Faith Wish

by James Bennett

  Anne-Marie had relished her father’s aggressive manner—it felt like he was standing up for her in court. “I’ll tell you one thing,” she’d said. “I’m not going to spend my time coming and going to classes in the west wing. Everybody knows what goes on down there.” She almost used the word retard, but caught herself just in time.

  Mrs. DeShields had been patient. “If that’s the way you feel then, we can simply drop the subject. There’s nothing that mandates testing a high school senior.”

  But, characteristically, it was Anne-Marie’s mother who had been more open-minded. “What would the test entail?”

  “It’s simply a four-page standardized test that can be taken in an hour.” Mrs. DeShields had smiled and said to Anne-Marie, “I can assure you it would be painless. It’s not an invasive procedure.”

  “Then what would be the point of not taking it?” her mother had wondered out loud.

  “The point,” Anne-Marie had said immediately, “is that I’d be taking classes in that … that wing. I’m the one who would have to suffer all the embarrassment.”

  “Not necessarily,” the counselor replied quickly. “For all we know, the test will show that you’re not ADD. And even if you are, I would only suggest one change in your course schedule. Instead of taking your regular study hall, you would be taking it in the resource room.”

  “What the hell is the resource room?” her father had demanded, still twisting in his chair uncomfortably.

  “It’s an organized study hall,” was Mrs. DeShields’s answer. “Mrs. Quinn is the teacher. She works with students individually on organizing their homework, checking assignment deadlines and work sheets, helping with test preparation, and the like. She structures programs to meet the needs of individual students.”

  Anne-Marie knew all about the resource room and didn’t want any part of it. “It’s still the retard wing,” she had blurted out. There; I finally said it.

  Mrs. DeShields had simply laughed at the remark. “Yep, people call it that.”

  But Anne-Marie’s father had still been stuck on square one. He said, “We are talking about a college-bound young woman in her senior year of high school. This is simply no time to be redefining categories.”

  Her mother said, “But the structured study hall sounds positive. It might give Anne-Marie the guidance she needs to achieve better study habits and better grades.”

  “Hey!” Anne-Marie had protested. “We’re talking about me here. We’re talking about me.”

  Mrs. DeShields had been understanding. “Of course we are,” she said. “If it’s your decision not to take the test, or not to have any connection with the resource room, then I’m certainly not going to force you. I simply think it might be smart to investigate the possibility.”

  Anne-Marie had been relieved; she couldn’t be forced. Mrs. DeShields folded her hands on her desk and addressed the family as one. “I’m sympathetic here, I really am. I can understand your confusion and frustration as a family. Anne-Marie’s sister set the bar of academic achievement awfully high.”

  “Please,” Anne-Marie had said. “Don’t bring up Eleanor. She’s like this giant shadow I can never get out from under.”

  “I understand. But just a moment, if I may. Anne-Marie, with an ACT score of twenty and a GPA barely above two point zero, your college choices are going to be limited.”

  “Pretty soon you’re going to be talking about junior colleges,” her father had interrupted.

  “I already am,” said the counselor decisively, but politely.

  Anne-Marie was on Mrs. DeShields’s side at this juncture. “What did you think, Dad?” she had asked. “I was going to get into a good college just because you say so, or just because my older sister is so special?”

  “Don’t get smart with me.”

  Mrs. DeShields had moved in again: “Whatever college it turns out to be, wouldn’t it be better to try to increase Anne-Marie’s chances for success between now and next June if we can?”

  “It’s hard to argue with that logic,” her mother had said to her father.

  “Logic? Is that what we’re calling it?”

  By now Anne-Marie was too crushed to say anything. She’d slumped in her chair and crossed her arms on her chest. “I’m tired of this whole conversation. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  It was Sara Curtis who interrupted the demeaning memory and brought Anne-Marie back to the present. A straight-A student, Sara was one of the runners who took notes from the office to students in class. Not for the first time, Anne-Marie wondered, Why would that be a reward? You get straight A’s so they let you deliver notes?

  “You’re not busy right now, huh?” she said to Sara. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Talk away,” said Sara, with a smile that revealed her oversized teeth. “But if they want me to deliver a note, I have to go.”

  “I know, but can you like come a little closer?” Anne-Marie said, while glancing from side to side at the other students. “I just heard that Brother Jackson is leaving,” she said in a voice so quiet it was scarcely more than a whisper.

  “It’s true,” said Sara. “He’ll be here till Friday, and then he’s moving on. It’s a bummer, huh?”

  “Moving on where?”

  “I’m not exactly sure, but I think he said something about Kentucky or Tennessee, basically where the Lord leads him.”

  Anne-Marie felt numb, a condition that was familiar, but not in this context. Not in connection with an evangelist. Slowly, she took the note from the pocket of her jeans, the one from Vice Principal Rosario. She showed it to Sara.

  “Are you here to see him?” asked Sara.

  “Yes. But now that I’m here, I want to see you.”

  “Because this just means you’re supposed to see the vice principal sometime soon. It doesn’t have to be today.”

  Anne-Marie looked at the pimples that peppered Sara’s forehead. “I know,” she answered. “But I need a pass. I’m supposed to be in biology right now.”

  “That’s not a problem. Just take your note from Rosario to one of the secretaries. They’ll write you one.”

  “I know.” This time she looked into Sara’s brown eyes. They were as clear and deep as a mountain pool. Sara couldn’t be phony; wouldn’t even know how. She could stand around a public school flagpole in group prayer and not care at all what anyone else might think or say. Will my faith ever be strong enough for that? Anne-Marie found herself speaking in a whisper: “I’ve never been very nice to you, have I, Sara?”

  The answer didn’t come quickly. Sara looked down at the note. “You’ve never been mean to me, Anne-Marie, if that’s what you mean.”

  “But I’ve never been nice to you.”

  “A lot of people have never been nice to me. Maybe they’re nice to other people. The whole world can’t be nice to you. That’s just not realistic.”

  “I know, but at basketball games, I was cheering and you were in the band. We sat close to each other all the time, but I never tried to be your friend.”

  “It’s okay. You’re beautiful. You’re popular. There’s pressure that goes with that.”

  She means peer pressure, Anne-Marie thought. If you were truly a Christian though, getting the approval of your peers would be irrelevant. As long as you had the Lord’s approval, nothing else would matter. And for that matter, what good was it to be beautiful and popular if you were also superficial and shallow?

  “We called you Bucky,” said Anne-Marie matter-of-factly.

  “I know,” said Sara with a smile. She obviously wasn’t self-conscious about her teeth. “But it was mostly during sophomore year and just in the cafeteria.”

  “We did it more often than that. Brooke and Missy and I. We were mean and cruel. And it was so childish. I think we were jealous of you.”

  Sara Curtis was the only black member of the student council and a candidate for class valedictorian. She said, “It hurt a little bit, but I mostly just shru
gged it off. What was it that made you jealous?”

  “Maybe your grades. We knew you would be a valedictorian candidate, and we thought a white person should win that. I’m sorry, Sara. I really mean that.” Anne-Marie swallowed hard.

  “So exactly what is it you’re so sorry for?”

  “I’m not exactly sure how to put it into words. For being a dork, I guess. Maybe there were times I hurt you even if it was just ignoring you.… Okay, that’s it … I’m sorry for being a dork.” She could feel tears forming.

  Sara touched her hand. Anne-Marie flinched only briefly at the moment of contact. “You’re new to the Fellowship, Anne-Marie. Don’t feel like the Lord is going to convict you all the time.”

  “I don’t want to go through the rest of my life finding sin after sin and spending all my time confessing. I’ll just be ashamed all the time.”

  “You won’t have to,” Sara assured her. “The Lord will convict you from time to time, just like he does all of us. But mostly He will forgive you. If you put your trust there, He will never let you down. I forgive you and I’m sure the Lord forgave you a long time ago.”

  “Thank you.” For several seconds, Anne-Marie looked into Sara’s clear brown reassuring eyes. “I hope you win,” she said sincerely.

  “Thank you. So do I. But it’s not a big deal. I’m already accepted at Oberlin, and I’ve got some scholarship money coming.”

  “I’m afraid it’s going to be junior college for me,” said Anne-Marie glumly.

  Sara seemed ready with an answer, but then a secretary summoned her, so she had to make a run. Before she left, she invited Anne-Marie to Bible study, the one she held in her house on Monday nights.

  At lunch, Anne-Marie sat with Brooke and Missy Timmons, but her mind was a million miles away. Missy had her term paper for biology finished, and a nice glossy cover of Everglades saw grass she’d made on her computer was the wrap.

  Anne-Marie told Missy how good the term paper looked, but wouldn’t permit herself to think about it. Couldn’t even if she wanted to. Her mind was on Brother Jackson. Why was he leaving, and would he ever come back? If so, when? Would she ever see him again? Would there be another tabernacle meeting where she could? She chewed at the edges of her taco shell halfheartedly all the while; her appetite was still as borderline as her concentration.

  She tried to pay attention in world history, her best subject, but her mind wandered to the vice principal’s note. If the note meant that she was getting more unsatisfactory progress reports, then copies would be mailed to her parents. They would probably arrive in the mail today or tomorrow. She would be grounded. She always was when her parents got progress reports.

  After school, Anne-Marie found herself driving west, across the Fox on the St. Charles Bridge, headed toward the forest preserve. She needed to see Brother Jackson again, even if it wasn’t in the tabernacle setting. If she was grounded, she wouldn’t be allowed to go, and he was leaving on Friday. When she was born again, he’d stood at the center of it, like he was the midwife of it, somehow. Her tabernacle experience had been like a celestial concert, with Brother Jackson serving as the conductor of its orchestra. She had heard angels singing.

  She found the forest preserve again, but not before she’d taken a couple of wrong turns. It seemed much different in the daylight. The shelter was actually part of a larger complex of buildings; there was a long dining hall made of wood siding, with shutters roped back. Anne-Marie could hear some banging pots and pans and some women talking in loud voices from inside.

  It seemed unlikely that such a place could even be here. She knew that upscale suburbs and brutal traffic were only a few hundred yards away in any direction. This complex of crude and simple buildings felt like an oasis in the desert. It was buffered by so many oak and maple trees along such dense rolling acreage, its secluded status seemed sacred. This place was in the world, but not of the world.

  Two geese flew over, loud honkers and big ones. They brought sudden, unwelcome thoughts about her term paper. Anne-Marie dismissed the thoughts; she felt nervous, not knowing where to look, and not knowing what she might say to Brother Jackson even if she found him. In fact, she had to remind herself that he might not even be here this time of day.

  Near the clump of maple trees behind some of the cabins were pole sheds that looked like maintenance buildings. She headed that way. Behind one of the sheds, she found him working on the mowing deck of a Ford tractor. He was prying with a large screwdriver; some socket wrenches were scattered close at hand. He was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans but no shirt. As soon as he noticed her standing there, he looked up with a smile. “Hello, Sister.”

  Anne-Marie blushed. “Hello,” was all she could think to say.

  “Can I help you?”

  Now what? “I went to one of your praise meetings a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Did it bless you?”

  “Yes,” Anne-Marie replied quickly, “it did.”

  “Praise God, okay?”

  “It was the first time I’d ever been to a tabernacle meeting. I guess I just wanted to introduce myself.”

  “So now you’re introducing yourself. What’s your name?”

  “Anne-Marie Morgan. My friend Brooke brought me.” She wondered how stupid that sounded. Like Brother Jackson would know who her friends were.

  “Praise God. I’m sure the Lord will bless her for it. Are you saved, Anne-Marie?”

  She lowered her eyes. The conversation seemed like it was accelerating. “I’m not sure,” she mumbled. “I think so now.” She was quick to add, “I love the way you preach.”

  He smiled with glorious teeth, white and straight, before he pushed the brown hair out of his eyes. “Thank you, Sister, but we don’t preach. What we do is share the Spirit. Preaching sermons is for the standard-brand churches.”

  His magnetism wasn’t limited to the way he spoke in front of a group. He was so easy to talk to. “I think I know what you mean. My parents wouldn’t approve of praise meetings.”

  Brother Jackson didn’t lose his smile. “No surprise in that, Anne-Marie. What we do is much too bold for people who like their church life respectable and lukewarm. But tell me, what do you approve of?”

  “I’d like to receive the gifts of the Spirit,” she answered. “My friend Sara Curtis speaks in tongues.”

  “And do you want the gift of tongues?”

  “Just some gift of the Spirit,” she answered quickly. “It wouldn’t have to be tongues, Brother Jackson. Up until a few weeks ago, I didn’t know anything at all about gifts of the Spirit.” Now the conversation was in thoroughly uncharted territory, but something about him gave her the courage to voice these untested notions.

  “The gifts come when we don’t seek them. That’s why they are gifts—they come from God’s grace.” He stopped speaking long enough to drink water from a quart jar. Sweat ran in rivulets down the surface of his lean torso.

  Anne-Marie watched him with fascination. He was a blend of sublime spirit and earthy, physical strength. It was the unlikely combination that captivated her. How old is he? she wondered. Maybe thirty-something, she guessed.

  When he drank with his head turned, she tried to pull her long hair back. Doing so, though, and glancing down to watch her blouse sliding up to expose a generous amount of her midriff, she became self-conscious about the silver hoop piercing the fold of her navel. Would he think it was pagan or idolatrous? Would he think it childish? Quickly, she pushed her top back down. She asked him why he was doing this mechanic’s work.

  “Our crusade is only here for a few weeks,” he answered. “It can’t hurt me to do a little nuts and bolts for the good of the facility.”

  “I thought all of this belonged to the forest preserve.”

  “You’re right, but the campground association has a lease agreement. Taking care of the grounds is part of the agreement, I believe.”

  “But what does it have to do with the crusade?”

  “It has e
verything to do with the crusade. The Lord blesses all our efforts when they are sincere.”

  Anne-Marie stared at his well-formed right arm, the one holding the water jar. The sweat seemed to highlight the definition of his muscles. Brother Jackson continued by saying, “Working in the Lord’s vineyards might just as well take us into every nook and cranny where there is honorable labor. Even if it be slopping hogs or chopping weeds. Many of the disciples were simple fishermen, or have I forgotten my Bible?” Now he was laughing.

  Anne-Marie knew she couldn’t keep up. Not with his knowledge, nor even with her own feelings. Resting in the small patch of black chest hair, just above his sternum, was a small silver cross attached to a slender rawhide strand. She cleared her throat before she said, “The church my parents go to is suits and ties only.”

  “The church your parents go to?”

  “Well, I used to go there, too. They’d be a lot happier if I still did.”

  “The Bible says the Lord loves a glad heart. He who serves with a glad heart. It doesn’t say anything much about suits and ties or fingernail polish.”

  “That’s what I believe,” she was quick to agree. “People are too hung up on what they can see on the surface.”

  Brother Jackson was using a gray shop rag to clean the grease from around his fingernails. “Sister,” he said, “how ’bout if I show you around?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  There wasn’t much to show. There was an old greenhouse with too many broken windows and a large shop which was home to lawn tractors and air compressors. On the back side of the shop was his room.

  “This is where you stay?” she asked him.

  “This is home, Sister. For the past few weeks, this is where I’ve been hanging my hat.”

  Anne-Marie doubted if he ever wore a hat, except maybe a baseball cap. “For how many weeks?”

  “I’ve been here four,” Brother Jackson answered. “Friday is my last day.”

  “Won’t it make you sad to leave?”

  “The beauty of serving the Lord is that He makes the schedule and all we have to do is follow.” He was smiling.