The apartment itself was a shiny one—knotty pine paneling with a high gloss and a sleeping loft above in the A-frame cavity. Besides the kitchenette, there was a dining area with a maple table and four chairs. There was a large cross made of stained wood on one wall, and a poster that said, Whither thou goest, I will go. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God shall be my God. Anne-Marie recognized the passage from the book of Ruth; the recognition gave her a sense of pride. The term paper on Canada geese never got finished, but her Bible knowledge was much stronger.
Sister Abigail returned with two cups of tea and a small plate of butter cookies. Anne-Marie sipped in tiny amounts.
“After the Bible study,” said Sister Abigail, “the girls will come back and do a few chores in the dorm. I’m afraid you’ll be assigned a few housekeeping duties of your own.”
“I don’t mind,” Anne-Marie said immediately. “I wouldn’t want to stay here without pitching in somehow.”
“I didn’t think you would. After that, we go to lunch in the dining hall. I think you’ll like our food.”
“But Sister Abigail, how am I going to pay my way? A person can’t just stay here for free, can they?”
The counselor smiled before she said, “Let’s not worry about that right now. It’s too soon.”
But Anne-Marie was accustomed to having means and was used to paying for things. “We have money. We’re for sure not poor and I’ve got some money with me.”
“The River of Life Fellowship provides the funding for our operation here,” explained Abigail. “People from all over the country, even all over the world, send what money they can afford. Ten-dollar checks, on up to as much as a hundred.”
Anne-Marie knew that the River of Life Fellowship had a cable television network as well as one on radio. “Does the Fellowship pay expenses for Brother Jackson?”
“Not only Brother Jackson,” came the reply, “but many other evangelists as well. One of the Lord’s miracles comes in the form of the generosity of small and humble people giving what they can. You leave the funding concerns up to me for now. When the time comes, if we need to talk about it, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
It was so comforting it almost seemed too good to be true. “Thank you,” was all Anne-Marie could think to say.
Sister Abigail said, “Since you have a new ’do and a new look, why don’t we think about finding a name for you to take while you’re with us?”
“A new name?”
“Most of our fellowshippers like to choose a name they associate with a favorite Bible character or passage of Scripture. They do it to signify their new life in Christ; their new identity in the Lord’s family. In fact, it was when I first came here twelve years ago that I chose the name Abigail.”
“Abigail is a name you picked?”
“It is indeed. I wanted to find a name that would signify submission, so I thought, what could be better than the Biblical woman who gave up all to follow her Lord and Master?”
Anne-Marie wished her Biblical knowledge extended further. She knew she still had much to learn. She wasn’t sure who Abigail was, in the Bible. But the idea of choosing a new name for herself, to signify her new life in Christ, excited her. “I hadn’t thought of it, but I can see how it’s a good idea,” she said.
“One of your dorm mates, Rachel, came to us with a different name. You’ll get to know her and love her. She’s blessed with the gift of prophecy.”
“I don’t know what name I would choose,” Anne-Marie admitted.
“Is Anne-Marie your real name, or is it simply Anne?”
“It’s Anne. My family always left in my middle name because it was the name of my aunt on my father’s side. She died young.”
“I’m sorry for that. Maybe we could do something with Anne, hmm?” Sister Abigail straightened the hair above her left ear, but Anne-Marie couldn’t see where anything was out of place.
Anne-Marie felt pressure, as if she ought to be able to pick an appropriate name from the Bible immediately. Otherwise, Abigail might think she was ignorant of Scripture. She glanced at the poster on the wall, before she said quietly, “Whither thou goest, I will go.”
Abigail smiled broadly before she completed the passage without turning in her chair. “Thy people shall be my people, and thy God shall be my God.”
“It could be Ruth,” said Anne-Marie quickly. “Or maybe even Ruth Anne.”
“Ruth Anne would be lovely,” said Sister Abigail. “There is no more perfect example of submission to the Lord’s will.”
“Ruth Anne,” murmured Anne-Marie quietly, while trying to down another sip of the bitter tea. She wished it had some milk or sugar in it, at least. “It symbolizes the new me. I will be putting away my old self to be born again in the body of Christ.”
“Exactly. And the body of Christ is right here, among your sisters at Shaddai.”
“It’s kind of like a monastery or a nunnery, huh?”
Sister Abigail replaced her broad smile with an indulgent one. “In a manner of speaking, you might say so. Humility compels us not to criticize the religious practices of others, but we think the doctrines that come from the Pope in Rome are somewhat misguided.”
“I know. They believe you have to go through a priest to approach the Father.”
“That’s one thing. But let’s not talk about it, or we might find ourselves getting negative.”
Negative, Anne-Marie didn’t want. But her thoughts raced, much as they did when she tried to concentrate on term papers or on reading. Secure and optimistic as this setting seemed, she couldn’t completely ignore the disturbing element of her situation. Her born-again new look was also in part a disguise. Unlikely as it was that she could be traced into this sector of southern Illinois wilderness, she was a runaway. She was even an underage runaway. There would be TV reports, police, radio bulletins, milk cartons, and all the rest. The police would be looking for Brother Jackson, and her parents would be worried big-time.
She asked Sister Abigail in a quiet voice, “Have you called my parents? I have to know.”
“Called your parents about what?”
Anne-Marie wondered how much she knew. How much information had Brother Jackson given her? “I just mean, people don’t know I’m here. I don’t want to be turned in, if you know what I mean. I haven’t done anything wrong or broken any laws, I can promise you.”
“You can promise and I can trust you,” said Sister Abigail simply. “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself again.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Well, first you asked about costs and funding. Now you’re asking me about who knows what and who ought to know what. If you need the Lord’s help to find the solution to a problem you may be having, then that’s what we need to be praying about.”
“When I’m secure in the Lord, I’ll know His will.”
“Exactly. You’ll know His will. That means you’ll know what choices you need to make. In the meantime, Ruth Anne, remember your namesake.”
“Whither thou goest,” said Anne-Marie with relief, “I will go.”
“Your people shall be my people, and your God, my God,” added the counselor. “And now maybe it’s time we lightened up a bit. Let me show you around some of the other facilities. When the girls come back, I’ll introduce you.”
“Good. Thank you, Sister Abigail. God bless you.”
“And God bless you, Sister Ruth Anne.”
June 16
In the dorm, she slept restlessly the first few nights. It was quiet but for the steady hum of window fans, which made it cool enough that she needed to pull up the thin blanket as well as the sheet. She was awake, then asleep, with frequent dreaming.
She fretted about the anxiety her parents must be feeling, even though she was certain Eleanor had called them. A part of her soul—a dark part—relished whatever discomfort they might be enduring, as if they were getting what they deserved for putting her on a contract like a criminal. She was ash
amed of the feelings, though; she was certain the Lord would want her to make room in her heart to forgive them.
Since she had to urinate once or twice each night, she had to learn to navigate her way carefully between the beds, in the dark. The concrete was always cool on the soles of her feet.
In the mornings she sometimes felt low levels of nausea that continued to inhibit her appetite. Once or twice, Sister Abigail asked her if she was disappointed with the food in the cafeteria, but she said no, the food was good. And in truth, it was. “It must be nerves,” she said to the counselor.
“Everything is new, Ruth Anne,” said Abigail. “You can’t be expected to feel right at home immediately. Give it a little time. You’ll be eating like a horse and sleeping like a baby.”
Anne-Marie hoped and assumed she was right, but the assurance couldn’t completely calm her raw nerves.
There was a small tabernacle down near the edge of the lake, situated in a grove of cottonwood trees. In the evenings, Sister Abigail fellowshipped with the whole group.
When Abigail preached, she wore a white muslin tunic. It reached below her hips and had long, loose sleeves, so it resembled a plain kind of choir robe. There were three crosses embroidered across the chest, the largest one flanked by smaller ones. Two floodlights attached to the sides of the stage put her in a spotlight. She seemed to shine with special radiance.
One of the first sermons Anne-Marie heard her give was a warning. Sister Abigail cautioned them that the world, and most people in it, would try to undermine their faith. “If you want respect,” she said, “it won’t be easy to find. Contempt will be easy to find, so you will need the strength to endure it and overcome it.”
Anne-Marie understood how true it was. She thought of the skepticism of her parents, the smart-ass comments Richard had delivered. Even Brooke had mocked her when Anne-Marie revealed she wanted to turn her life over to the Lord.
“Respect will have to come from within,” the counselor continued. “I’m sure you know by now how hard it is to stand up for your own beliefs when the world is scornful. Praise God, though, that standing firm is not something you have to do alone. The Lord will never leave your side. He is always standing there with you, holding your hand.”
As hard as Anne-Marie tried to concentrate, and as much as she could relate to the words, she found her mind wandering. She thought of her parents and Eleanor. She hoped Richard got the car back on time, with no dents or scrapes. She hoped he remembered not to leave any cigarette butts in the ashtray. She even thought of clothing and makeup she wished she’d remembered to bring along. She shook her head; in school, she was always this way. She knew the Lord wanted her undivided attention.
“Because the Lord gives all,” Sister Abigail was saying, “He expects all. He didn’t die on the cross just so people could go to church on Sunday morning or put a few dollars in the Salvation Army kettle at Christmas. The Lord of your life means the center of your life, not just a hobby or part-time activity. If your goal is to follow Him, you will have infinite joy, but you may not have much comfort.”
It was that same night, at the conclusion of fellowship, when they joined hands in a circle for closing prayer, that Rachel began to speak in tongues. She was a gaunt and mystical creature who slept in the bed closest to Anne-Marie’s.
When Rachel spoke in tongues it was a disturbing combination of clicking and humming. There weren’t any discernible words, but there was an obvious connection to an unspeakably mystical force: clickety-click-click while maintaining a deep-throated hum almost like a background of studio musicians. It stirred Anne-Marie to the depths to realize that whatever discomfort she might be feeling in this period of transition, she was truly in a place of spiritual power so great it brought forth the Mysteries of the Lord Himself.
After fellowship there was at least an hour before lights out. It turned out the Clairol she had “borrowed” without asking permission belonged to Crystal, the girl who liked to cut hair. Crystal was very fat and wore geeky glasses. Her thighs rippled with cellulite. “I’m sorry I took it without asking,” Anne-Marie told her.
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to use it anyway. At least not on myself. Sister Abigail said you might like me to trim your hair.”
“Would you? I like it this short and this color, but I cut it myself. I guess that’s pretty obvious, huh?”
Crystal cocked her head so she could examine Anne-Marie’s hair a little more carefully. She pushed her stubborn glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “I’ve seen worse,” she said. “Come on, let’s go back to the dorm and even up those ends.”
“That would be great.”
Crystal gave Anne-Marie a hand mirror to hold while she did the trimming. She was deft and confident while she worked. “Have you been here before?” Anne-Marie asked her.
“This is my fourth summer. One year I was here all summer, but this year I’ll only be here for six weeks. My parents are taking me to Barbados in the middle of July.”
“Do your parents like you to come here?”
“My parents love for me to come here. I have problems at school sometimes. People make fun of me and tease me. I always try to laugh it off, but it’s hard when people are always teasing you and being cruel.”
Anne-Marie could imagine why. With that bulk and those ornery glasses, which kept slipping down her nose, she would be an easy target for high school classmates. “I’m sorry,” said Anne-Marie softly, and for more reasons than one. She could remember when she herself, not so long ago, was one of those who teased the geeks and played practical jokes, sometimes even cruel ones. She thought of the conversation she’d had with Sara Curtis when she tried to apologize for that kind of behavior.
“Sorry for what?” Crystal asked.
“Just sorry that … that people treat you that way.” She moved quickly to change the subject: “I have problems in school, too.”
“You do?” Crystal sounded doubtful.
“Maybe not the same kind as you. I have trouble with my grades. I get low grades.” She stopped short of revealing that she’d failed to graduate.
“But you’re so beautiful, Anne-Marie. You must be like real popular.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I can just tell. I have a radar about these things. Girls as beautiful as you are always very popular in school.”
Anne-Marie could feel herself blushing. She wondered if the red creeping up the back of her neck was visible to her new friend with the scissors. “Beautiful has to be what you are on the inside,” she finally said. “It’s like Sister Abigail said. Besides, whatever my looks are, I’ve always gotten low grades in school. The way the teachers and counselors put it, I’m an academic underachiever.”
“You have low self-esteem too, then,” declared Crystal. Anne-Marie felt certain the pleasure in her voice was unintentional. “I didn’t think it ever happened to the popular girls.”
“If I told you about my older sister, you’d understand why.”
Crystal was at work on Anne-Marie’s bangs. “Hold real still now,” she cautioned. “Whenever we’re here at Camp Shaddai, I’m always reminded it’s only how I look in God’s eyes that really counts. If I’m fat, what difference does it make? If He is for me, who can be against me?”
“It’s true, huh,” said Anne-Marie, knowing her own parents would never be able to find any enthusiasm for Camp Shaddai. They would probably think it was just a cult site, out of balance.
Anne-Marie was given latrine duty the first week. It was her job to clean the toilets, the sinks, the shower stalls, the mirrors, and the vanity surfaces. Ironically, it was something she knew how to do. When she’d been a cheerleader, Mrs. Stiles, the sponsor, used to make them clean the bathrooms of the girls’ locker room whenever she caught them smoking.
Anne-Marie was amazed at the difference. What had been a disgusting form of punishment back at her school was suddenly a joy in service to the Lord. No job was too humble or disgusting if i
t was conducted in His service. Hadn’t Brother Jackson said exactly that about fixing tractors and mowing grass?
She laughed once or twice when this fundamental distinction actually filled her with a sense of honor. It even kept her close to the toilets, convenient for those rare occasions when she felt the nausea.
Once when she was cleaning sinks and mirrors, she watched Rachel showering. Rachel didn’t bother pulling the curtain closed. She seemed utterly unself-conscious, even though her wiry body was extremely boyish. She didn’t even shave her armpits.
Anne-Marie tried not to stare, but the mirror gave her such an easy view, she couldn’t help herself. On Rachels’ left shoulder blade was a finely drawn blue tattoo, approximately six inches long, of Christ on the cross. Drops of blood fell from his side in red ink. The small words in clear letters below the tattoo declared, This blood’s for you.
Anne-Marie longed to know her better because of her gift of prophecy and her knowledge of the Mysteries. The tattoo seemed to be an opening for conversation. “Where did you get the tattoo?” she asked.
“In a Christian tattoo parlor in St. Louis,” replied Rachel.
“They’ve got tattoo parlors just for Christians?”
“It’s the only one I’ve seen.” Rachel was toweling off, rubbing her straight, unkempt hair. Except that it was black, its disheveled condition might have belonged to one of the troll dolls that rested on her bed. “They have the head of Christ, the cross itself, even the sacraments of the Last Supper. About any religious image you can think of.”
Anne-Marie had pierced ears and the pierced navel which held her hoop and cross, but she’d never gotten a tattoo. She’d decided long ago that if she ever got one, she’d want it on her ankle, not her shoulder blade.
June 17
Just before dawn, when her restlessness seemed most acute, Anne-Marie dreamed of Brother Jackson. She dreamed of his tractor, and the oil rig, and the spiritual ecstasy of their physical union in his small bed. Half awake again, but still asleep, she was in the trancelike condition of the twilight zone: She longed not so much for the memory itself as for the cosmic, haloed effect which the dream brought with it.
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