by Cami Ostman
The seed for today’s trip was planted years ago, when Steve and I agreed to visit the church of a friend. From all appearances, it was a harmless, even docile congregation, calling themselves Bible Believers. The sign by the road read CHRISTIAN CHURCH, and beneath it was an open invitation to all who wanted to learn more about the Bible. From the pulpit, I remember, the pastor declared that bad thoughts were “the work of the devil.” He said to rebuke those thoughts “in the name of the Lord.” I remember I had to look up rebuke in the dictionary. Steve was twenty-one then; I was seventeen, ignorant and impressionable. And I felt helpless over that persistent finger strumming the panic wire in my brain.
The journey from believing my thoughts were demonic to believing I was completely demon-possessed took several more twists and turns down the road of indoctrination. Choosing Christianity seemed like a credible solution to a life of ambiguity, where questions piled upon themselves and formed a convoluted tangle of disillusionment—the kind of life that results when parents have more pressing matters than their children to attend to. Embracing the ready-made answers for the obscurities of life, the afterlife, and the end of the world, coupled with regular church attendance, gave two lonely souls a sense of belonging—and a sense of purpose. Unfortunately faith did nothing for my anxiety, forcing me to up the ante in search of the so-called rest for the weary the book of Matthew promises.
Although I was much more determined than Steve, we continued our search for pieces to a nebulous life-puzzle, eventually crossing the threshold from mainstream Christianity into fringe extremism. There was something innately gratifying about being radical, as it played on my longing to be intellectual with the best of them. Looking back, I know I was deluded into believing I had finally achieved enlightenment, and the more I immersed myself in the language of my new, edgy spirituality, the more deluded I became. In our little circle, we discussed what was wrong with the world and how our version of things was so much better—if only people would stop being so self-absorbed!
IT’S LATE MORNING WHEN Steve parks under a large weeping willow. As I watch its lower branches dangle and dance in the slight breeze, I suddenly minimize my troubles and feel extremely foolish for coming here to ask a total stranger for a cure. I’m always so impetuous, jumping without calculating the distance, diving in with little respect for the undercurrents and where they might take me. And here I go again.
A fiftysomething man opens the door to Steve’s reticent knock. Our eyes meet briefly and a rush of icy air grips me as I confirm that this is the man I’ve seen from a distance at church, Brock, the man with haunting blue eyes and a slightly self-aggrandizing stance. He’s even more intimidating up close.
Brock ushers Steve and me to his modest living room. As we situate ourselves on the generous sofa, I’m immediately drawn to the huge picture window on the opposite side of the room. It provides a repeat of the view I memorized from the car window and helps me get my bearings.
As Brock claims the chair beside us, I get a sense that this is his preferred seating arrangement and that Steve and I have unwittingly conquered our first assignment. Although he seems genuinely glad we’re here, I can’t help feeling like we’re intruding.
Brock leans back in his chair, crosses one leg over the other, and with full inflection reveals his gritty frustration with the modern-day church. This immediately appeals to my fringe thinking. Later I’ll learn that this is his way, charging ahead with his opinions in an effort to either influence people or get them to object and force a debate.
Steve is not a debater. He fidgets a bit with his hands and nods, looking for points of agreement while I study the landscape outside the picture window.
Eventually, either satisfied that he’s gotten everything off his chest or detecting my impatience, Brock leans forward, looks directly at me, and asks, “So, what are you afraid of?”
Stifling a burst of resentment over his brash intrusion, I swallow, take a deep breath, and begin my confession. “Um, well, I’m afraid of everything,” I mumble, looking down at my sweaty hands. “I feel like something bad is going to happen all the time. And sometimes I can actually see it happening in my mind, like the car going off the road or the house crumbling on top of me. Plus I have these really grotesque images of cutting and torturing people.” With that, I quickly glance at him, feeling an infinitesimal sense of release. Like this small admission of a breach in my sanity has in some obscure way begun to heal it.
Another sigh. He shifts, gives me a half smile, and asks about my family history.
“My parents got divorced when I was nine,” I say. “My dad was angry and physically abusive. My mom was distant and uncaring. My parents didn’t like kids. We were all basically ignored.”
“What do you remember about your grandparents?”
“My grandpa died when I was nine, so I don’t remember much about him, just riding in his car. I don’t remember where we went though.”
Unlike professional therapists who, I’ll later learn, often find it imperative to keep their assumptions to themselves, Brock nods, smiles, and states emphatically, “Your grandfather took you places and molested you. Was he a Mason?”
Took me places? Molested me? His statement is alarming and highly implausible, but I’ve heard about people blocking out memories. I just never felt like I had done that. Then again, how would I know? I feel shaky. With little time to process this bombshell, I feel compelled to say something. “Um, I think so . . . ” I struggle to recall images of my grandparents’ home of so long ago. Then I see it. “I remember his red hat,” I blurt. “I wasn’t supposed to touch it.” It’s the first memory I’ve had of my grandfather in years.
“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.
STEVE 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.
ON 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.
OVER 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.
MONTHS 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.
IT’S A SATURDAY, 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 o
f 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.”