what I had once loved, of how simple things were when there was only one way. Over the course of that summer, I felt the fabric of who I was begin to tear. There came a time when I could no longer remember why it was I resisted, what I hoped to save myself from. I was isolated from my friends and family, but there was something else that wore at my resistance. It promised peace. It offered forgiveness. It whispered that I would never be free if I didn’t let go, give in.
I remember how I lay on the floor of my narrow room and cried, then prayed. I felt the weight that was all my sins and worries and cares press me down, then fall away. It happens just this way: one moment, the horrid drunkenness of a life not right, of a soul bloated by neglect and transgression; the next, a feeling of lightness and sharp cleansing. Simply by letting go of my will, my stubborn refusal to submit, I’d been unbound, reborn into the Kingdom of God.
When I came to the breakfast table that morning, those people who had only tolerated my presence welcomed me with open arms. We joined hands above the scrambled eggs and bacon and gave thanks for my salvation. Beneath the linen cloth, I felt the shuffle of feet against mine, the brush of an ankle, and opened my eyes to the eyes of Luke. He smiled, and I was infused with pleasure. Along with everlasting life, I had earned this reward: the approval of the man I now loved.
That pleasure instilled in me a desire to do only good. I was redeemed, and for the price of my soul’s purchase I offeredup daily prayers, busy hands, a chaste body and clean mind. I imagined how grateful my parents would be when they saw their daughter come back from the grave. I would prove to them how loving, how honest I could be. I would mend the wounds I had caused.
I lengthened my skirts, scrubbed my face pink. I remembered to lower my eyes in modesty, to fold my hands neatly in the pleat of my lap. Was this what Luke had been waiting for? He might not have touched me otherwise, had I remained something unclean, unholy, unworthy of his desire. When he came to me deep in the night, I resisted because I knew it was what might prove my chastity, make him want to keep me. I felt his jaw tighten, the tendons of his arms hard against my breasts. When he went no further but pushed me away, then began to laugh, I breathed out a prayer of thanks. Now, I must continue to withstand, repel his advances because that is what he really wanted of me—it was the test, the fire. It was the unmarried woman’s duty, she who was charged with countering, tempering, molding the man’s instinctual passion. In my bed, even as I grieved for the loss of his touch, I swore I would remain pure, a gift for the husband I believed he would be.
I believed that if I lived by the Book, the world would fall into place, and I could regain that peace I had lost. I was wrong. What happened at the end of that summer would define the story I told myself of faith, love, and betrayal for years to come; it would rend my sense of who I was into pieces I still struggle to fit together.
Something began to shift in that house, something I sensed but could not speak, even to myself. I saw it in the way the Langs addressed me, or didn’t, in the way they let theireyes slide away from my face. Perhaps the threat of who I was remained; even though I had shed the skin of my former self, I still carried with me the stink of the purgatory I had once inhabited.
I became more diligent in my chores, more dedicated in my prayers and fasting, until one day Sister Lang confronted me. I was evil, she said, a harlot whom the demons had followed: she and Brother Lang had heard them, shuffling in the closets, wallowing beneath the beds. She said she knew what I had done: seduced not her son but her son-in-law in the very church that had saved me, in the sacristy, the most holy of chambers.
I could not convince her that none of this was true. There was no way for me to make
I remember how I lay on the floor of my narrow room and cried, then prayed. I felt the weight that was all my sins and worries and cares press me down, then fall away. It happens just this way: one moment, the horrid drunkenness of a life not right, of a soul bloated by neglect and transgression; the next, a feeling of lightness and sharp cleansing. Simply by letting go of my will, my stubborn refusal to submit, I’d been unbound, reborn into the Kingdom of God.
When I came to the breakfast table that morning, those people who had only tolerated my presence welcomed me with open arms. We joined hands above the scrambled eggs and bacon and gave thanks for my salvation. Beneath the linen cloth, I felt the shuffle of feet against mine, the brush of an ankle, and opened my eyes to the eyes of Luke. He smiled, and I was infused with pleasure. Along with everlasting life, I had earned this reward: the approval of the man I now loved.
That pleasure instilled in me a desire to do only good. I was redeemed, and for the price of my soul’s purchase I offeredup daily prayers, busy hands, a chaste body and clean mind. I imagined how grateful my parents would be when they saw their daughter come back from the grave. I would prove to them how loving, how honest I could be. I would mend the wounds I had caused.
I lengthened my skirts, scrubbed my face pink. I remembered to lower my eyes in modesty, to fold my hands neatly in the pleat of my lap. Was this what Luke had been waiting for? He might not have touched me otherwise, had I remained something unclean, unholy, unworthy of his desire. When he came to me deep in the night, I resisted because I knew it was what might prove my chastity, make him want to keep me. I felt his jaw tighten, the tendons of his arms hard against my breasts. When he went no further but pushed me away, then began to laugh, I breathed out a prayer of thanks. Now, I must continue to withstand, repel his advances because that is what he really wanted of me—it was the test, the fire. It was the unmarried woman’s duty, she who was charged with countering, tempering, molding the man’s instinctual passion. In my bed, even as I grieved for the loss of his touch, I swore I would remain pure, a gift for the husband I believed he would be.
I believed that if I lived by the Book, the world would fall into place, and I could regain that peace I had lost. I was wrong. What happened at the end of that summer would define the story I told myself of faith, love, and betrayal for years to come; it would rend my sense of who I was into pieces I still struggle to fit together.
Something began to shift in that house, something I sensed but could not speak, even to myself. I saw it in the way the Langs addressed me, or didn’t, in the way they let theireyes slide away from my face. Perhaps the threat of who I was remained; even though I had shed the skin of my former self, I still carried with me the stink of the purgatory I had once inhabited.
I became more diligent in my chores, more dedicated in my prayers and fasting, until one day Sister Lang confronted me. I was evil, she said, a harlot whom the demons had followed: she and Brother Lang had heard them, shuffling in the closets, wallowing beneath the beds. She said she knew what I had done: seduced not her son but her son-in-law in the very church that had saved me, in the sacristy, the most holy of chambers.
I could not convince her that none of this was true. There was no way for me to make
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