Sitting in the family room, I blink my eyes over and over, trying to keep them comfortable as I race through Lauren’s blog. Each little story she writes has links to some other story, and my fingers slip over the keyboard and grip the mouse, clicking and pointing, stopping only to read as fast as I possibly can. I can’t stop. I can’t get enough of finding out what happened to Lauren Sullivan.
What would I look like to one of my family members if they found me now, like this? Hunched over the dim light of the computer in the middle of the night, my gaze focused and intent, my mouth slightly open, my mind anywhere but with God? Is this how James Fulton’s parents found him before they sent him to Journey of Faith for looking with lust at women on the computer?
But this isn’t immodest images. Not really. It’s just like reading a book. A story.
One where I happen to know the main character personally.
I force myself to take a breath and listen for creaking on the steps or Sarah crying out or my dad getting up to go get a drink of water—he’s not the heaviest sleeper. But there’s just the tick of the clock coming from the kitchen and the sound of rain lightly drumming on the plants and bushes outside.
There’s one link I haven’t clicked on yet. If I don’t click on that, what I’m doing isn’t wrong. If I don’t click on that, all of this is research, really. Learning. Just like reading the encyclopedia. It’s okay as long as I don’t click on that one link. The one at the top right hand corner of Lauren’s blog that stares at me like it can hear me thinking.
The Great Escape: How I Left My Fundie, Homeschooling, Woman-Hating Past Behind
I don’t know what fundie means. Lauren was homeschooled like the rest of us, that’s true. But if Scripture tells us that an excellent wife is more precious than jewels, how can she say we hate women?
But it doesn’t matter because I’ll never click on that link. If I don’t click on that link, I haven’t done anything that wrong. That’s what I tell myself.
Suddenly, there’s the sound of coughing coming from down the hall. Gruff and deep. My dad’s cough.
I leap up, shutting down the computer with a few quick clicks. There’s the cough again. I can either make an excuse for why I’m down here or I can make a break for it up the stairs. But maybe he won’t even come out into the kitchen?
The computer is sighing shut, evidence of its recent use.
Please be quiet now, I will it.
There’s the cough again.
I could race to one of the family room couches and hide under a blanket. The lights are off, and he might not even see me on his way to the kitchen. Or I could race into the kitchen and get myself a glass of water, too, and if Dad walked in I could act like it was a strange coincidence. But if I were thirsty, wouldn’t I have gotten a glass of water upstairs?
My body trumps my brain, and I run down the hallway and tiptoe up the stairs by my parents’ bedroom. There hasn’t been another cough. Once I reach the top landing, I take a breath. My heart is hammering away, but I’ve made it. Mostly. Only there’s the problem of the computer browser. I didn’t get a chance to clear the history.
At this thought I hug my arms to myself and run my fingernails down my forearms as hard as I can, digging into my skin. I wince, and as fast as I scratch myself I begin rubbing my hands up and down the marks I’m sure I’ve left behind, trying to make the pain go away.
I listen, still trying to catch my breath. There’s no more coughing.
But it’s too risky to go back downstairs to try and fix my mistake. I can’t do anything except check on Sarah and Ruth briefly before I slide into my own bed. My two little sisters are asleep, blissfully blanked out. Heads empty.
Mine is anything but. I lie in bed, unable to sleep.
Lord, I …
Father God, please …
Jesus, my heart calls out …
I can’t finish any of the prayers I start. By the time I fall asleep, the bedroom clock reads 3:00 a.m.
* * *
The next morning I find a surprise in the kitchen. Mom is sitting at the kitchen table holding a dozing Isaac as my dad and brothers pour the coffee Ruth’s already started. Yesterday my mother wouldn’t even eat lunch.
“Mom?” I ask, hopeful. Is it possible our prayers are finally starting to work? At least, is it possible Dad’s prayers and Faith’s prayers and Ruth’s prayers are starting to work? I doubt mine have done much good, especially after last night.
But when Mom looks at me, her face still seems blank. Hollow. She tries to smile, but it’s forced.
“Good morning, Rachel,” she says, her voice soft.
I doubt she’s much better but still, she’s out of bed. At least we should be grateful for that small blessing.
I get to making breakfast, and all of us—my dad, my older brothers, the little ones—move around one another tentatively, carefully, as if one wrong motion or word will send Mom back to her bedroom cave. Eventually, Dad kisses Mom goodbye and whispers something into her ear. She smiles faintly.
After the breakfast dishes are done, we move into the family room and settle into schoolwork. Mom sits on the couch while Isaac, who’s finally woken up, scoots his toy trains around her feet. Everything feels awkward and strange. Like at any minute my mother might break. I’m not sure if I’m the only one who senses this or if my siblings feel it, too.
“Dad told me there will be the girls’ fellowship about modesty at the church tonight,” she says after a while. I’m in the middle of showing the twins how to multiply fractions, and her voice makes me jump a bit. She’s barely spoken since she wished me good morning.
“Yes,” Ruth says, looking up from her own work. “Faith and Pastor Garrett’s wife are helping organize it.”
Mom nods. “He wants you both to attend. I can watch the twins and Sarah and Isaac this evening if you can help get supper ready before you leave.”
Is this the reason Mom got up this morning? Dad takes his role of protector seriously, but I didn’t realize having Ruth and I go to church this evening would be so important to him. I figured Mom’s illness took the meeting off the table, and in fact, I secretly hoped it would, even though I knew I shouldn’t. Going back to fractions with my brothers, my stomach turns like it does whenever I think about women’s fellowship at the church. Sitting in the circle of metal folding chairs, I worry I won’t be filled with Christ’s inspired word and will instead say something that will have everyone’s corrective gaze on me—in the same way that we all once stared at Lauren Sullivan, taking note of every flaw. My mind jumps back to last night. To Lauren’s words. To that one forbidden link I’ve promised to ignore.
“Rachel, will you look this over for me?” Jeremiah asks, breaking me out of my thoughts.
“Of course,” I tell him.
I take his math worksheet and tick through the problems, trying to see if his work makes sense. After I hand Jeremiah’s worksheet back to him with his mistakes circled, I ask Ruth for her paper, determined to keep busy.
By supper Mom’s pale face seems paler, and her short answers even briefer. Leaving her with all the little ones could be too much for her, but then Dad is home by supper—a simple salad and sandwiches with cold cuts is enough for today—and he says we should head to Calvary.
As we get ready to leave, Dad stops Ruth and me by the back door for a prayer. His hands press on our heads, and once again I imagine sinking into the ground under the weight.
“‘Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised,’” he says, and I think for a moment about Lauren Sullivan’s tattoos and dyed hair.
“Amen,” we respond. When we open our eyes, Dad is smiling at us. The careful, half smile I’ve come to prize because he gives it so rarely. Like Mom’s kisses and hugs, there aren’t ever enough of Dad’s smiles to go around. But not every girl has a protector like Dad. I need to be more grateful for what God’s given me. As I climb into the van, I wave to Dad’s figure stan
ding in the doorway, watching us drive away.
I can tell from the way Ruth keeps straightening her skirt and checking her reflection in the broken mirror on the back of the van’s sun visor that’s she nervous but also excited for this evening. This is the first time she’s been considered old enough to attend an event like this. She hasn’t begun her monthly cycle yet, but she’s started wearing a bra.
“Are you all right?” I ask, turning down the van’s radio. It’s set to the classical radio station, the only music Dad lets us listen to when we’re driving anywhere.
“Yes,” Ruth says. “But I’m wondering if I’ll be the youngest one there tonight.”
“Maybe,” I answer, “but probably not. I bet Donna Lufkin and Margaret Pierce will bring their little sisters, too. They’re about your age.”
Ruth nods thoughtfully as we pull into the open space of grass that serves as Calvary’s parking lot. When we walk into the meeting room, Faith is busy moving the chairs into place, and one of the other older girls, who got married last summer and is pregnant with her first child, is setting out cookies and cartons of store-brand fruit punch.
“Hi!” Faith waves. “I’m so glad you were able to come this evening. We’re going to have such a sweet fellowship, I’m sure.”
“Yes, we’re glad we were able to come, too,” Ruth says, her words carefully chosen. Then, when we’re close enough so not everyone can hear, her voice drops and she adds, “Faith, did you know that Mom got out of bed today?”
“God is so good,” Faith says, smiling and not at all surprised. “Now let me go check on Caleb, and when I come back we’ll get started.” The older girls take turns watching the babies and toddlers during women’s fellowship, but it’s not my turn for a while. God has purposed that I be here, in the meeting. It must be why He’s helped Mom gain enough strength to leave her bedroom today.
We all take our seats, adjusting our skirts and crossing our legs at the ankles. Donna Lufkin is seated next to me. She recently started courting a boy whose family lives outside Healy, about an hour away. I’m sure we’ll be celebrating her wedding day soon and witnessing their very first kiss, which they’re saving for marriage. My future husband looms in my mind again, a masculine figure roaming the planet somewhere, seeking me out. I can never picture a face, just a body that’s bigger than mine and a voice that reminds me of my father’s.
“Let’s pray, shall we?” says Mrs. Garrett, the pastor’s wife. Her voice is like honey, smooth and comforting. “Father God, we thank you for everyone gathered here this evening, and we surrender ourselves and ask you to come by your Holy Spirit and inspire our hearts tonight. Come fill our fellowship with your truth and grace, and fill this meeting with your presence. In Christ’s name, we pray.”
“Amen,” we all say in unison.
Faith and Mrs. Garrett lead the meeting. Donna talks about how courting instead of dating helps her remain modest because she and the boy she is courting are always with a chaperone.
“It helps me remember that everything I do needs to be for the glory of God and not the praises of man,” Donna says. We all nod.
Another girl talks about how she posts a checklist on the bedroom mirror she shares with her sisters so they can help each other dress modestly each morning. Does a loose-fitting blouse show too much if she bends over? Does a purse strap cut into her chest and accentuate her body in a way that might be a stumbling block for a man who sees her? If arms are raised is too much midriff revealed?
Mrs. Garrett nods her head approvingly as each item on the checklist is discussed. She even asks if copies could be made of the checklist so we could each have one. “We must remember that it is up to us to help men resist temptation,” she reminds us. “We want our clothing to reveal a humble heart that loves the Lord and nothing more.”
It must be so hard to be a man. Whenever we go to the grocery store, worldly women are everywhere, their tight shorts cutting into flesh and low-cut tops revealing too much. My mind flashes on the picture of Lauren Sullivan and her black bra straps peeking out in the picture on her blog. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to unsee it.
So much of a man’s godly path is dependent on me and what I choose to wear, and the responsibility terrifies me sometimes. I know the men in the congregation sometimes have workshops where they talk about how to overcome what Pastor Garrett calls a prison of lust. I wonder what that kind of lust feels like. At the women’s workshops, we never talk about controlling our lust—I guess because women don’t really feel lust. But then I remember the way my heart beat quickly when I read the scene in A Wrinkle in Time where Meg and Calvin take a nighttime walk. Was I feeling lust? How do I control it? I feel my brow furrowing with worry.
“Rachel?”
I blink, aware that someone is talking to me.
“Yes?”
A few of the other girls grin just slightly, and Ruth shuffles her feet and looks down. Clearly, I’ve missed something.
“Rachel,” Faith says, smile even, her voice coated in practiced patience. “I asked you to tell us about the other morning when I was at your house? I thought it would be a wonderful way to illustrate how important vigilance is when it comes to biblical femininity.”
So many eyes are on me. Curious eyes. Eyes that are already judging me even though I haven’t opened my mouth. My ears start buzzing, and my cheeks are so hot they hurt.
“Oh,” I say, curling my fingers around the bottom of my chair. Lord, help me speak. “Yes. Um. The other morning, Faith helped me to realize that my, um, undergarments could be seen through my blouse, and I…”
I’m crying. Tears are spilling out and down my cheeks and running into my closed mouth. The salty taste is sharp on my tongue.
“Rachel?” Mrs. Garrett’s face is full of compassion, and she leaves her seat and comes toward me and kneels down at my feet. She takes my hands in hers, and I grab on to them because I need something to hold. Desperately.
“I’m sorry,” I say. My tears keep sliding down my cheeks, driven by so many reasons. Because I read Lauren’s blog. Because I’m probably filled with lust, even when I shouldn’t be. Because I wasn’t aware enough of being modest and wore the wrong shirt. Because Faith brought up my mistake to all the other girls my age at church and now the shame running through my veins cuts so sharp I want to disappear. I want to crawl out of my skin or sink into the floor or vaporize myself into nothingness. Anything so I don’t have to be here anymore. My crying turns to outright sobs.
Faith looks stunned by my behavior. She comes over, and Donna gets out of her chair so Faith can sit next to me.
“Rachel, it’s all right. Your message tonight helped all of us move one step closer to always walking with modesty and self-control.” She reaches out, hesitates, and then pats my shoulder lightly. Faith didn’t bring up my mistake to embarrass me. She sincerely wants all of us to walk with Christ. And she’s right. We should be modest women. So why am I so upset?
Mrs. Garrett excuses me to the restroom. I splash some cold water on myself and blot my red face with paper towels. When I come out, Ruth is leaning against the wall outside the restroom.
“Rachel, are you all right?”
“I’m okay,” I sniff. “It’s just … I’m not sure. I just don’t like being the center of attention like that, I guess.” That’s true, but I know this can’t be the only reason I’m crying.
“I know,” she says, her eyes concerned. “But they’re still meeting out there.”
“I know they are,” I say.
“We should go back, I think?” She chews a bit at her bottom lip. I just want to leave and go home, but I know Ruth is right. We need to go back. I follow her to the circle of chairs, and the other girls act like nothing has happened. I try to follow along. I nod when I think I should nod and smile when I think I should smile. When Mrs. Garrett closes the meeting with a prayer, I tip my head and shut my eyes. But my head feels blank. Empty. My cheeks still feel like they’re burning.
In the van on the ride home, Ruth stares out the window. We don’t talk.
When I pull up to the house, I see my older brothers in the garage, fixing some of the equipment they use for the family business. My older brother Matthew walks up to the driver’s side window.
“I think Mom needs your help,” he tells me. “The little ones are still awake.”
I nod, and when Ruth and I go in, I hear Mom upstairs, still trying to cajole my younger brothers and sisters to get ready for bed. My dad is sitting in his chair in the family room, his eyes intent on the Bible in his lap. He’s holding a pen to make notes in the margins.
I take a deep breath and head upstairs. Mom is trying to get Isaac to put on his pajamas. Sarah is pulling out several of her books, and I hear the twins in the boys’ bedroom doing anything but getting ready to fall asleep.
“Mom, why don’t you go rest?” I say, and she sees me and nods, grateful. She kisses Sarah and Isaac goodnight and as she walks past me, she gives Ruth and me quick pecks on the cheeks.
“I love you, girls,” she says.
Her words are enough to keep me going until everyone is asleep and Ruth and I can finally brush our own teeth and slide into our own beds. But once I’m in bed, I shift repeatedly, unable to get comfortable.
“Rachel, can I come over?” Ruth whispers.
“Sure,” I say.
Ruth snuggles up next to me. She pushes my bangs out of my eyes and offers a hopeful smile.
“Rachel, why were you crying tonight?” Ruth says. “You seemed so upset.”
“Oh, Ruth,” I start, my voice on the verge of cracking again. There are too many reasons to name. And none I can identify clearly. “I’m not sure. I’m just … I’m tired. I’m worried about Mom, I guess. I don’t know.”
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