believe that God meant for children to be raised by both a man and a woman, but we can’t always know his plans for us, can we?”
They were coming into the room. “Oh, no. No we can’t,” my mother laughed nervously and stopped in the doorway, her hand reflexively to the nape of her neck, pulling at the finehairs there. “Well, it is difficult sometimes, as you know, but we do try.”
I thought their voices skated on the surface, thin and sharp and insincere. I greeted them with a forced smile. Vera stood in the door for a moment until Pastor John asked her to give us some time alone.
I had never seen Pastor John uncomfortable and he wasn’t then. He pulled at the legs of his pants as all tall men do, making room for his knees, and set a Bible in front of him on the coffee table. “Have you been praying, Sylvia?”
“Yes.” Not exactly a lie. I didn’t so much pray as ask for signs.
“You will be easily deceived, Sylvia – you are young and impressionable – we understand this. I understand this, your Friends in Christ understand this, and we are here for you. But it takes more than you, it takes more than our entire congregation. No one knows you – your temptations, your weakness – better than your personal saviour, Jesus Christ.” I nodded, kept a straight face. Pastor John had his hands on his knees, his eyes at some place above my head. “And no one but our true Friend, Jesus Christ, can guide you on the right path. If you ask for forgiveness with a clean heart, He
will
guide you. You must be ready, though. He’ll know if you’re not. Will you read Proverbs 20:1 with me, Sylvia?”
We said together, “Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging; and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.” The last part referred to me, I knew, the one who was deceived. There was a cure, however. I read Ephesians 5 out loud at Pastor John’sprompting. “And be not drunk with wine, wherein is excess; but be filled with the Spirit; Speaking to yourselves in Psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord.” The Friends of Christ were doing the right thing, singing down the chosen path. A path that ended, “Submitting yourselves one to another in the fear of God.”
Pastor John had me stop reading there, though the rest of the chapter was already committed to memory. Pastor John quoted it again and again to explain the hierarchy of the Free Church. Wives submitting themselves to the will of their husbands, husbands loving their wives like their own bodies, like temples. All of us flesh, bones, and blood of a greater body, submitting ourselves to Christ.
Sometimes I felt estranged from my own body, as though it were a symbol of something else. Once, it was something I didn’t think of often. Something to get me up trees and onto every potentially dangerous thing at the playground, teetering on metal, standing on slides. Something that got restless in vans and cars or itchy after being in bays coated with duck crap like the ones at Sunny Bay Bible Camp. The Friends of Christ Free Church had no summer camp of our own so we were sent to camp with the lesser of evil denominations, the Baptists. We met a bus in the mall parking lot, clutched duffle bags, sleeping rolls, and pillows in quiet horror as the bus opened up, took our belongings into the bottom of it, while we climbed aboard, sandwiched into seats between strangers.
Sunny Bay was indeed in a sunny bay, one lined with cabins, summer homes, docks. The sand was fine and could burn the bottoms of our feet. Ponderosa pines released their smell everywhere. If you pull a pine needle, sticky with new sap, from the tree and place it on water, the pitch will release, propel the needle across the surface like a tiny motor boat. The camp was across the road from the lake and the counsellors wore reflective vests, walked right out into summer traffic, stop signs in front of them like shields. We would then stream across
They were coming into the room. “Oh, no. No we can’t,” my mother laughed nervously and stopped in the doorway, her hand reflexively to the nape of her neck, pulling at the finehairs there. “Well, it is difficult sometimes, as you know, but we do try.”
I thought their voices skated on the surface, thin and sharp and insincere. I greeted them with a forced smile. Vera stood in the door for a moment until Pastor John asked her to give us some time alone.
I had never seen Pastor John uncomfortable and he wasn’t then. He pulled at the legs of his pants as all tall men do, making room for his knees, and set a Bible in front of him on the coffee table. “Have you been praying, Sylvia?”
“Yes.” Not exactly a lie. I didn’t so much pray as ask for signs.
“You will be easily deceived, Sylvia – you are young and impressionable – we understand this. I understand this, your Friends in Christ understand this, and we are here for you. But it takes more than you, it takes more than our entire congregation. No one knows you – your temptations, your weakness – better than your personal saviour, Jesus Christ.” I nodded, kept a straight face. Pastor John had his hands on his knees, his eyes at some place above my head. “And no one but our true Friend, Jesus Christ, can guide you on the right path. If you ask for forgiveness with a clean heart, He
will
guide you. You must be ready, though. He’ll know if you’re not. Will you read Proverbs 20:1 with me, Sylvia?”
We said together, “Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging; and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.” The last part referred to me, I knew, the one who was deceived. There was a cure, however. I read Ephesians 5 out loud at Pastor John’sprompting. “And be not drunk with wine, wherein is excess; but be filled with the Spirit; Speaking to yourselves in Psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord.” The Friends of Christ were doing the right thing, singing down the chosen path. A path that ended, “Submitting yourselves one to another in the fear of God.”
Pastor John had me stop reading there, though the rest of the chapter was already committed to memory. Pastor John quoted it again and again to explain the hierarchy of the Free Church. Wives submitting themselves to the will of their husbands, husbands loving their wives like their own bodies, like temples. All of us flesh, bones, and blood of a greater body, submitting ourselves to Christ.
Sometimes I felt estranged from my own body, as though it were a symbol of something else. Once, it was something I didn’t think of often. Something to get me up trees and onto every potentially dangerous thing at the playground, teetering on metal, standing on slides. Something that got restless in vans and cars or itchy after being in bays coated with duck crap like the ones at Sunny Bay Bible Camp. The Friends of Christ Free Church had no summer camp of our own so we were sent to camp with the lesser of evil denominations, the Baptists. We met a bus in the mall parking lot, clutched duffle bags, sleeping rolls, and pillows in quiet horror as the bus opened up, took our belongings into the bottom of it, while we climbed aboard, sandwiched into seats between strangers.
Sunny Bay was indeed in a sunny bay, one lined with cabins, summer homes, docks. The sand was fine and could burn the bottoms of our feet. Ponderosa pines released their smell everywhere. If you pull a pine needle, sticky with new sap, from the tree and place it on water, the pitch will release, propel the needle across the surface like a tiny motor boat. The camp was across the road from the lake and the counsellors wore reflective vests, walked right out into summer traffic, stop signs in front of them like shields. We would then stream across
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