Authors: Carolyne Aarsen
At thirty-two years of age, I couldn't claim that amnesty.
Leslie finished chatting with her friend and turned her attention back to me. When I had asked Leslie if I needed to wear
a hat, she laughed, but just to be on the safe side, I tried to tame my hair by pulling it into a ponytail. She reached up
to tame a wayward strand that had curled loose.
People milled about, some moving into the church proper beyond two sets of large wooden doors, others chatting and laughing
as background music, played by an organist and pianist, created a holy ambience.
An older woman, wearing a tag that read “Greeter,” came up to us and, well, greeted me, pressing a bunch of papers into my
hands. I presumed I was supposed to use them during the service.
The lady was very friendly. Very nice. A little too much hearty sincerity and unblinking eye contact, though. Maybe she saw
me as a potential convert. After all, whatever it was this particular congregation did, it had worked with Leslie. Why not
the miscreant older sister?
“Everyone is staring at me.” I tugged on my skirt in a futile, last-ditch effort to stretch it to a respectable length.
“They probably are. You're new. I had to deal with exactly the same thing when I started coming here.”
My sister. A rock.
“Is Wilma going to be here?”
“I would be surprised if she wasn't.” Leslie adjusted Anneke's ponytail, then looked over at me. When her expression softened,
I knew she was thinking of last night. “People aren't here to judge you, Terra. They're here to worship.”
“Well, you can act all self-confident and know-it-all,” I muttered, my eyes darting around, “but don't tell me you weren't
afraid when you first came here!”
Leslie laughed me off. “You've never been afraid of anything in your life.”
“Prison changes people,” I said.
“Prison?” Dan asked, coming up beside us. “What prison?”
“I think she's referring to her little stint in the Harland jail,” Leslie said, shaking her head at me and holding out her
hand for the papers Dan was holding. Identical to mine. At least we were all on the same page, so to speak.
“Shall we go in?” Dan had just come from the basement after depositing Nicholas in the nursery.
“Auntie Terra!” Anneke exclaimed with all the exuberance a four-year-old could muster. “I want to sit with you.” She ran up
to me and clutched my hand.
I was about to follow Leslie and Dan into the church when I felt a hand on my arm. “Excuse me. Terra?”
“Gramma Wilma!” Anneke called out.
Her smile for Anneke was warm and friendly, but as she turned to me, it grew tight. Her eyes flicked up and down my outfit.
Don't tug. Don't tug.
“I just want to thank you,” she said, though her eyes looked at me like I was the 75 percent reduced rack at the local thrift
store.
“Th… thank… me?” This was a surreal moment, and I couldn't help a quick glance down the aisle, but Leslie was too far away
for a discreet cry for help.
I was on my own, and Anneke was no help, jumping up and down beside me, making her hair flop.
“Yes. For what you did with Tabitha.”
“Tabitha?” Now I was really confused. The last time Wilma talked to me about her granddaughter, I was officially the stepchild
of Carrie with a little Cujo thrown in for artistic expression.
“She told Gloria what happened. At the bar.” Wilma's mouth pressed together, and I gathered that Tabitha ended up with not
only her mother down on her, but Gramma Wilma as well. “And, well, I appreciate that you were willing to show, by example,
the error of her ways.”
Okay. Lesson number one: How to praise and condemn at the same time.
But hey, this was progress, and at least Wilma was, in her own convoluted way, being thankful. She gently laid a hand on Anneke's
shoulder, and the little girl immediately stopped her jack-in-the-box imitation.
“I hope she understands what can happen.” I edged away from her and glanced down the aisle, trying to see where Leslie had
ended up. I could just see her and Dan settling in.
Wilma shook her head and sighed. “You would think she'd have learned the first time.”
“Some of us need a few hits before we get it,” I said.
I should know.
Wilma gave me a tight smile, then, duty done, turned and left.
As for me, time to catch up to my sister…
I scurried down the aisle, clinging to Anneke's hand. People sat askew in the benches, chatting up the people behind them,
conversation buzzing all around us, the music still playing. The building sounded like a deranged beehive accompanied by a
musical score.
From the corner of my eye I caught a few puzzled glances thrown my way, but I kept my eyes resolutely on the bench where Leslie
was sitting.
I passed by some empty spots, wishing I could drop into them. But no, my sister had to pick seats most of the way to the front.
I felt like praying right then and there. Praying I wouldn't fall and praying I would get to Leslie soon.
Finally I slipped in beside my sister, thankful for Anneke, who was clinging to my hand, an underage shepherd single-handedly
bringing the stray sheep into the fold.
We sat down, and I concentrated on the sunlight pouring through the stained-glass windows, adding an atmosphere of reverence.
The windows reminded me of a tour my friend Amy and I had made through a couple of cathedrals in Paris. I remembered entering
the hushed coolness of the buildings with their mysterious, towering ceilings, the remnants of thousands of prayers trapped
in the space, light diffused through the colored glass of the windows.
While we toured the church, making jokes about the statues, chuckling at the pieces of paper tucked into the crevices of the
building, a young girl came in from the outside and walked confidently up the aisle. She didn't look much older than seventeen.
One would expect a teenager to be too busy thinking about boys and makeup and parties to go to church in the middle of the
week, but here she was. She stopped halfway up the aisle, knelt, crossed herself, and bowed her head.
Then she went into one of the booths along the wall. A confession booth, I found out after. Amy and I lingered long enough
to see her come out again, light some candles, and kneel to pray. She stayed the entire hour we were walking around. Amy made
a joke about her, but I couldn't join in.
I was jealous of the young girl's familiarity with the routines that seemed both archaic and comforting at the same time.
She knew her way around faith and church. To her that wasn't just a building; it was a sanctuary, and, from the beatific look
on her face when she left, a refuge.
We were in that church to satisfy our curiosity and to soak up some culture.
The girl had come out of conviction.
I wondered if I would feel the same thing here as well. Glancing around, I found myself looking directly into an all too familiar
pair of hazel eyes.
A faint smile curved Jack's lips as he nodded in my direction. I didn't want to think about Leslie's little warning last night.
Jack wasn't interested in me, and, I reminded myself, I wasn't interested in him. Never mind the mesmerizing voice that made
him sound all tough and I-mean-business, offset by his droopy eyes and thick eyelashes.
Not interested at all.
Then Cor dropped into the pew beside him, caught the angle of his son's gaze, and looked toward me as a huge smile almost
cracked his face in half.
“Terra. It's great to see you here.” In case anyone missed the happiness in his booming voice, he underscored the greeting
with a wave of his large, meaty hand, as if he were saying howdy to a friend across the street in town.
I returned the smile and opted not to return the wave. I could see a few puzzled frowns, a smattering of grins—people obviously
knew Cor—and a few faces that I recognized as customers at the diner.
“Father Sam and I missed you on Saturday,” he called out, unconcerned with the jab Jack gave him.
I, however, was caught between continuing the conversation by yelling back at him—he was a bit deaf—thereby drawing way too
much attention to my infidel self, and ignoring him and possibly hurting his feelings.
Jack dug into his father's ribs with his elbow and finally got his attention.
Cor turned on him, frowning his frustration. “What do you want?”
Jack leaned closer to his father, and all I heard was the quiet rumble of his voice. Cor's frown slid away. I had no clue
what Jack might have told his father, but for now I was thankful for the reprieve.
The auditorium filled, and slowly the buzz of conversation died down. Then the minister stood at the front of the church,
his arms raised up over the audience.
I noticed that Leslie had bowed her head, so I did the same.
For the next few minutes I took my cues from Dan and Leslie, looking up at the song-lyrics screen when they did, opening a
book from the pew when they did. Standing up, sitting down, reading responsively.
No wonder our mother never went to church if it took this much choreography,
I thought as we all sat down after singing yet another song. Keeping track of her favorite television shows was enough of
a stretch for her. Never mind the liturgy of a church service.
Leslie pulled a Bible out of the pew as the minister announced a passage he was going to read. Psalm 139.
Anneke pulled out the Bible and laid it on my lap. “You have to find it. I don't know how.”
And she thought I did?
I flipped open the book at random.
Leviticus,
I read at the top of the page. Wrong. Deuter… something or other. Still wrong. Where in the world was Psalms? I started flipping
faster. How was anyone who knew nothing about the Bible supposed to figure out which book was where?
Leslie came to my rescue, leaning sideways and whispering the page number.
I found it just as the minister started reading. With Anneke hunched over the book beside me, I followed along. And the minister's
words started a flutter of nerves deep within my abdomen.
“‘Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?’” Did this mean God could see me always and everywhere?
A chilling thought. Was He watching me now?
Anneke poked me and pointed back to the Bible. Her disapproving frown scared me almost as much as the passage did. She looked
exactly like Wilma.
“‘For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully
made…’” My breath tangled in my throat. “‘My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was
woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your
book before one of them came to be…’” The letters blurred and danced over the page. “‘Search me, O God, and know my heart;
test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.’”
The words slammed back and forth in my mind.
“Where can I flee from your presence?… My frame was not hidden from you… All the days ordained for me were written in your book.”
I put the Bible back in the holder in front of me, my hands shaking, and sat back, running my damp palms over my filmy skirt.
I could do this. Didn't I return a five-weeks-overdue library book without flinching? Hadn't I often lined up in the “10 Items
or Less” express lane at the grocery store with eleven—sometimes twelve—items?
Slowly the deep breathing took effect. By the time the minister closed the Bible and started the sermon, my pulse had slowed
down. My mind flitted over the events of the past week, trying to distract myself while the minister spoke.
I thought of Amelia and her baby, Madison. Wondered if Madison was doing better. Wondered what was wrong with the baby. I
hadn't seen Amelia since our visit in the Harland Hotel bar. I would call her when I got home. See if she needed any help.
I wondered if God, who apparently could see everything, was watching Amelia trying to deal with her problems.
“…We need to realize, of course, that from the moment of conception, we are God's…”
A chill formed around my heart. I tried to expand my lungs, suck in what precious oxygen was left, and glanced quickly around.
No one else seemed to be having the same problem.
“We need to know that He knows everything about us,” the minister was saying.
I didn't find that concept comforting.
“But at the same time, knowing that God, from the beginning and before our own beginning, was and is with us is a comfort.
We cannot make it on our own, no matter how hard we try. We need God. And in Jesus, God gives us the answers to our unspoken
questions. Jesus is the answer—a simple but complete concept. Jesus, in His death, reconciled us with the God who knows and
sees all. Jesus became the expression of the love God shows us in this psalm.”
Each word the minister spoke caused a shift of the shaky foundations I had tried to build my life on. But did I dare replace
that with what this minister was suggesting? A God who was everywhere, who knew everything?
I felt warm. Lightheaded. I leaned over and gave Leslie a poke. “I'll be back,” I whispered. I didn't want her coming out
after me—a Froese entourage heading out of church.
As I got up, eyes followed me, heads swiveling as I tottered toward the exit. I stumbled through the doorway, and then, thankfully,
I was outside. The air was cool on my heated cheeks, fresh and plentiful. Slowly equilibrium returned, and I leaned back against
the wooden siding.
What was I doing here? I didn't belong in church with these people. With my sister and her little family.
From deep within, a flicker of regret breathed to life. I closed my eyes and willed it away. Nine months of hard work and
strength of will had lifted me above my emotions. Had given me control of the regret, the guilt, the shame. I couldn't let
a preacher's meanderings or a few words from a Bible I'd never read take that away.