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  Rachel had given Anne-Marie one of the troll dolls with wild, yellow hair. When she had trouble sleeping, Anne-Marie would roll onto her side and squeeze the doll tightly between her palms like a tension reliever.

  Eventually, she was wide awake in spite of her efforts otherwise. Anne-Marie turned on her side to discover Rachel looking at her. “You were talking in your sleep,” Rachel informed her.

  “What was I saying?”

  “You kept saying brother. Sometimes you said father.”

  “Brother? Father?” This was embarrassing. Anne-Marie swung herself into the seated position on the edge of her bed. “What else did I say?”

  “Nothing, I don’t think.” Of all the sisters in her group, Rachel was the most mysterious. She seemed to live almost exclusively on an ethereal level. At times when she spoke to Anne-Marie, it was almost as if she was looking straight through her and beyond, into another dimension. Sister Abigail had said Rachel was graced with the gift of prophecy, and Anne-Marie had no problem believing it.

  Anne-Marie could feel how the troll doll was mashed nearly flat; she kept it under the sheet so Rachel wouldn’t see its battered condition. In truth, with her wild hair and wild eyes, Rachel bore a striking resemblance to her dolls.

  “Do you have dreams?” Anne-Marie asked her.

  “I have dreams and I have visions. Sometimes the dreams and the visions become one.”

  “You have the gift of prophecy, don’t you?”

  “I have the gift of prophecy,” Rachel confirmed matter-of-factly. She paused long enough to take a tissue and blow her nose. “Sometimes, though, the gift is like a curse.”

  “How is it like a curse?”

  “Because I can’t control it. Visions come to me. They may come directly from the Lord Himself, but they come on their own. Sometimes they are very troubling and I feel responsible.”

  “You mean like a psychic who might see a crime being committed but can’t do anything in time to stop it?”

  “Something like that.” Rachel was on her side again, pushing some of the unruly bangs from her eyes. “I dream the incubus.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Anne-Marie.

  “The incubus is a demon who troubles young women in their sleep. He is capable of seducing them with the demon seed.”

  Anne-Marie felt scared. She had goose flesh. “What does that mean? What does the incubus look like?”

  “He can change his form. That’s Satan’s power. Sometimes he is ugly and disgusting with great wings like bat wings. He wants seduction by terror. But sometimes he appears in the form of a man who’s handsome. That’s his power.”

  “But what does he do?”

  “He can seduce. He can trouble young girls and women in their sleep and bring the demon seed.”

  Anne-Marie didn’t wait to hear any more. She had to go to the bathroom, and right away. Rachel’s level of contact with the Mysteries was too troubling. After she used the toilet she stepped into the shower. The incubus? It was too disturbing, and especially so right after her sublime dream of her union with Brother Jackson.

  Anne-Marie made a headband in arts and crafts. Since she’d always been good at art, the headband was a work of special quality. She used a scarlet ribbon, two inches wide, which for some unknown reason had ended up at the bottom of her tote bag. The ribbon was actually a belt for a red dress that was hanging at home in her closet.

  The headband she crafted wrapped around her head horizontally above her ears, like an American Indian headband or a hippy one from the sixties. Using white paint and a very fine detail brush, she painted the words El Shaddai carefully in block letters. She applied the words in two places, so when she tied on the headband, they were bold on both sides of her head. The extra ribbon was left to trail down the back of her neck.

  Not only did she love the headband and the way it looked around her new hairdo, it gave her the opportunity to speak for the first time in share group, where the sisters were urged to confess sins and join the group in prayers for forgiveness. Sometimes the sins were minor and current, while others might be long-concealed and only revealed with great courage and trust.

  Anne-Marie told her group what the headband represented. “The ribbon comes from a red dress I used to wear to parties and out on dates. It symbolizes the old me, the worldly me, the person who loved to party and was always willful. I think red is the right color for that symbolism. The white symbolizes the Lord, who is now in control of my life. White means purity. The purity of my new life in the Lord is meant to be on top of the old red. The new me replaces the old.”

  All the members of her group were thoroughly impressed, particularly Crystal, who was as skilled at art as she was at haircutting. “It’s not only the meaning of the headband,” she declared, “but also how artistic it is.”

  “I’ve always been good at art,” Anne-Marie admitted. “It’s the other subjects that I always have trouble with.”

  Sister Abigail told them she wanted them to choose a “prayer target” for the day. “It doesn’t matter who you pick,” she said. “Just choose someone you know who needs prayer. Or, if you’d rather, it could be someone you don’t know but might have read about or seen on the news. A victim of a natural disaster, or a political leader who needs the Lord’s guidance to make ethical decisions.”

  “When do we pray for them?” asked Crystal.

  “Anytime during the day,” answered the counselor, with a smile. “Whenever you have free time, whenever you’re working on a chore. Maybe when you’re studying your Bible on your own. Keep this person in your prayers throughout the day. The Lord rejoices when we pray for others as well as for ourselves.”

  Anne-Marie was uncertain about the assignment, but Rachel spoke right up. “I will be praying for my brother.”

  Sister Abigail said, “Rachel, wouldn’t you like to pick someone else for a change?”

  “I can’t help it,” replied Rachel. “If he’s in prison, his only salvation is if he gives his life over to the Lord. ‘I was in prison and you came to me.’ This is my only way to go to him.”

  Around the circle, one by one, the sisters named the person who would be their prayer target for the day. Anne-Marie didn’t hear most of them; she was racking her brain for an appropriate choice.

  Finally, when Sister Abigail turned to her, Anne-Marie said, “I’d like to pray for Chris Weems.”

  “Is this a friend of yours from home?”

  “Not really a friend, but I know him. When I go back, I hope to know him better. He’s gay, but he wishes he wasn’t.”

  “The Lord will bless you for this,” said Abigail. “If God can hate the sin while still loving the sinner, so can we.”

  Private meditation always followed share group. Anne-Marie took her Bible and found her way to a private place she liked, a footbridge in the woods. It was a rustic, rickety bridge, about thirty feet long, which spanned a creek bed. Since there hadn’t been much rain lately, the bed was now a dry wash. But there was a deep shade from the mature cottonwood trees along the bank.

  Anne-Marie opened her Bible just as soon as she took a seat on the edge of the bridge and let her feet dangle over the side. The bookmark which Sister Abigail had given her bore the words of an old-time preacher: Preach faith until you have faith. The words intrigued her. If you had doubts, the thing to do was to act as if you didn’t. If you declared your faith when the doubts occurred, it would only guarantee the permanent faith which came from submission.

  She pondered the message on the bookmark so repeatedly that she was looking at Scripture passages without actually reading them. She finally remembered her promise to pray for Chris Weems.

  The words didn’t come easily, even though she tried her best to get focused. She couldn’t decide if she should pray for his peace of mind, his power to change out of the gay lifestyle, the Lord to forgive him, or simply to pray for him. “Lord, I just want to lift up Chris Weems,” she said aloud. After that no new words seemed to
come, so she repeated the same ones.

  She wondered if she should pray for Richard instead. She knew him better, knew some of his self-destructive habits, and knew the way he more or less flipped life off. But she had promised to pray for Chris, so she kept trying.

  After lunch, she talked to Sister Abigail in her quarters. It was always a privilege when she counseled you all alone. Sister was polite enough to offer tea again, so Anne-Marie was polite enough to sip it from time to time.

  Anne-Marie began by telling her she’d had a dream of Brother Jackson and how she’d tried to preserve it by not waking up. It felt so easy to tell her about private things. “Do you believe the Lord visits us in dreams, Sister Abigail?”

  “Of course he does, Ruth Anne. But you said it wasn’t really a dream, but a recollection of actual events.”

  “It was a real experience, that’s true. But it was the feeling about it which seemed so special. When it was dreamlike, it felt almost like it was holy.” Then she revealed the dream to Abigail.

  Sister Abigail returned the teapot to the counter by the stove before she responded. “Ruth Anne, you’re describing fornication. It would be a stretch to call that holy, wouldn’t it?”

  Fornication sounded like such a dirty word. “I know, but it was different somehow. What happened between Brother Jackson and me was on a high plane, like it was meant to be.”

  Sister Abigail smiled. “Sometimes we call that lust, dear. It has something to do with being aroused. Do you recall what the Scripture tells us about wolves in sheep’s clothing?”

  “Of course I do, but we could never call Brother Jackson a wolf.”

  “Of course we couldn’t. I would never suggest we could.”

  It wasn’t lust any more than it was fornication, though. She began to regret bringing the subject up, because it was so hard to express her feelings. “I just wish I could communicate better, Sister Abigail. I know how vague it must seem.” Anne-Marie took a tiny sip of the tea, just to moisten her dry lips.

  Sister Abigail was nibbling on a butter cookie. Before she spoke again, she used the tip of her little finger to remove a crumb at the corner of her mouth. “Ruth Anne, are you sure the events you just described to me actually happened?”

  “Am I sure?”

  “That’s what I’m asking. Are you absolutely certain?”

  Anne-Marie hesitated. “Sister Abigail,” she finally said, summoning the courage, “I’m pregnant. I’m going to have his baby.”

  Abigail sat up straight in her chair. Before she answered at all, she went to the counter again to carve another lemon slice. At the table, she squeezed its contents into her teacup. “Who knows about this?” she asked.

  “Nobody. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

  “I want you to think carefully. You haven’t told any friends or family members?”

  “Not about the Brother Jackson part,” Anne-Marie replied quickly.

  Sister Abigail asked, “Which part, then?” Her smile looked forced.

  “I haven’t told anyone else that Brother Jackson is the father. I told my sister and a counselor that I’m pregnant. I also told a former boyfriend, but that was just because I needed a ride.”

  With her elbows planted on her knees, Abigail searched Anne-Marie’s eyes. “Ruth Anne, you’re accusing Brother Jackson of seducing you. Let me ask you one more time if you’re certain.”

  “But I’m not accusing, I’m only sharing with you. I’m sharing something that seemed beautiful between us like it came from a higher power. Why do you keep asking me if I’m certain?”

  “Because you began by calling it a dream. Can you be sure that’s not what it was?”

  Anne-Marie wondered why most of her serious conversations felt like she was seated on the witness stand. “It was a dreamlike memory of something that actually happened. Hasn’t that ever happened to you?”

  Abigail was still wearing the patient smile. “You were in that in-between state which is half awake but half asleep. Sometimes, in that condition, our dreams get confused with our realities.”

  “I feel certain about it,” said Anne-Marie. “But I do know what you’re saying,” she had to admit.

  “Sometimes we dream about things we long for, which makes them seem as real as events which actually occur. May I ask you a personal question?”

  Anne-Marie looked up. “Sure, why not?”

  “Have you been intimate with boys? Young men? Have you been a sexually active person?”

  She looked down again, ashamed; her answer was slow in coming. “A few times, yes I have.”

  “And did it give you pleasure?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m asking you if you enjoy sexual intercourse.”

  There wasn’t any point in lying. “Yes,” she said. Squirming, she found herself recalling memories of Richard. He wasn’t the only one, but he was the most recent. And when it came to having sex, she would be lying if she tried to claim she merely put up with it. Oh no. She enjoyed Richard’s body and the pleasure it brought to the point that she had often been the romantic aggressor.

  Once again, she remembered smoking pot by the lake and then having sex. Not to mention the times when they skipped out of school together for trysts in the woods, and she ended up getting suspended for truancy. School suspensions were not the issue here, but Anne-Marie’s confusion had reached the point where she wasn’t sure what the issue was.

  She thought to add immediately, “But that was the old me. That wasn’t Ruth Anne.”

  Sister Abigail smiled a little broader before she said, “That was before you put on the whole armor of God?”

  Anne-Marie smiled, too. “That’s what I’m saying.” She ran her fingers through her hair, only to be reminded how short it was now.

  Abigail said, “Maybe some part of you longed for Brother Jackson physically because you respected and admired him so.”

  “But why would I do that?”

  “Maybe you wouldn’t, but the Evil One would.”

  “You mean Satan.”

  “Precisely. He is reluctant to let go of you. He doesn’t want you born again. He understands that sexual pleasure is part of your past, so he tries to seduce the old you.”

  Her earlier conversation with Rachel suddenly popped into her head, the one about an incubus. Seduction and demons during the night, troubling all your dreams. She said, “You’re saying Satan would try to use my own past against me.”

  “Of course, just as surely as a hunter would set a snare to catch a rabbit. If there’s a corner of you that is physically attracted to Brother Jackson, why would Satan pass up the opportunity to use it? The strategy is too easy.”

  Anne-Marie could see the logic of this counsel, but it only confused her more. Could it be? she asked herself. Was such a thing possible? “Maybe it really was a dream,” she speculated out loud. “You’re saying Satan could use my own subconscious mind to lead me to destruction.”

  Abigail leaned back in her chair before resting her cup on her knee. She picked at a piece of thread on her blue cotton shorts. “He’s not called the Prince of Darkness for nothing, is he?”

  Anne-Marie thought again about Brother Jackson and the silver cross. What about that cross? But even the bliss seemed to be fading. “I’ll have to pray about it,” she finally said.

  “We’ll all have to pray about it. Individually, as well as together. If Satan wants another foothold in you, we intend to make it very tough on him.” Now Abigail was laughing gaily.

  Anne-Marie thanked her. Her confusion was on hold. Sister Abigail squeezed her hand before kissing her cheek. “Don’t forget,” she whispered. “The Spirit is stronger than any demon.”

  June 20

  Immediately after lunch there was a traumatic scene in the parking lot. Out near the rustic arch on the blacktop, where Brother Jackson had delivered Anne-Marie some days ago, there seemed to be a confrontation between Sister Abigail and the parents of a member of their grou
p named Michelle.

  Anne-Marie watched the animated conversation from beneath the shade of a generous oak tree, while sitting on a wooden bench next to Jessica. The two girls were too far away to hear what was being said, but the body language was dramatic enough.

  The man, a well-dressed handsome figure, was stowing Michelle’s gear in the trunk of the car, a charcoal-colored Continental. Michelle had taken a place in the backseat, but she was in tears, sobbing with her face in her hands. The spectacle triggered a long-forgotten memory: Anne-Marie remembered when she was young, maybe ten or eleven, and she’d gotten homesick at church camp. Her parents came to get her after she’d called home about three times. As soon as they’d told her she didn’t have to stay any longer, she’d cried tears of relief. This was different; Michelle’s tears were not those of relief, but despair.

  “What’s going on?” Anne-Marie asked Jessica.

  Jessica was a veteran of several summers at Camp Shaddai. “Her parents are taking her home against her will. It happens sometimes.”

  “Why does it happen?”

  “Some people think that what we do here is part of a cult activity. Maybe I should say most people. They believe Camp Shaddai is a cult.”

  “But that’s stupid. Why would they think that? Why would it be a cult if your goal is to have the Lord at the center of your life?”

  “I know,” said Jessica. “But it happens. I’ve seen it before.”

  Anne-Marie shuddered. She could just imagine how quickly her own parents would swoop down on Shaddai and carry her away against her will. This thought made her more uncomfortable when she realized she still hadn’t called Eleanor like she’d promised she would. “What can we do for Michelle?” she asked Jessica. “It’s so sad when people just can’t understand.”

  “Can’t, or won’t,” Jessica replied. “We can pray for her. I’m sure tonight at fellowship meeting, we will lift her up in prayer above all other concerns.”