concert.”

I want to agree with her, but commenting at all will make me feel even more like a fraud than I already do. I have no right to be the spokesperson of an organization I’ve avoided for years.

Her eyebrows jump as an upbeat song begins to play, and I can’t ignore the unique chord progression as the entire congregation begins to clap and sing. Except for the two of us in the second row. But likely for two totally different reasons: Sophie doesn’t know these songs; and I simply can’t stand to sing them anymore.

Unlike Sophie, my entire upbringing was guided by my parents’ faith in God. Even before I could read the Bible for myself, my parents had told me the stories using picture books and other illustrations from around the house. Once, my mother got extra creative and tried to show me the parting of the Red Sea using gelatin mix and food dye. It didn’t really work, but I also never forgot it.

It’s difficult to tune the band out when you’re so close to the stage you can see the untied shoe of the bass player and fixate on the way the keyboardist misses every fourth chord in the chorus. Why isn’t she hitting the E-flat? But it’s easier for me to focus on all these superficial things than what’s happening beside me as Sophie begins to participate by singing the lyrics to the third song. This one’s slower and less musically advanced than the others. It’s also one of the songs we sang at my parents’ joint funeral after their bodies were recovered and flown home from India.

Sophie’s ethereal voice is nearly enough to still the quake behind my ribcage. But not quite. Because every stanza she sings exposes the chasm between God’s mercy and my inexcusable failures.

Finally, the song is over, and we’re being asked to greet our neighbors and take a seat.

“That was incredible,” Sophie whispers. “Does this happen every Sunday?”

I nod once, hoping to dismiss the role of church advocate she’s wrongly appointed me. That job is better suited for someone like Bonnie Brewer, who is smartly seated a hundred rows back.

“Morning, friends,” the man I believe to be Pastor Kreissig says. “What an awesome day to be in the house of the Lord, amen?”

“Amen!” congregants around us shout.

“Before we open God’s Word to the Gospel of Matthew, I want to invite a few specials guests to join me on stage. If you’ve been around Seaside for any length of time, you’ve probably interacted with the Pimentel family at some point. Whether they’re passing out communion trays, directing our holiday children’s productions, or spearheading our interpretation ministry for the deaf and hard of hearing, they are almost always around. You may remember the successful fundraiser they testified about right here last spring for the purchase of that old theater on Ramsey Street?” A few people in the audience cheer. “Well, today they’re back with an important message. I hope you’ll be as moved by their invitation as I am.”

Sophie straightens next to me and clasps her hands under her chin as the lights go dim. “This is it.”

When the spotlight comes up on Gabby, I can’t help but hold my breath at the sight of my sister alone on that stage. She’s strolling in silence when she lifts her head and sees someone in the distance—Tyler. She waves him over and the two immediately launch into a full-blown conversation in ASL. They’re going back and forth for quite some time while the audience watches on without interpretation. I’m able to catch every fifth or sixth sign, maybe, but between their speed and their angle on stage, it’s nearly impossible to comprehend much at all.

As soon as the spotlight on them clicks off, they freeze in position, while another one blinks on and illuminates Tyler’s mom, Portia Pimentel.

She signs as she speaks. “How many of you have been on the outside of a conversation you couldn’t understand no matter how much you wanted to? How did it make you feel? Frustrated? Left out? Isolated?”

Beside me, Sophie gasps and immediately shrinks in her seat.

“What are you doing?” I bend and whisper.

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