Welcome to Triumph: Seasons of Triumph Book 1

By Brittany Kooi and Kendra Joyner-Miller

In the isolating mix of small-town America, online life, and family challenges, teenagers Sarah, Layla, and Johnny Tae are struggling to find meaningful direction. They are fast succumbing to nihilism and its subsequent acceptance of life-endangering behaviors. But three clergy women–Birdy, Ara Grace, and Nell—are determined to overcome their own insecurities and inabilities to walk these Triumph teens through apathy and into the light of life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chalice Press
• Release date: Jan 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9780827235595

Book preview

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Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Starting on the Wrong Foot

Chapter 2

Triumphant Arrivals

Chapter 3

Family Time

Chapter 4

Tendrils of Friendship

Chapter 5

Memory Lane

Chapter 6

Running into Trouble

Chapter 7

Crash and Burn

Chapter 8

The Devil’s Workshop

Chapter 9

All Your Glory

Chapter 10

A Good Day’s Work

Chapter 11

Hot Night in the Old Town

Chapter 12

We All Fall Down

Chapter 13

Johnny on the Spot

Chapter 14

God Bless Triumph

Chapter 15

Rocket’s Red Glare

Chapter 16

Get By with a Little Help from My Friends

Chapter 17

We Need to Talk

Chapter 18

It Will All Be Better in the Morning

Chapter 19

The Nights We Remember

Chapter 20

Great Expectations

Chapter 21

The Kids Are Alright

Chapter 22

Down the Rabbit Hole

Chapter 23

Pushing the Limits

Chapter 24

The People We Love

Chapter 25

Cliff Hanger

Epilogue

About the Authors

Copyright ©2023 Brittany Kooi and Kendra Joyner Miller

All rights reserved. For permission to reuse content, please contact Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, [phone], www.copyright.com.

Print: 9780827235588

EPUB: 9780827235595

EPDF: 9780827235601

ChalicePress.com

For the ones who’ve gone before us, especially B., Ingrid, Marion,

the Sabbath Sisters, Shawna, & Trudy, the ones who walk alongside us, and those who’ll come after.

Preface

Go ahead, say it. Hana reached across the console and poked the lump of her son. Next to her, the blob curled within himself and groaned.

Say what? Johnny Tae grumbled, righting himself and raising his passenger seat from its prone position. He threw off the hood of his black sweatshirt.

‘Are we there yet?’ Hana mimicked. Her voice rumbled, ‘Are we there yet?’ It’s only what you used to ask every ten minutes when you were little, Johnny. She reached out to tousle his hair.

Before her pink lacquered nails made contact, he retreated to the passenger window. He leaned against it and glared at her from the corners of his eyes.

Cut it out, he said, almost spitting the words.

Hana pretended he was referring to her imitation of him. She tapped the SUV’s navigation screen with her aimless finger. Oh Johnny, I’m just trying to get you excited!

Mom, it’s Johnny Tae. I’ve told you: Everyone’s ‘John.’ Little boys are ‘Johnny.’ But I’m Johnny Tae. You might be able to throw away our culture, but I won’t.

It was Hana’s turn to lean away, into her own side window. She propped an arm on the windowsill and rested her head on her fingers. Sighing, she conceded, Fine. Johnny Tae. Whatever and whoever you are. Did you read the last sign?

Her son looked out the windshield. No, Mom, how could I? I was sleeping. Can you read with your eyes closed? Is that some magic power I didn’t know we had? Another secret you’ve been keeping from me?

Silence echoed in the car, the high whir of the tires the heartbeat of the moment.

A green sign stood alone on the side of the road. Pointing to it, Johnny Tae read aloud, Welcome to Triumph County.

Hana flicked the blinker, directing the car to the next exit. That’s what I was trying to tell you, baby—we’re here.

Chapter 1

Starting on the Wrong Foot

The start of anything can feel impossible. Ara Grace turned off her engine and checked her nerves. She breathed slowly. In and out. In and out.

She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror. Did she look like a pastor? She gazed at her partial rectangular reflection; she didn’t know what that even meant. How does someone look like a pastor? she wondered, taking one last, deep breath.

God called me here. She breathed out into the quiet of her car as she prepared to open the door. Her voice wavered, almost as much as her spirit. If only she could believe those words and trust the calling God had placed on her life. God’s gentle nudging had been faithful. There had been no burning bush or descending doves, but there had been a continual affirmation, when she decided to go to seminary, when she felt pulled to congregational ministry, and now this moment—her first call as a pastor. Ara Grace had never imagined she would end up at a church in a small town in the middle of nowhere. But who was she to question God’s call?

As she reached for the handle, another kind of call illuminated the phone on her dashboard.

Dear God, she groaned, a petition for patience more than prayer. She pressed the receive button. Hi, Hana.

Siiiiiiister! the excited voice chirped through the car’s speakers. Hana always spoke as if they hadn’t talked in ages. In all honesty, though, they hadn’t really talked in ages. Their conversations were often one-sided, more monologue than dialogue. Hana would lay out some great plan or the latest tragedy of her life in hour-long diatribes while Ara Grace pretended to listen. The only replies her sister needed to keep going were the occasional, oh, wow, or umhm. Their mother’s voice echoed in Ara Grace’s mind, With Hana there’s always something! Often Ara Grace was the one left cleaning the something up.

Guess where I’m headed? Hana’s voice crooned across the miles.

Hana, I’m sorry but I’m about to head to a work …

On the way to you, of course! How could you make this big move without family to help welcome you and warm your new home?

The last person I want to warm my house is you. You’re more likely to burn it to the ground.

Yeah, we should be there tomorrow sometime, Ara.

Dear God, give me strength. Wait! Hana … first of all, tomorrow is Sunday. I have a church service to lead. Remember, I’m new here and don’t have the time to be your tour guide. Ara Grace took a deep breath, she could feel her temper flare. Hanna always had that effect, And second, who is ‘we’?

Well, Johnny had a little situation, and we thought it would be great for him to come, too. You know, see the sights, change of scenery, all that. Hang out with his favorite auntie. Ara Grace almost laughed: She was Johnny Tae’s only aunt, but it should be expected that Hana would flatter her way into getting what she wanted.

It’s not my idea of a good time, trust me, a disgruntled voice barked. Ara Grace easily pictured her nephew in the passenger seat, arms crossed, scowl etched across his face. If there was anyone on this planet who was more disappointed in her sister than she was, it was Johnny Tae. As a boy, he would sweetly nestle his hand in her own as they visited the park or she picked him up in response to another, Oops, I forgot! call from Hana, or, worse, the school receptionist.

It had been years since they’d lived in the same city. Ara Grace went off to college and then seminary, leaving Hana’s craziness behind but also—she now realized—Johnny Tae. And on each holiday and vacation since, he seemed less the sweet child she knew and more the cold, sullen teen of today. Their long conversations faded into nothing more than single word responses, head nods, and shoulder shrugs. She couldn’t blame him for this act of self-preservation. She knew, with Hana, you to guard their heart in any way you could, and Ara Grace knew this was Johnny Tae’s way. That and probably the developmentally appropriate teenage angst.

Anyway, service is terrible out here. Her sister’s garbled, underwater sounding voice called her back from the memories. How do these people even live.? … See you soon.

Then, nothing.

Silence.

Typical Hana: a whirlwind of energy and excitement followed by emptiness. Like a pied piper, she drew folks to her with that smile, and how she would throw her head back and laugh with her entire body. People changed in Hana’s presence. They believed things were possible, extraordinary. They believed they were extraordinary. Even as a little girl, Hana had this way of making everyone in the room believe whatever was happening in the moment was the most important thing in the world. But time and again, Ara Grace followed Hana to the cliffs of disaster and disappointment, cleaning up all that her sister left in her wake, making apologies and amends, trying herself not to fall off the edge. Hana never stayed in anything for a long time. Her mercurial nature changed like lightning, always off to whatever was next, the next adventure, the next relationship to fully throw herself into.

Leaving in her wake a sad trail—the broken hearts of the left behind, abandoned, forgotten, and replaceable.

And now the whirlwind was coming here, to Triumph County.

Ara Grace barely knew where she was. She looked out her car window. Like some Norman Rockwell painting, the whole of Triumph County seemed to have converged here on the town center. Red, white, and blue bunting hung from the picnic pavilions, children chased each other, darting in and out between parents’ legs as the adults talked. Ara Grace tore her gaze from the idyllic scene and stared into her lap, breathing deeply once more. In and out. In and out.

A knock on the window made her jump.

Gonna be late, Pastor.

Richard Lansington stood next to her car, hands shoved deep in his khaki pockets. No one likes to be kept waiting, he chided in a voice fit for correcting a naughty child.

Of course. Richard, head of her church finance committee, would find Ara Grace running late. The man had spent time earlier that week looming behind her, as he meticulously walked her through the church financial ledger, giving her his opinionated commentary as he went. She wondered if he had taken such lengthy efforts with her male predecessors. Was it helpful or condescending?

She sighed, took another deep breath, and opened the door.

***

Ara Grace finally arrived at the white and red striped tent, only perspiring slightly, maybe from the unseasonably warm day, maybe from her nerves or the way she had hustled from her car to the tent after Richard’s scolding. She hated being late. The start of anything can feel impossible. The mantra slowed her breathing, drawing her back to this moment. Before her, on a large wooden banquet table, lay a beautiful display of pies, all boasting perfectly golden-brown crusts, lattice work tops lovingly woven together above a dark sea of blueberries and red strawberries, topped off with a cascade of pastry crust stars. There was apple pie, too, and the stiff peaks of lemon meringue. Ara Grace paused.

Now this I can do.

Over here! A pretty, put-together woman called from behind the banquet table. As she made her way over, Ara Grace noticed the perfect string of pearls encircling her neck. Her clothes seemed to be straight out of a magazine, and her chestnut hair glimmered in the early summer sun. Ara Grace’s pulse quickened again as she looked down at her own slightly wrinkled clothes taken from the suitcase she still hadn’t found the time to unpack.

Hi Ara Grace, I’m Penelope Stone, the pastor over at First Methodist, the pretty, perfect woman said, extending a hand. But everybody just calls me Nel. She turned her head, scanning the crowd of folks appearing. You’re new here, right?

Ara Grace managed to nod. New here, new to this pastoring! Good Shepherd is my first congregation.

Nel smiled, her white teeth matching the pearls around her neck. Congratulations! Let me tell you: You cannot hide here, Ara Grace. It’s an amazing gift to be known and seen … but sometimes, I want to go to the grocery store in peace. Nel chuckled to herself. Excuse me, she said, leaving Ara Grace alone again with a polite smile.

Nel gave off an air of efficiency, chatting with folks as they entered the tent, asking how their children were, moving from group to group like a practiced politician. Ara Grace didn’t see her kiss a baby, but she wouldn’t be surprised if she did. She couldn’t help being drawn to Nel: the confidence and competence she exuded, how every eye in the room looked her way approvingly.

And I’m Birdie, with the Christian Church of Triumph, said the woman next to her, jutting a thumb in the opposite direction. Ara Grace had been so focused on Nel that she hadn’t noticed the other woman standing there. Birdie gave off more Earth Mother vibes than a political contender. Calm radiated through this woman in light washed jeans, a loose white linen shirt, and rich brown eyes. She smiled, patted Ara Grace’s shoulder, and just stood with her. There was no need to fill the space with idle chatter, not in Birdie’s presence. Ara Grace exhaled, realizing only then that she’d been holding her breath.

An older woman in a pink Afghan sweater came over to the two and, touching Birdie’s elbow, pulled her away. Ara Grace almost chuckled to herself; before leaving the Bay Area she had seen a barista who couldn’t have been more than Johnny Tae’s age wearing the same kind of thing. Funny how things come in and out of fashion. Though, Ara Grace imagined for this woman a good sweater was always in vogue. Turning to Ara Grace, Birdie winked, I’ll be back.

Birdie stood calmly off to the side of the pie table in deep conversation with the woman. Her head leaning in toward the other woman’s, her dark curls falling like a veil, almost shielding their conversation from the rest of the room. It felt nearly confessional until Birdie laughed, drawing the woman into a deep hug. It felt so intimate that Ara Grace became uncomfortable and looked away.

Ara Grace noticed her own position, awkwardly on the fringe, around but not a part of the group. She stood apart, on the outside looking in. It had been the story of her life with Hana, and now here she was again.

Okay, folks, Leon’s familiar baritone voice boomed across the crowd. Grab a seat! The pie tasting is about to begin.

Ara Grace relaxed immediately at the sound of her church administrator’s voice. Leon made everyone feel at ease. She had felt this comfort even in their first meeting barely a week ago.

***

One week earlier

Ara Grace’s leg cramped as she manhandled the moving truck up the mountain and glanced out its dusty window. Of course, there was no cruise control in this beast. She could feel the strain of her right foot having been on the pedal for days now as she transported her life across the country. She heard her worldly possessions shifting in the metal box of the moving truck as she took the turn, her trusted Honda Civic being towed behind. Good thing I don’t own anything precious, she thought as the sound of boxes tumbling echoed through the cab.

She didn’t have much. Mostly the boxes were filled with her beloved books. The truck housed a few pieces of furniture she had acquired (mostly hand-me-downs from other seminary students) and some haphazardly boxed clothes. Umma, Ara Grace’s mother, had been horrified at her packing, insisting that since she was now going to be a professional adult, her things needed to reflect this transition in life. How did she expect anyone to take her seriously if she didn’t take herself seriously? It was an old argument they came back to every so often, but Ara Grace liked her things. She liked the way- everything was comfortable, already broken in, familiar, safe.

As she drove high up in the seat of the cab, she looked out at the land in front of her. Intellectually, she could understand why some people found this place beautiful. There was a wide sky where summer storms would no doubt dance across the distance before dumping sheets of rain on the dry earth below. But as tumbleweeds blew across the highway, Ara Grace couldn’t help but wonder if this would be a place where she, too, would dry up and be blown away.

She maneuvered the truck up out of a valley, worried about its capacity for this increasingly steep terrain, before arriving at an overlook. She pulled the truck over and got out. Empty paper coffee cups and candy wrappers fell out of the cab and were caught by the ever-present Wyoming wind. She knew she looked ridiculous chasing the debris. She hoped no one from her new church would be passing by at this moment and see the wild woman on the side of the road. That’d be a first impression impossible to overcome, she thought to herself. Out of breath, garbage safely disposed of in the lone bear-proof garbage can (even the garbage cans let her know she was a long way from home), Ara Grace stretched, lifting her arms high above her head to give her back a break. She gazed out to see just what she’d gotten herself into.

Her new home lay at her feet. It was easy to see why folks had settled here, not aesthetically but practically. So much of the state she had driven through seemed devoid of water, but below her was an oasis. A wry smile crossed her face as she wondered: Would this be her promised land? Probably not. People like her didn’t often fit in places like this. Immediately, she chastised herself. She didn’t know this place. She didn’t know these people. If God was calling her here, shouldn’t she have an open heart? Though her inner cyanic couldn’t help but wonder if it was God that called her here or the bureaucracy of the church.

Before her lay a reservoir, and on its far bank a small town, green and lush, was surrounded by a high mountain desert filled with sagebrush and juniper. She wondered if the town seemed so welcoming because it was surrounded by land that felt so inhospitable. It felt perfectly situated, frozen in time. While she doubted this place would ever really be home, the scene was idyllic. Public parks lined the water’s edge and old cottonwood trees gave off their downy late summer snow. From this perspective, Ara Grace could see tiny people and cars. There was an old movie theater with a big marquee, and a rainbow of awnings that made the downtown look both unplanned and utterly endearing. She couldn’t tell this far away, but her mind flooded to the bookstore, the coffee shop, the diner and bars that would make up life in this strange place. Nestled among it all were steeples. Apparently, Triumph County was truly part of God’s country. Ara Grace could spot the brick building and brown steeple of Good Shepherd Lutheran Church just in the far corner. This would be her church, and these folks her people.

The perspective from the overlook made Ara Grace reflective. She had God’s eye view. Seeing the people moving below, she thought of all the stories spread out on the tapestry of the town streets. Someone down there was falling in love—a heart fluttering, stomach churning, life-bending love. Someone else was holding the hand of a family member as they took their last breaths. Another was no doubt scrolling social media, eyes plastered to a screen, wishing to be anywhere but here. This beautiful messy reality is what she was called to.

Can I do this?

Escaping the wind, she hopped back into the cab and steered the truck back onto the narrow ribbon of mountain road. Taking the next exit, she slowly drove the streets, turn by turn, until she came to Good Shepherd Lutheran Church. On the sign out front, where she imagined the sermon title would normally be, was Welcome Pastor Ara Grace Jung. Worship times were listed below her name. Her name.

She came to a full stop, the truck awkwardly angled so the windshield was squared to the church sign. Her eyes studied each letter that had been carefully placed and spaced. She drank in minor details: how the black ink and translucent backing on each plastic rectangle differed from its neighbors, a spectrum where each A appeared nearly gray against yellowed plastic backing, while the little used J of her Korean last name seemed brand new.

Ara Grace took in the rainbow flag emblem in the sign’s lower left corner. Though still vibrant, the faded red and purple gave its age away. Her heart steadied. The logo was housed on that sign permanently, not just to celebrate Pride Month a little early or out of a well-meaning but misguided attempt to welcome her. This congregation—her congregation, she corrected herself— declared to everyone that queer people like herself to be made as they were, fully part of the imago dei, the very image of God, long before calling her as their pastor. She lifted her foot off the brake, allowing the truck to complete its turn and roll forward.

A tall man with an exuberant smile waited for her by the parking lot door. She parked the truck in the spot nearest to him, opened the door, and slid from the cab, thankful that she had already disposed of the coffee cups and candy wrappers. She congratulated herself on that stroke of genius or good luck, and prayed a silent thanksgiving to God for her good fortune.

Pastor! the man’s voice boomed, drawing her in like a magnet. His exuberance was endearing; it was without pretense and sincere. Or maybe she felt at ease because of her partiality to the salt and pepper of his facial scruff. I’m Leon. We’ve spoken a few times, remember? Let me give you the official Triumph County Welcome.

Leon was supersized, from his smile to his barrel chest that swallowed her small frame in a hug. Normally, Ara Grace would tense, her jaw clenching and shoulders elevating to her ears at the unexpected embrace. But in this giant man’s arms, she felt herself relax. The anxieties she had carried across the thousand miles from her parent’s home in San Francisco to this place seemed to melt away.

Maybe I can do this.

***

Ara Grace snapped out of her warm reverie as Nel and Birdie, the other two clergy women, joined her behind the banquet table of pies. The nerves that had plagued her this week returned in full force. She wanted these women, these obviously competent clergy women, to like her.

Are we ready for this? Birdie asked, smiling.

Nel nodded, serenely yet gravely. After the morning I’ve had, I could use some sweetness, she said in low tones. One hand absent-mindedly touched her pearl necklace.

Birdie looked at her knowingly. The kids?

Husband, Nel said flatly. Didn’t want to come to another church thing.

Even if it has pie? Ara Grace offered lightly. Both women gave a small chuckle. Please let these be my people.

She took the spot between them, Birdie on her left and Nel on her right. Pieces of pies were passed down the table to them. Ara Grace began tasting exquisite pie after exquisite pie. The clergy women dipped forkful after forkful into the masterpieces, making approving ummms and even oh my’s and jotting down notes on their judging cards with the tiny golf pencils made for putt-putt and moments like this. As the barrage of pies neared its end, Ara Grace was at a loss for how they would ever decide which one was best.

It was then that she put her fork into a beautiful dark red cherry pie, golden crusted pastry hearts littering the top of the slice handed to her. Cherry was her favorite and her mouth began to water in anticipation. It’s this one.

The three women took their forkfuls to their mouths almost simultaneously. Birdie’s eyes became large and her relaxed body sharply stiffened. Nel gave off an alarmed squeak, her posture also solidifying. Before she could stop herself, Ara Grace grabbed a napkin and spat her bite into it, gagging a little, praying that she wouldn’t be sick.

A memory washed over her. She had tasted something like this before. Her sister Hana would often play tricks on her as a child. Harmless pranks, Hana would inevitably say afterward. Can’t you take a joke? You’re so sensitive. One time in particular, Ara Grace remembered her sister filling the sugar bowl with salt. Her tea, instead of the almost syrupy concoction of sweetness she normally had at her grandmother’s, had been brown brine. She remembered having to finish that tea, sip by briny sip, on her grandmother’s living room couch. Hana had cackled quietly next to her, asking why she was taking so long.

Birdie quickly handed Ara Grace her own water. Oh, Nel started, this pie is … interesting, an acquired taste. Birdie even put her fork back in her mouth, cleaning it.

Ara Grace was confused. That pie was terrible. Why were these women pretending any differently?

She glanced out at the crowd of about twenty. Big blue eyes were filling with tears in the crinkled face of an older woman in a pink Afghan sweater right in the front row. The very woman Birdie had laughed with and hugged mere minutes ago.

Shit, thought Ara Grace.

***

The three women finished the pie tasting without further mishap. A spectacular peach won, but after that attempt at cherry, all the pies tasted like dust in Ara Grace’s mouth. She hadn’t meant to inflict harm, but she had and it soured what had moments before been so sweet.

You weren’t wrong. Birdie said quietly once Leon had handed some man a blue ribbon for his peach pie. It was a terrible pie. She nodded to the woman from the front row in the Afghan sweater who was making her way out of the tent. Poor Getrude used to win these contests every year, like her mother and grandmother before her.

Oh? Ara Grace said.

Birdie nodded. That family has baked in this county since we were nothing more than a little blip on the map, a pass-over spot. It’s sad she’s the only one left here. Everyone else in the family has died or gone off to some big city, Denver or Salt Lake. Gertie feels like she has to carry the torch. But her sight and memory are going. Ingredients get confused and timers forgotten. We should have warned you. Man, that one was a doozy! Made my eyes water, salt instead of sugar.

Nel was beside them now, too. It’s a steep learning curve, but you’ll get there.

Ara Grace appreciated the kindness and complete lack of condescension in her tone.

I remember my early days, Nel said. There’s a pride and fierceness in the people of Triumph, but also deep love. Eat some humble pie, make amends. Thankfully, forgiveness is usually given.

Birdie laughed. They might forgive, but they never forget.

Ara Grace felt a lump form in her throat, and the sweating of her palms began again. These women, so different, seemed so called here. It poured out of them. They fit. They belonged. Even Leon looked pastoral and perfect, hugging every person he met as if they were family, all of them his prodigal children. Ara Grace’s stomach dropped, feeling completely unqualified for this position. Who would call a twenty-five-year-old to be a pastor? She felt young—she was young—inexperienced, and deeply alone. But while she couldn’t change her age, or her anxieties around