As he looked to me for an explanation, I worked to recall the heartfelt speech I’d written in my head on the way over regarding the importance of serving others. I hoped my stall seemed genuine enough, and not like I was trying to call up empathy from the depths of my being. “It’s come to my attention that I have the platform I have for a reason. Not just to grow a profitable business in the beauty industry but also for a greater vision and purpose.”
His expression bordered on intrigue and suspicion, a look I’d seen a few dozen times in our lives, and one I could mimic perfectly. Though we were fraternal twins by birth, our faces were identically expressive. Growing up, I’d envied Miles’s unique eye color—a bottomless amber with ribbons of ivy swirling throughout his iris. But his hair color he could keep. It registered three shades darker than my chemically engineered blond highlights, placing him firmly in the same brownish-blond category I was happy to escape by my eighteenth birthday. “What kind of greater vision?”
“To better serve my local community.” I paused the adequate amount of time for self-reflection. “Specifically, I’m feeling drawn to the area of hurting, underprivileged young adults.” I stopped myself from adding that if those young adults could live within a fifteen-mile driving radius and were available on a time frame of once a week, that would be best.
He blinked, as if not quite sure how to interpret this strange turn of events during his sacred wall ball hour. “And what brought about this realization, do you think? Because I specifically remember calling you two weekends ago when I was down three volunteers at our annual job fair for adults in transition. That would have been a great opportunity for you to serve your local community.”
“I was in the middle of shooting a two-part series on flat irons, Miles. Val was waiting on me to send her the raw footage so she could edit.”
He blinked. “Right.”
“Just because I work from home doesn’t mean I don’t have daily responsibilities to tend to or people waiting on me. Plus, isn’t that one of the charities I donate to each month?”
He sighed. “Yes, it is. But as I’ve said before, we don’t call them charities anymore. This isn’t 1945. We call them ministries.”
“Sure, but still—it’s not like you can say I don’t help you or your ministries.”
“You’re right, Molly,” he said in that slow, pastorly way of his. “Your generosity has been a huge blessing to the church over the last couple years. Thank you.”
I had the distinct feeling that he had more to say on that topic. “But?”
“I’m still trying to understand where this is coming from—especially in regards to serving underprivileged young adults, as you called them.”
“Those are formative years, Miles. I’ve always cared for that age group.”
“Oh? Like when you wrote that check for the van repairs last spring break so that I didn’t have to cancel the youth group’s mission trip to Mexico . . .” He quirked an eyebrow at me.
“Yes, exactly. See?” Huge points to me. I’d forgotten all about that van repair bill. “I’ve been concerned about the safety and welfare of our teenagers for a long time.”
“Molly, you wouldn’t hand me the check until I promised never to ask you to chaperone for such a trip. You said your lifetime quota for stinky armpits and bad road trip sing-alongs had been filled by age fifteen.”
“Don’t even act like that’s not true. You know how we suffered at the hand of Dad’s off-key Gaither hymns in the back seat of that old Corolla. Plus, you greatly lacked in the area of deodorant until you were a legal adult.” I stared him down. “Shouldn’t you be more encouraging about this? Aren’t pastors supposed to help people . . . help people?”
“I’m not your pastor; I’m your brother.”
I swiped the ball out from under his arm. “Oh, so now you want to get technical?”
He sighed. “How about you cut the drama and just tell me the truth.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his face unflinchingly sincere. “Does this have something to do with Mom and Dad? With your endless quest for their approval? Because if so, then I think we should talk about—”
“Reverend.” In saying that single word, I’d just called a truce, one that pledged our highest level of honesty to each other. “This has nothing to do with them.” Reverend Carmichael was the most devout believer we’d ever known—a man who could quote Scripture the way my brother could recall every lyric from every Christian rock band of the early 2000s. Reverend Carmichael’s skin had been as brown as his beard had been silver, and the animated way he’d moved his hands had been a special kind of mesmerizing. Those same hands had baptized us in the Spokane River just two days after our seventh-grade summer began, and neither my twin nor I would have dared breathe a lie to him for fear of instant smiting.
“Okay,” Miles said on a deep breath. “I believe you.”
“Good.” Satisfied that I’d finally captured his complete attention, I added, “Because I do want to make a difference in my industry—to do something more with the following I have.” A declaration that sounded as right as it felt.
“What about taking a short-term trip to Mongolia with our missions team next month? You can post all about it.”
A quick recall of the many slideshows Miles had made me watch of dirt floors, thatched roofs, threadbare clothing, and soups made of literally any scrap of food flooded my mind. My skin instantly grew hot and clammy and prickly all over.
Miles burst out laughing. “I’m joking, Molly. Relax. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
My cheeks warmed. “Oh, ha. Right.”
I searched for a positive deflection, something that would throw Miles off the scent of an alternate motivation. And then I knew exactly how to plead my case. “But aren’t you always saying that we’re all supposed to live as missionaries? At our jobs and in our homes?”
“Yes.” A questioning look crossed his features then, and I was fairly positive where his thought trail had led him. Sure, I was the only person living in my home, but hey, not everyone in the Bible was married with children. And sure, my work was almost exclusively online, but I did interact with my virtual assistant multiple times a day through live video chats. Oh, and last week I gave Val a paid day off so she could go on a field trip with her son. That should definitely count for something, but . . . Hmm. I crimped my brow and tried to think of a single instance of when I’d helped my community in the last . . . ever.
“Why do you look like you’re trying to divide fractions without scratch paper?”
“I’m not, I’m just . . .”
“You’re just what?” Miles probed.
“Do you think I’m selfish?” I blurted out.
“What? Uh . . .” He swallowed, his attention shifting uncomfortably. “Where’s that coming from?”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter where it’s coming from. I’m asking you as my brother. Do you think I’m selfish? It should be a simple question to answer.”
He actually laughed. “Nothing with you is ever simple.”