Authors: Cami Ostman
“A fez. All the Shriners wear them. This means he was a probably a thirty-third-degree Mason.”
Brock is in his element now. With an earnest gleam in his eye, he educates Steve and me on the underpinnings of Freemasonry—a Luciferic secret society veiled as a humanitarian organization based on the teachings of a man whose name quickly escapes me when a flock of birds lands in the field outside. I watch as they peck at some unseen morsels until something frightens them and they fly away.
Outside—the only place I feel safe. Those vast, open spaces are where I’m free and nothing can fall on me and no one can sneak up on me.
Brock’s essence pulls me back into the room. For hours he continues his history lesson. Sometimes he pauses to ask me more questions. I tell him about my family, and he actually believes me and wants to help me. I’ve never been to any kind of counseling and now I can see the appeal. Being believed and heard means
everything.
As Steve sits rapt, I feel something I’ve never felt before: understood. And I feel hope. Never has anyone offered to free me from the torture of my almost-constant inner visions of peril—my never-ending panic. The hope of healing is all I need for this total stranger to quickly, almost magically, become more to me than I can wrap
my mind around. A protector? A rescuer? A lover? He frightens me but he appeals to me too. Like a budding heroin addict is drawn to a needle for the first time, my confidence in Brock becomes a visceral force coursing through my veins.
S
TEVE AND
I
SPEND
the entire day and evening here on the sofa with Brock in his tidy living room. He’s offered us snacks, but I haven’t had an appetite. He continues to interrogate me and instruct us in the ways of deliverance.
Finally, when he’s satisfied that my anxiety and intrusive images come from the Masonic demon of my grandfather, he leans forward in his chair and extends his hand.
“Take my hand,” Brock demands. “Healing requires complete submission to Jesus Christ.”
I’m too reserved and fatigued to ask what this entails and, besides, it’s getting late and I’m sure he’d like us to leave. I’ve got to hurry things along by showing that I’m cooperative. Obeying, I reach over and grip his hand.
“Now, look in my eyes.”
This is much more difficult. I’ve never been good with eye contact, especially with men.
“Spirit of her grandfather,” Brock implores, looking directly into my soul, “I command you by the authority of Jesus Christ to tell me your name.” Then he says to me, “Now, tell me the first thing that comes to you.”
I nod, my eyes burning with what must be the demon in me.
“I hear the name of my grandfather,” I say, hoping this is the right answer.
“Did you enter her through sex abuse when she was a baby?”
“Yes.” I don’t know where this voice is coming from but ignore my uncertainty and comply.
“Are you defeated?”
“Yes.”
“Then I command you to take all your underlings and go to the pit of hell.”
Brock pauses for a second, lets go of my hand, and asks, “Did it leave?”
“I think so,” I say, trying to sound confident, even though I don’t know what sensations one is supposed to feel when a demon leaves.
The clock peals out a series of chimes. Brock ignores it, sits back in his chair, and says nothing. His penetrating eyes observe my movements. I can’t look at him for more than a few seconds at a time. Exhausted by everything that has transpired today, I finally summon the wherewithal to offer a meek “Thank you.”
Brock smiles at me briefly, then looks at Steve and says, “I’m amazed at how many people are coming to me who’ve been abused by the Masons.”
Steve nods.
O
N THE DRIVE HOME
, I’m in a fatigued daze. Brock’s account of my history is definitely farfetched; but it has this twisted appeal too, like, as horrible as sex abuse is, at least someone noticed me when I was a child.
By the next day, my mind has slid back to doom territory. It’s April and still cold, but I can’t close my front door for fear I’ll be trapped. I cry. I pray, trying to wrap my mind around this new history Brock has dredged up. “God, if Brock is right and I really
was abused by my grandpa, please show me a sign,” I beg. “I need to hear Your clear direction that I’m doing the right thing by trusting this man.”
Shortly after making my plea I feel myself mysteriously drawn to the boxes I keep in storage in the basement. I hate going into this confined space, where the walls would crush me if we had an earthquake, but at the moment I cannot resist the urge to follow this new voice in my head. As I thumb through an old family album, the tiniest corner of a photo tucked behind another peeks out at me like a beacon. I grab it and bring it under a light. My grandfather, circa 1960, is lazing in a chair. A Masonic newspaper is in his lap.
Ah ha. My grandfather really was a Mason! This photo confirms it. It’s the
sign
I’ve been asking for—God’s confirmation that Brock is on the right track. I’m sure of it.
Back in the house, I contemplate whether the photo is a good-enough reason to call Brock. I want—need—to hear his voice, but I also don’t want to intrude.
I decide to call. “Hi. Brock? This is Grace. I, um, wanted to let you know that I found a picture of my grandfather and he
really was
a Mason.”
Brock is in a good mood and seems genuinely pleased to hear from me. He listens and then reminds me that as a Christian I am guaranteed victory over the dark forces if I just
believe
.
We talk for a half hour. As the conversation winds down, a needle releases its complicated elixir and Brock’s essence flows freely through my bloodstream. I feel relief after the long day’s ruminations and supplications.
“By the way,” he says. “I want you to have nothing to do with your relatives. They might try to lure you back into their version of the facts.”
“Okay,” I say, having eliminated most of them from my life over the years anyway. Then, wrapping up our phone call, I confess, “I’m still really anxious and I keep seeing images flash through my head of my hand cutting my kids with something sharp.”
“We didn’t get to the bottom of it,” Brock states without hesitation.
There’s more?
The exhilaration of picturing myself back in Brock’s living room for another session of being the center of someone’s attention is reason enough to have any demon. Soon, when Brock has time, he assures me, I’ll resume my rightful place at the feet of the one anointed by God. While my incentive for our first meeting was clear, any reasonable rationale for a second meeting is swallowed up in my murky pool of unmet needs.
O
VER THE NEXT SEVERAL
months, my relationship with Brock grows deeper and more intense, with frequent phone conversations and face-to-face sessions, sometimes with Steve, but mostly alone. The bulk of that time is spent with him trying to get me to adopt his fearless mindset. He believes that the demon is holding on to my erroneous, fear-based belief system.
“You need to get your thinking in line with the scriptures,” Brock insists, more than a little annoyed with my current desperation. “Read your Bible. Kick that demon in the teeth.”
As encouraging as he is, however, Brock is also temperamental. Interpreting his moods becomes my raison d’être, and I live my life accordingly. Riding the coattails of a forty-five-minute call, I’ll spend the rest of the day writing him a letter, either praise for his infinite kindness or a scathing rant written with the blood pooling on my arm after I’ve cut myself in another round of self-punishment.
Brock vacillates between being compassionate and affirming or terse and snappy. I never know which mood he’ll be in when we talk, and I alter my moods accordingly. “Sarcasm,” he calls his meanness in a half-assed attempt to soften the verbal blows he regularly delivers.
Steve is intimidated by Brock’s strong personality. And maybe he’s jealous too, I’m not sure, but I can feel Steve slowly slipping away as Brock becomes more central in my life.
“People don’t understand me,” Brock grumbles one day during a particularly animated rant. “I put hundreds of hours into helping you people and all I get is criticism. And, what’s worse, I get more flack from church members than from any Masons.”
Whether he does this intentionally or not, our relationship becomes an us-against-them scenario, and the air of exclusivity is a palpable, hungry monster. Brock’s candid frustrations swallow up our phone time; I’m the willing listener, honored to oblige this man who has entrusted me with his secrets. It’s a privilege to be so close to Brock, but at the same time I hate myself for allowing this weird role reversal to take hold. I’m sure it’s based on my need for his approval but, while I’m meeting his need, I’m unable to verbalize how desperate I am to have him take my anxiety away.
God appointed Brock to help me, I remind myself. The photo of my grandfather confirmed it. I’ve got to have faith.
M
ONTHS TURN INTO A
year, then two, then three. Brock’s ministry is a part-time endeavor, and when he’s jaunting through his other obligations, my boiling desperation and resentment make me a bitch to live with.
How dare he get to live his life while I’m hanging on the edge, waiting for him to make time to help me like he promised!
I’m not quite sure whether it’s guilt that spurs my indebtedness or my subtle manipulation to get attention, but I tell Steve, “I feel like we need to pay Brock something.”
Steve disagrees and suggests seeing a psychologist instead, but I spew venom back at him. God appointed
Brock
to help me. I asked for a sign and He gave me one. Steve gives in.
Sometimes I see myself as an urchin who’s missed the school bus. As it drives off into the distance, I’m overtaken by a sickening, debilitating feeling of being left here alone—abandoned.
I
T’S A
S
ATURDAY, FOUR
years into my relationship with Brock. I keep my eyes glued to the clock. It’s been
two days
since I’ve heard from him, and I can feel my withdrawal symptoms getting dangerously close to exploding. After an entire morning spent internally debating over whether I should call Brock or not, I’ve decided to pick up the phone and go for it. Still, I’m not sure whether he’ll be in a good mood or not, and this makes me extremely nervous. I don’t want a verbal attack. I want reassurance that I haven’t been forgotten. But worse than a bad mood is if he answers and informs me he’s meeting with one of the other women seeking his help. It’s mostly women he works with. When jealousy and abandonment collide, it gets really ugly!
No answer.
I feel sweat forming at the nape of my neck. My hands begin to shake. If I don’t get outside, the feelings of abandonment will strangle me and I’ll explode. Quickly donning my running shoes, I wipe tears and mascara-smear from my puffy face and avoid eye contact with my kids. It’s bad enough that Steve has to live with a pathetic excuse for a wife, but my kids . . .
oh my precious kids
. . .
Forget stretching. If I pull a muscle or get shin splints it will just prove that I’m a hopeless excuse for a human being and that I deserve every bad thing I get. I begin circling the gravel loop in our rural driveway. It’s only an eighth of a mile, so I complete the circuit quickly. Again and again, I circle.
As I run, words pour out of me. “Why did You bring Brock into my life? To torture me? I thought You were supposed to be a loving God,” I scream toward the clouds, stumbling over the occasional rock jutting out of the earth.
Brock’s probably meeting with one of the other women,
my obsessed mind muses.
They all live closer to him than I do. They’re better at doing what he says. I’m a loser, left to suffer.
A slight breeze cools my burning body. The motion of the clouds above me alternately blocks and lets in sunlight as I continue to propel my body forward, seeking the relief that dangles just ahead but then disappears once I get within reaching distance.
My mind obsesses about my most recent visit with Brock. I asked him if I could schedule appointments with him, “so when the abandonment feelings get intense,” I told him, “I can focus on, and comfort myself with, the prearranged date of our next session.”
“I don’t cower to demons,” he scowled.
Rehearing this in my head cuts deep in my soul. I keep picturing a giant zipper running the length of my body. No matter how much I will myself to do so, I just can’t seem to open the zipper and crawl out.
The agony of this gargantuan weight in my gut begins to make running impossible. I slow to a walk, heaving, crying hysterically and loathing myself.
The demon isn’t
in
me. The demon
is
me. I’m a demon. No wonder it won’t leave. It’s not a separate entity. It’s me and I am it.
Tears stream down my face as the full impact of this
realization takes hold.
I don’t exist. There is no me. I’m a demon, posing as a human, existing in a human body.
I sit down, take off my shoes, find a sharp rock, and use it to scratch my feet until I see blood. Bleeding is the only thing that makes sense to me—letting all the bad blood pour out.
S
TEVE, SILENT AND TENTATIVE
, parks the car and we disembark once again. Brock has agreed to see me, but not alone. He has something important planned for all of his devotees.
I push aside the turbulence in my gut at having to share this experience with all of Brock’s “others” and hold Steve’s hand as he knocks on the door. I ignore Steve’s worried expression and remind myself that, if I refuse tonight’s moonlight baptism, I could miss my healing.
“. . . These people are
programmed
. They
split
at three years of age and grow up fragmented and susceptible to the forces of darkness . . . ” Brock ignores Steve and me as we enter. He’s already addressing the crowd of twenty or so unfamiliar faces in his living room, and he doesn’t look up to acknowledge me. I feel my heart cinch at the rebuff.