Devoted (12 page)

I check and there's nothing. Disappointment washes over me. Did I say something to Lauren that bothered her? Did she think I was being judgmental when I asked her if she went swimming in a bikini? Has she just decided she wants nothing to do with anyone from Calvary Christian Church?

That night during Bible time and nightly prayers, my mind buzzes, and my father's words slip over me. I don't even try to grasp them. I'm just waiting until I can get online again. But once Ruth and I have finished putting the little ones to bed and I head to the computer, Dad stops me.

“Rachel, there's no need to worry about working on that tonight,” my father says. “You need your rest.”

“Yes, Dad, of course,” I answer automatically. But I curl up my fists and dig my thumbnails into my palms in frustration. Dad never worried about my need for rest during the time that Mom was sick.

Ruth is fast asleep when I crawl into bed, and as much as I love our snuggle-ups, right now I'm glad to be alone. I slide my head under my pillow.

I wait for Scripture to come to me, like Ruth's secret messages. Nothing. I try to speak in the careful, practiced language Dad uses. Nothing. When I was tiny, not much older than Sarah, I pictured God as a bigger version of my father, sitting on a chair high up in the clouds. Then later, I pictured Him as described in Revelation, with the hairs of his head white like wool, like snow. Eyes like a flame of fire. Lately, when I try to visualize God, I keep imagining a desert landscape, open and vast and never ending.

It's not very comforting.

“God, what's wrong with me?” I whisper into my threadbare sheets that have been washed more times than could ever be counted. “I don't even know how to pray to you. I want to, but I can't.” I wait for tears, but there aren't any. “I'm sorry,” I add, halfheartedly.

I curl up and wait for sleep to come, finally dozing. When I wake up in the early morning hours before the sun is up, I decide to take advantage of the opportunity. Creeping downstairs I turn on the computer and pull up my email. I don't even stop to listen for the sounds of anyone else who also might be getting up early. I don't even wince when my foot makes the floorboards squeak as I make my way down the steps.

I just know I have to check one more time.

And there, as bold as can be, is a new email from Lauren.

FROM:
[email protected]

TO:
[email protected]

Rachel,

Hey, sorry again that I didn't write back right away, but I tend to get on my computer pretty late at night. And I'll be honest. It's been kind of messing with my mind to read your emails. Please don't think that means I don't want you to write to me. Only that reading what you're going through brings a lot of stuff back.

Yes, I have been swimming. And yes, in a two piece. It was the most glorious feeling in the world. Don't tell Pastor Garrett! Ha ha. Go ahead. Tell him. I don't care what he thinks.

I wish we could meet in person, but I know that probably isn't possible. I remember the extraordinary precautionary measures I would take when I still lived with my parents just to do the smallest things. Like how I hid books I wanted to read inside the box spring of my mattress. And how I wrote down poetry I knew they wouldn't like and tucked it behind gaps in the wallpaper of my bedroom. It seems like it happened to a different person now, but I did those things, and I know that the fact that you are emailing me at all means you could be putting yourself in danger.

At this, I stop reading and listen to the house around me. Lauren is right. Even when I lose myself in the computer, even as my risk-taking grows ever riskier, a part of me is always waiting to be caught. As if that's the only thing that could happen next.

I take a breath and start reading again.

Anyway, I know there's a really strong possibility that I'll never hear from you again because it's too dangerous, so just in case I wanted to leave you with a quote I really like. It comes from a poem written by a woman named Mary Oliver, and I wish I'd heard it when I was still part of your world. And the “me” in the quote isn't me, Lauren Sullivan. Maybe some poetry expert would tell me I'm wrong, but I think the “me” is
you
.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

xoxo Lauren

The question expands, filling every ounce of space in my mind.

It only takes a second to search the words Lauren's quoted and the poet's name. And suddenly the full poem is staring back at me.

The Summer Day

By Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean—

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

Tears are running down my face, and I try to stop them but I can't. I can't make sense of the words—not all of them—but something about them makes me catch my breath. Makes me read them again and again. Especially the final two lines.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

The fact that this question now exists in my brain makes me feel like a million bubbles are exploding under my skin all at once.

How long has this question existed? How many other people have asked themselves these very words?

What is it I plan to do with my one wild and precious life?

My wild life?

My precious life?

To be a godly wife to my future husband and raise my children in the service of the Lord.

It's been my answer all my life. It's always come so easily.

Maybe because I've never asked the question first.

 

10

“So as we leave this evening,
brothers and sisters, let us remember that wonderful verse from John,” shouts Pastor Garrett, his chest puffing up as he preaches, one hand clutching his Bible, the other palm up, toward Heaven. “‘Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father but is of the world. And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof, but he that doeth the will of God abideth forever.'”

“Amen,” the congregation responds with enthusiasm.

“Amen,” I add, under my breath.

Tonight is Wednesday night fellowship. Sometimes on Wednesday nights there are meetings like the one about modesty, but other times Pastor Garrett speaks to the entire congregation. Dad always says it's like refueling in the middle of the week.

As we sing the closing hymn, I see Mr. Sullivan, Lauren's father, several rows over on the far side of the church, singing but barely moving his mouth as he does. His hands hang at his sides, and I imagine them curled into fists, beating his own daughter. My heart hardens just looking at him. Mrs. Sullivan nods her head as she sings, as if each nod brings the words more meaning.

As we trail out of the church, my father moves close to me and touches my shoulder.

“I'd like you to visit with Pastor Garrett for a moment,” he says, his steady voice revealing nothing. I open my mouth to ask why but shut it just as fast.

“Hello, Rachel,” Pastor Garrett begins as we approach him just outside the door of Calvary Christian. He's not a large man, but his presence takes up so much space. His voice and the way he carries himself command attention, and his bright blue eyes focus on you in a way that almost makes you want to look away.

“Hello, Pastor Garrett,” I say, my pulse quickening. I see Mom standing a few feet away, holding a sleeping Isaac in her arms, her eyes on us. The service has gone on even longer than normal—Pastor Garrett's sermon was almost a full hour—and dusk is falling around us. A mosquito lands on my arm, but I don't dare to swat it away. I just stand before Pastor Garrett, trying to breathe.

“Rachel, your father has asked that I give you a special blessing this evening,” he says. “And I'm happy to do so. Please bow your head and pray for God's blessing.”

I tip my head forward and shut my eyes immediately. We often see Pastor Garrett praying over a courting couple, soon to be married, or a member of the congregation who isn't feeling well. But why has my father asked him to pray over me tonight? Mom and Dad must think I need this extra blessing because of something, but what, exactly, might they suspect? My heart, already hammering, picks up speed.

I feel Pastor Garrett's hand on my forehead. A moment later, I feel Dad's grip on my shoulder.

“Father God,” Pastor Garrett begins, his voice rising and falling, his hand pushing harder and harder into my skull, “Scripture tells us that you are faithful and that you will not let your followers be tempted beyond their abilities, and that with temptation you will always provide a way of escape, that we may be able to endure such temptation. Father God, we ask you to watch over your servant Rachel and guide her through trials and storm as she grows in your grace and wisdom. Stay with her, Lord, and show her the way. In the name of Jesus Christ our Savior, amen.”

“Amen,” my father shouts, and he squeezes my shoulder tight.

“Amen,” I say, my chest tightening. When I open my eyes Pastor Garrett is smiling at me. I try to catch a glimpse of those around us, wondering who's witnessed what's just occurred.

Whispers. Bits of whispers. Gossip in the form of prayer requests. Juicy information in the form of concerned words.

I slide into the van, and Ruth shoots me a sympathetic look, but we don't talk. Isaac and Sarah are asleep, and as we drive home in silence, I peer out into the inky blackness. A heaviness surrounds me as I think back to the words I typed last night after everyone had gone to sleep.

FROM:
[email protected]

TO:
[email protected]

Dear Lauren,

I really love that Mary Oliver quote. I don't know why, but it's all I can think about since I read your email. The words keep running through my mind. I read a little about Mary Oliver and I was surprised she's still alive. For some reason, poetry seems like something people did a long time ago.

Actually, I found the poem you quoted and read the whole thing over and over. I don't completely get it, but part of it felt like it was speaking right to me. Let me tell you, if God took paying attention and being idle as prayer, I would be the world's greatest at praying. I would be better at it than anyone I know.

I haven't hidden anything in my box spring or behind the wallpaper, but I did have to get rid of a book I loved called
A Wrinkle in Time
. I still miss it.

I keep wondering what your life must be like. Working. Living alone. Do you like working with animals? I keep thinking of questions I want to ask. I keep thinking so much in general. I keep paying attention.

I'm terrified about what will happen to me if I get caught writing to you. But I'm also terrified about what will happen to me if I stop. I want to keep writing to you, even if I can't explain why in words.

I just can't stop thinking about that poem. I want to keep it in my mind and repeat it over and over. Like I'm praying the poem.

Rachel

If Pastor Garrett knew what I'd written back to Lauren late last night, he would have recommended right then that my parents send me away to Journey of Faith.

When we get home, Ruth and I tuck the younger ones in. Wednesday night fellowship means a break from Bible time with Dad, and I take a deep breath of relief at the thought. There's no chance to check my email, but maybe I can go back downstairs after everyone is asleep again. Although the lack of sleep from late night visits to the computer is starting to take a toll. I yawn loudly as I slip into bed.

“Rachel,” Ruth asks from her bed across the room. Her voice is quiet and tight. “Why did Pastor Garrett want to pray over you?”

I flush and am grateful it's too dark for Ruth to notice. “I'm not sure,” I tell her.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes, Ruth,” I answer. “Everything is.”

Everything's not, but I don't think a thousand late night cuddles with my little sister would give me time to explain the turmoil inside of my heart. Still, one might at least help me feel better.

“Do you want to snuggle up?” I ask.

Ruth takes a deep breath and lies back on her bed. Speaking toward the ceiling, she answers, “I want to stretch out tonight, I think.”

“Oh,” I answer. “Okay.”

I slip under my covers and stare at my bedroom wall. I can feel the prick of hot tears and I try not to let them get the best of me, but a few spill over. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to wish myself to sleep.

I hear little Sarah's steady breathing and the tick of the clock and the rush of water through the pipes—one of my older brothers is taking a shower. Soon, I hear the creak of footsteps behind me. Rolling over, I see Ruth making her way to my bed.