Faith Wish (6 page)

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 everything 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.

“Where are you going from here?”

“I'm off to a crusade in Indiana for a while. I'll be taking a tour in the Hoosier state.”

Anne-Marie couldn't imagine how much faith it would take to move around from state to state with no guarantees. She was young in the Fellowship, though; she felt confident the Lord wouldn't convict her when she had doubts.

The room was small, and relatively dark, for there was only one window, which was partially obscured by a box fan resting on the sill. The simple rollaway bed was neatly made. A wooden chair was in the corner next to a table with a reading lamp. On the table was a well-worn Bible. A big poster on the wall with the words
El Shaddai
showed a picture of a mountain peak piercing the clouds.

Just standing there in his room without talking made her tense. “What does El Shaddai mean?” she asked him.

“It means the Good Lord Himself,” was the answer.

They were speaking in the lowest of voices. When she reached to pull down on the hem of her blouse, she felt her arm brush against his skin. She was practically dazed at the turbulence of her emotions at this moment. She felt electrified, body and soul.

She needed to say something. “I like your cross,” she told him, with her eyes lowered.

“This cross?” Brother Jackson asked. He took it off. “It's nothing special, I've had it for years.”

“But it looks so delicate and so … so simple.”

“The world is full of nice crosses to wear.” Then he chuckled. “You know what, Sister? I almost said nice crosses to
bear.
” He had his pocket knife out by this time and was cutting through the rawhide strip with a sawing motion.

“What are you doing?” Anne-Marie asked.

“If you like the cross, then you should have it.”

“Oh, I couldn't do that.”

“And why not?” He turned to face her, again with the smile.

“But how could I just take your cross?”

“By receiving it as a gift. By trusting me when I tell you it isn't something I cherish.” The cross was in the palm of his hand. It was plain and silver, approximately three quarters of an inch long and half as wide.

When Anne-Marie looked up from the cross, she met his eyes. It wasn't the argument about accepting the gift that perplexed her, but something else. It was the current flowing through her veins. At this moment, the one and only thing clear in her head was that she craved his approval. “Just trust you?” she asked.

“Trust what I tell you,” he repeated. “How will you be open to receive the gifts of the Spirit if you have such a hard time accepting a trinket?”

“Where would I wear it?” She didn't feel like she was controlling the words coming out of her own mouth.

“Why not let me put it on you?” Saying this, Brother Jackson began to lift the hem of her top. Anne-Marie shivered, but didn't recoil. Quickly and efficiently, he worked the small ring in the top of the cross through the tight aperture of her belly button loop. His fingers traveled against her skin. There was no pain; he was careful not to pull her flesh.

It felt to Anne-Marie like some divinely mystical moment, his fixing the cross to part of her own body, as it were. Like a consecration or an ordination.

When he took her, it was on the simple bed. Before he made his swift but gentle entry, Brother Jackson applied oil to himself, which he took from a bottle on the window ledge.
Does he think this is my first time? But what oil would this be, and why is it so handy
?

But her hypnotic condition seemed to activate a series of dreamlike, open-ended thoughts. Some of them blended with scattered scripture …
Thou anointest my head with oil.…

Her submission in the shape of open, lifted thighs formed a valley to receive the secret shaft like an arrow to the soul.…
Yea, though I walk through the valley
… The silver cross, she couldn't help noticing each time he lifted himself, rested on her abdomen just above her tan line like an imprimatur.

May 11

Her watch said 7:40
A
.
M
. when Anne-Marie picked a parking space in the school lot. Even though it was only twenty minutes before first-hour classes, empty spaces were abundant. She'd never found a place so close before. It was a warm, mild morning, which she took as an invitation from God.

Today she would find the courage to join the prayer group around the flagpole.

To make herself inconspicuous, she walked a circuitous route between parked cars so she could emerge close to the gathering. She was very anxious; but Coleen moved immediately to make room for her in the circle, reaching out her hand. “Praise God, Anne-Marie, come and join us.”

“Thank you,” Anne-Marie replied. “I didn't know if I could find the courage.”

“It won't take as much courage as you might think,” said a junior named Hiram. “The fellowship is strong, as strong as a fortress,” he added.

She held hands with Coleen and Hiram, whose last name she didn't know. Hiram was pimply, with a strong body odor that added to the queasiness in her stomach. The queasy stomach, a regular visitor these days, felt like it had a life of its own. This nervous knot was not connected to any conflict with her parents, or any academic screwups.

It was with stinging guilt that Anne-Marie remembered the time she and two other cheerleaders had hidden Hiram's French horn and put a bottle of Clearasil in its case. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was, but she was so new to this flagpole fellowship, she wasn't ready to speak yet.

But holding hands—even Hiram's—to form the circle was surprisingly nonthreatening, in spite of the public exposure that gave the drive-by students opportunities to spew out their taunts and catcalls:

Hey children! Better look up in the sky
!

Jesus may be in a landing pattern
!

Oh Jesus, I've got a chemistry test today
.

Can you fly down and take it for me? Please
?