Faith Wish Read online

  “Where are you going from here?”

  “I’m off to a crusade in Indiana for a while. I’ll be taking a tour in the Hoosier state.”

  Anne-Marie couldn’t imagine how much faith it would take to move around from state to state with no guarantees. She was young in the Fellowship, though; she felt confident the Lord wouldn’t convict her when she had doubts.

  The room was small, and relatively dark, for there was only one window, which was partially obscured by a box fan resting on the sill. The simple rollaway bed was neatly made. A wooden chair was in the corner next to a table with a reading lamp. On the table was a well-worn Bible. A big poster on the wall with the words El Shaddai showed a picture of a mountain peak piercing the clouds.

  Just standing there in his room without talking made her tense. “What does El Shaddai mean?” she asked him.

  “It means the Good Lord Himself,” was the answer.

  They were speaking in the lowest of voices. When she reached to pull down on the hem of her blouse, she felt her arm brush against his skin. She was practically dazed at the turbulence of her emotions at this moment. She felt electrified, body and soul.

  She needed to say something. “I like your cross,” she told him, with her eyes lowered.

  “This cross?” Brother Jackson asked. He took it off. “It’s nothing special, I’ve had it for years.”

  “But it looks so delicate and so … so simple.”

  “The world is full of nice crosses to wear.” Then he chuckled. “You know what, Sister? I almost said nice crosses to bear.” He had his pocket knife out by this time and was cutting through the rawhide strip with a sawing motion.

  “What are you doing?” Anne-Marie asked.

  “If you like the cross, then you should have it.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that.”

  “And why not?” He turned to face her, again with the smile.

  “But how could I just take your cross?”

  “By receiving it as a gift. By trusting me when I tell you it isn’t something I cherish.” The cross was in the palm of his hand. It was plain and silver, approximately three quarters of an inch long and half as wide.

  When Anne-Marie looked up from the cross, she met his eyes. It wasn’t the argument about accepting the gift that perplexed her, but something else. It was the current flowing through her veins. At this moment, the one and only thing clear in her head was that she craved his approval. “Just trust you?” she asked.

  “Trust what I tell you,” he repeated. “How will you be open to receive the gifts of the Spirit if you have such a hard time accepting a trinket?”

  “Where would I wear it?” She didn’t feel like she was controlling the words coming out of her own mouth.

  “Why not let me put it on you?” Saying this, Brother Jackson began to lift the hem of her top. Anne-Marie shivered, but didn’t recoil. Quickly and efficiently, he worked the small ring in the top of the cross through the tight aperture of her belly button loop. His fingers traveled against her skin. There was no pain; he was careful not to pull her flesh.

  It felt to Anne-Marie like some divinely mystical moment, his fixing the cross to part of her own body, as it were. Like a consecration or an ordination.

  When he took her, it was on the simple bed. Before he made his swift but gentle entry, Brother Jackson applied oil to himself, which he took from a bottle on the window ledge. Does he think this is my first time? But what oil would this be, and why is it so handy?

  But her hypnotic condition seemed to activate a series of dreamlike, open-ended thoughts. Some of them blended with scattered scripture … Thou anointest my head with oil.…

  Her submission in the shape of open, lifted thighs formed a valley to receive the secret shaft like an arrow to the soul.… Yea, though I walk through the valley … The silver cross, she couldn’t help noticing each time he lifted himself, rested on her abdomen just above her tan line like an imprimatur.

  May 11

  Her watch said 7:40 A.M. when Anne-Marie picked a parking space in the school lot. Even though it was only twenty minutes before first-hour classes, empty spaces were abundant. She’d never found a place so close before. It was a warm, mild morning, which she took as an invitation from God.

  Today she would find the courage to join the prayer group around the flagpole.

  To make herself inconspicuous, she walked a circuitous route between parked cars so she could emerge close to the gathering. She was very anxious; but Coleen moved immediately to make room for her in the circle, reaching out her hand. “Praise God, Anne-Marie, come and join us.”

  “Thank you,” Anne-Marie replied. “I didn’t know if I could find the courage.”

  “It won’t take as much courage as you might think,” said a junior named Hiram. “The fellowship is strong, as strong as a fortress,” he added.

  She held hands with Coleen and Hiram, whose last name she didn’t know. Hiram was pimply, with a strong body odor that added to the queasiness in her stomach. The queasy stomach, a regular visitor these days, felt like it had a life of its own. This nervous knot was not connected to any conflict with her parents, or any academic screwups.

  It was with stinging guilt that Anne-Marie remembered the time she and two other cheerleaders had hidden Hiram’s French horn and put a bottle of Clearasil in its case. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was, but she was so new to this flagpole fellowship, she wasn’t ready to speak yet.

  But holding hands—even Hiram’s—to form the circle was surprisingly nonthreatening, in spite of the public exposure that gave the drive-by students opportunities to spew out their taunts and catcalls:

  Hey children! Better look up in the sky!

  Jesus may be in a landing pattern!

  Oh Jesus, I’ve got a chemistry test today.

  Can you fly down and take it for me? Please?

  The bond in the circle was strong enough that Anne-Marie could largely ignore the contempt. The queasiness dissipated, replaced by a firm sense of security. In the Lord there was safety. I am strong enough to be here and strong enough to do this.

  Chris Weems stood on the other side. He was tall, but thin and pale. His eyes were closed, his face lifted up to bathe in the warm, early morning sun. He looked at peace, but Anne-Marie knew from her conversations with Brooke that he had an inner conflict about being gay. Maybe he’s praying about that right now, she thought.

  Sara was already praying out loud, “Dear Jesus, we find our strength in you. The contemptuous behavior of the contemptible can’t shake the refuge we find in You. We pray You to lift us higher than their need to persecute.”

  Contemptuous behavior of the contemptible. She’s so good with words, Anne-Marie thought, even in front of a group.

  Then a girl named Hanna said, “We pray for them too, though. We ask you to enter their hearts so they too will enter Your state of grace. We ask you to lead them into the Fellowship of True Believers.”

  “Amen,” said several of the others. Anne-Marie said it too. “Amen.” She felt it. The taunters were poor souls needing rescue; she found herself pitying them rather than resenting them. A sudden surge of generosity of spirit flooded her, sweeping away the last small scraps of nerves. It felt like purification.

  Chris Weems said softly, “I need forgiveness for a sin. Can you please help me pray for forgiveness?”

  “What’s your sin?” someone asked.

  “My younger brother takes clothes out of my closet. He wears them without my permission. I’ve told him lots of times to stop, but he keeps taking what he wants and wearing it. It makes me angry.”

  “The Lord won’t convict you for being mad,” Hanna said. “All you have to do is forgive your brother and then ask the Lord to forgive you.”

  “Yesterday, though,” said Chris—his eyes were closed again—“I drove to school and left him behind on purpose. He doesn’t have his license yet. He had to walk to school. I did it to pay him back.”

  “Hav
e you told him you’re sorry?” someone asked.

  “Yes. Twice.”

  “Have you prayed with him?”

  “No. He’s not a believer. He’s not interested in the Fellowship.”

  “Then ask for God’s forgiveness,” said Sara.

  “That’s what I’m doing right now,” Chris replied quickly. “I’m asking the group to pray with me.”

  “Praise God for it,” said Coleen. “Praise Him for your submission.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We all pray for your forgiveness,” said Sara. “The Word assures us that when we make a sincere confession, the sin is forgiven.”

  “Amen,” said several in the circle. “Praise God,” said Anne-Marie quietly. She looked at Chris; his eyes were open again. But he had tears; she saw them on his cheeks even though he was thirty feet away.

  The wind whipped the flag’s draw-cord so that it made a steady slap-slap-slapping against the silver pole. But Anne-Marie was centered; she scarcely noticed the noise. Not even the honking of the Canada goose that glided overhead could distract her.

  She was ready to make a public confession of how she’d been a part of teasing and taunting Hiram in the past. She wanted to apologize and ask for his forgiveness. But Hiram had begun to mutter in syllables she couldn’t understand. His voice crescendoed up and then back down; it was something like singing or chanting, but not in words.

  He’s speaking in tongues, Anne-Marie thought. He is blessed with gifts of the Spirit. It was the first time she’d heard anyone speak in tongues and it seemed absolutely cosmic, as if Hiram had found a sublime plane of light which no human cruelty could touch or darken. Anne-Marie shivered while she gripped his hand tighter.

  You didn’t have to speak out loud while praying around the flagpole. In fact, most people didn’t. But Anne-Marie felt so secure in her inner glow of grace, she found herself repeating a Bible verse she had reflected on the night before. “‘Whither though goest, I will go,’” she said slowly.

  “Praise God.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  The immediate approval emboldened her. She went on to finish the passage, which she had now committed to memory: “‘Thy people shall be my people, and thy God shall be my God.’” Then she was quiet. Her eyes were tightly shut. The others were confessing sins or conflicts, but she was merely quoting passages of Scripture. Yet she felt unequivocal acceptance anyway; the Fellowship had lots of doors and thresholds. Rejection was alien to all the circle stood for.

  She felt a tiny bit queasy again as Coleen squeezed her hand. “The Lord will bless you for this,” her friend told her.

  “I think He already has,” Anne-Marie replied.

  Third hour, she got a summons to the counseling office from Mrs. DeShields. Her heart dropped to her stomach, which once again had a dull, minor ache. The residual effects of prayer around the flagpole, however, had given her a sense of pride and promise. Anne-Marie didn’t even bother to wait for the resource room to empty out. Instead, she left class with the other students, oblivious to who might or might not see her leaving the LD room.

  But the knot began forming in her stomach again, despite the promise and approval of the morning’s prayer circle. Chris Weems was there before Anne-Marie arrived, sitting at one of the round tables in the waiting room. “What’re you doing here?” she asked him. “I thought you never got in trouble.”

  He smiled, but not with any real mirth. Though he smiled with his mouth, his deep, doe-brown eyes didn’t change. Even though she didn’t know him very well, suddenly, Anne-Marie remembered his liquid brown eyes vividly, as if she had actually made a past practice of scanning them.

  “You were at the prayer circle this morning,” said Chris.

  “Yeah, I was.”

  “First time?”

  “Yep, first time.”

  “How’d you like it?” he asked.

  “It was fine. I was touched and moved. It wasn’t nearly as scary as I thought it might be.”

  Chris leaned back in his chair, his eyes as deep as pools, but neutral. Anne-Marie thought how good he must be at masking his true feelings, but wondered if it came naturally. Maybe it came with lots of practice. From her talks with Brooke she knew the real pain in his heart was about being gay. “So what clothes did your brother want to borrow?” she asked him.

  “It’s not what he wanted to borrow, it’s what he did borrow. Actually, stealing might be a better word than borrowing, because if you borrow something it means you’ve asked for permission.”

  “What clothes?”

  “Sweaters mostly.”

  “But you’re so tall, Chris. How would they fit your smaller brother?”

  “They don’t fit. He just likes them, and the looser the better.”

  “I never had the problem,” said Anne-Marie. “My sister, Eleanor, was six years older. I couldn’t have worn her clothes even if I’d wanted to. But when she moved away from home for college and grad school, she left a lot of her finest behind. It practically doubled my wardrobe.” Anne-Marie wasn’t thinking about clothes, though. She was thinking about Chris.

  He might have felt a little guilty about leaving his younger brother at home without a ride to school, but she knew that wasn’t his core suffering. Anne-Marie had the sudden urge to ask him about it, but she didn’t know him well enough. That doesn’t make sense, she thought; when we’re connected in the Fellowship, we’re bonded more tightly than any mere friendship, even a very close one.

  “We get stronger when we’re joined together with the Fellowship of believers,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “You said joining the circle around the flagpole wasn’t nearly as scary as you thought it might be. I’m just telling you why I think that is. There’s strength in numbers.”

  “Oh, right. You’re right. It’s the togetherness.” She stopped talking long enough to tighten her black scrunchie. “I’ve been reading my Bible a lot, too,” she told him. “When we were holding hands, I repeated the verse, ‘If God be for us, who can be against us?’ It’s from Romans.”

  “It’s the perfect passage,” said Chris, nodding his head swiftly. “Romans eight, verse thirty-one.”

  “You know that by heart?” She was amazed.

  “It’s a familiar passage,” he replied. “I repeat it often myself.” He leaned forward again and propped his elbows on the table.

  “You never told me why you’re here,” Anne-Marie reminded him. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  He smiled again. “No, no trouble. I’ve just been working with Mrs. Kaplan on a scholarship application to Northwestern.”

  “With your high grades, why would you have any trouble getting in?”

  “How do you know about my grades?”

  “You’re in the National Honor Society,” Anne-Marie answered immediately.

  “I’m not worried about being accepted, I have been already. But I need scholarship money, or my family can’t afford to send me there.”

  His academic problems couldn’t possibly be any more different than mine. He’s choosing from prestigious colleges and I’m probably not even going to graduate.

  Then he asked her, “Why are you here?”

  It was so embarrassing. But she felt confident in his company. “I’ve got to talk to Mrs. DeShields. I think she’s written up a performance contract for me and my parents to sign. Chris, I might not graduate on time.”

  “Oh, Anne-Marie, I’m so sorry. Are you sure about this?”

  “Pretty sure. I don’t know what else it could be.”

  “Can I help you at all?” He reached over and put his right hand on top of her left one. His hand was soft and moist.

  “I wouldn’t know how,” she replied.

  “Can I help you with any work sheets or tests or reports?” he asked.

  He was obviously kind and sincere, but Anne-Marie could feel her eyes tearing up. “I may have to go to summer school,” was all she could say.

/>   “I’ll pray for you,” said Chris.

  “Thank you. People were praying for me and with me this morning,” she observed. “I felt so much acceptance and so … so cleansed. Why would I have to get a performance contract on the very same day?”

  “The Lord won’t love you any less,” said Chris. “He doesn’t love us based on our grade point averages.”

  “I know,” she said. “But it doesn’t seem to help right now, not if I’m about to be put on contract.”

  Chris squeezed her hand. “Try to remember the Lord loves you just as much as a valedictorian.”

  “Thank you. I will try to remember.”

  In Mrs. DeShields’s office, Anne-Marie got a good long look at the performance contract. With escalating anxiety, she took the single sheet from its manila mailer, which was already addressed to her parents. She noticed there wasn’t any postage on it, though. With only a few minor surprises, the contract was what she had expected. Mrs. DeShields was the counselor she trusted most, but the formal language of the document—and the fact it was also to be signed by Vice Principal Rosario—still left her numb.

  She forced herself to read through its terms. Mrs. DeShields was thoughtful enough to turn her back and work; Anne-Marie was grateful she could read without the pressure of being “under surveillance.” The document said that in order to graduate, she would need to complete English and biology in the summer school program, with no grade lower than a B.

  She would be expected to attend each and every class session without exception. She would be expected to turn in all homework assignments on time, including essays, folder work, and work sheets. If necessary, there was a provision for make-up tests, if she failed one or got a low grade.

  At the bottom was a paragraph declaring that she had read the terms of the contract, understood each of them, and also understood that failure to live up to any part of the document would mean failure to graduate. Mrs. DeShields had already signed the contract, since she was the one who had drawn it up. There were four other lines for signatures, one for the vice principal, one for herself, and one for each of her parents.