“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.”
I crossed my arms, unwilling to let it go.
He gripped the back of his neck, tugged. “All of us are prone to selfishness. It’s our sin nature.”
I waved a hand at him dismissively. “Don’t ‘sin nature’ me, Pastor Miles. Just tell it to me straight.”
He exhaled for longer than a human lung should be able to hold air. “On occasion, you have a tendency to be a bit . . . self-focused.”
Self-focused. I tried on the hyphenated word like a fitted jacket, instantly annoyed by the confinement of the material. Self-made—now that was an adjective I’d wear proudly. But self-focused? That certainly wasn’t how I wanted to be described by the people who knew me outside of Makeup Matters with Molly.
“It’s an understandable struggle,” Miles continued. “Given your profession. You have a million followers vying for your attention and your approval at all hours of the day. You’ve worked hard to build a career brand, and you’ve been generous with your—”
“Six hundred thousand.”
“What?”
“I don’t have a million followers.” But I needed to by the end of summer, according to Ethan.
He chuckled. “Still, six hundred thousand in just a few years is an astounding number.”
“It’s not enough,” I said absently at first, and then more strongly as something warm lined my lower stomach. “It’s not enough, Miles. I want to be more than a pretty face with an addictive personality. I want to be seen as the real deal. Someone who uses their influence to pay it forward. For good.”
“Wait a minute, I never said you were a pretty face with a—”
I shook off his confusion. “I know you didn’t. And that doesn’t even matter. What matters is finding a cause I can partner with inside our community.” After all, I’d built a nearly seven-figure business from the ground up. What was stopping me? I didn’t have to pledge my life to the call of full-time church planting like my parents to do something right in the world. Nor did I have to go to seminary. I could be fully me and still be seen as a good person—couldn’t I?
“A cause,” he echoed, narrowing his eyes once again.
“Yes, a cause.” Why was that such a hard concept for him to understand? “You work
