Faith Wish
Page 1
EARLY BIRD BOOKS
FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY
BE THE FIRST TO KNOW ABOUT
FREE AND DISCOUNTED EBOOKS
NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!
Faith Wish
James W. Bennett
To the memory of
Robert Bruce Earle,
dearest freind
and soul mate
J.B.
Contents
March 26
April 10
April 11
May 11
June 2
June 4
June 5
June 8
June 9
June 10
June 10
June 16
June 17
June 20
June 23
June 25
June 26
June 27
June 29
June 30
Epilogue
About the Author
March 26
Right after pizza, which was served in the church basement, they went to tabernacle.
It wasn’t the youth group from Anne-Marie’s church; she was only going for the ride because Brooke Sanchez, her best friend, had invited her.
Anne-Marie couldn’t get up much enthusiasm for an evening of hellfire-and-brimstone preaching. For that matter, neither could Brooke. But as Brooke had insisted earlier in the day, it was strategy.
As soon as the pizza boxes were disposed of and the tables washed, they piled into three cars. Anne-Marie sat next to Brooke in the backseat of a large Buick, driven by a sponsor whose name was Mrs. Strunk. She’d asked them if they all had money for the collection plate. Anne-Marie only had a twenty-dollar bill; it would be gauche to make change from the collection plate. But it would be just as gauche, or maybe even more so, if you put nothing in.
Whatever enthusiasm Anne-Marie and Brooke lacked for the event was more than made up for by the other passengers. They were already asking who the evangelist was going to be.
“It’s Brother Jackson, from Oklahoma,” said Mrs. Strunk.
“Oh, I heard him once in Des Moines,” said Sara Curtis. “He’s been baptized in the Spirit; sometimes he even speaks in tongues!”
“Is he going to speak in tongues?” asked Coleen Hoose.
“No one can predict that,” Sara replied. “He can only wait upon the Spirit, like anybody else.”
“Is he like, real spiritual?” asked Coleen.
“He’s way spiritual,” Sara confirmed. “Spiritual and bold.”
Anne-Marie looked at the back of their heads. She knew them from school, but not well. Sara and Coleen were both in the National Honor Society, but they were dorks all the same. The two girls were founding members of a Christian Right group that had started a prayer-around-the-flag-pole scene, where everybody held hands in a circle and prayed in the parking lot with their eyes squeezed shut.
The tabernacle grounds were on the other side of the Fox River, by a forest preserve beyond the fairgrounds. The drive would take half an hour, at least. What am I doing here? Anne-Marie asked herself.
“I only want to go because Chris Weems goes,” Brooke had confessed immediately after school.
“What difference does it make if I go, then?”
“It’s just for support, okay? Aren’t we best friends?”
Anne-Marie didn’t think Chris Weems was all that cool anyway. “He’s a pretty boy who never gets into trouble. That’s about it. You can see him at school,” she’d pointed out.
“Yeah, but I think this might be a way to make a good impression,” Brooke had responded. “He’s like real religious. And he’s more than a pretty boy, Anne-Marie. He’s a candidate for valedictorian and he’s into the drama club big-time.”
“Oh. Good for him.”
“It’s called strategy, Anne-Marie.”
“If what you want is strategy, why don’t you join the drama club? You can still try out for the spring one-acts. I hear Chris is even writing one of them.”
“I don’t have the time,” Brooke had replied. “I’ve got cheerleading and orchestra.”
“Why don’t you come early in the morning for the prayer circle around the flagpole? You could even hold hands with him.”
“Get real.”
“Why don’t you just become a nun? Then he’d really be impressed.”
“Shut up. Like I’d be a good fit with nuns.”
Anne-Marie had giggled before saying, “I guess there’s no hope, then. You’re too sinful for Chris Weems.”
“Oh, and you’re Snow White, huh?”
“No, but I’m not pretending to be, just to impress somebody.”
“I still think he could be pretty cool.” Before she had exited the parking lot, Brooke lit up. Then she offered a cigarette to Anne-Marie.
“No thanks.”
“What, are you quitting?”
“I already quit. Two weeks ago. You should, too. You’ll never impress people like Chris Weems if you’re a smoker.”
“Duh.”
“It shows how evil you are.”
Brooke had laughed before answering. “Well, I’m not going to smoke when I go to their meetings. I’m not stupid, okay?”
The sun was setting by the time Mrs. Strunk eased the Buick into the narrow lane at the entrance to the forest preserve. Already, there were dozens of cars parked on the gravel shoulders. The girls had to walk several hundred yards on an uneven blacktop to get to the tabernacle, which rose in a near valley. The building was large, but didn’t look religious. It was nothing more than a large shelter without walls. Steel poles held up its roof.
On the way, Anne-Marie got separated from Brooke, who was staying as close as possible to Chris Weems. There were so many people here. There were black people. There were trailer-trash whites—men with beer bellies and Harley belt buckles and muscle shirts and too many tattoos. There were Hispanic men in cowboy hats and boots. In short, not the kind of people who would ever show up in Anne-Marie’s own comfy-cozy Presbyterian church.
She found herself being swept along between Sara and Coleen. The surge of people hemmed her in; I can’t stop or turn around. She shared the alarm of the Canada geese, fleeing and honking as if these holy hordes were unwelcome invaders.
“Are you okay?” Sara asked.
“What?”
“I said, are you okay? You look so pale.”
“I’m a little afraid,” Anne-Marie told her. “Maybe it’s the geese.”
Sara was more annoying than Coleen because she always needed to touch. She hooked Anne-Marie’s arm and patted her shoulder. “Are you afraid of geese?”
“No, it’s just that I’m supposed to write a term paper about them and I know I won’t get it done on time.”
“Don’t think about school right now,” said Sara. “Think about the Lord and how He might bless you tonight.”
Anne-Marie knew it wasn’t the geese anyway, even though she was telling the truth about the term paper. The size of the crowd kept growing as they neared the tabernacle. I don’t have any control here. That’s why I’m afraid. The swollen masses flowed like current, and there was nothing to do but give in to it, just go with the flow. Yet her surrender didn’t erase her disorientation. In fact, it brought some panic with it. Can I be grateful for Sara’s arm!? She gripped it tighter as they moved.
Anne-Marie felt relieved when they reached the shelter; she could lean against one of the poles and take a few deep breaths. Why am I scared? Her reaction surprised her. I’ve been in crowd flow like this lots of times at concerts and games.
It was standing room only in the shelter, where the tabernacle service was beginning. There must have been more than 400 people singing a hymn of praise. With robust voices, they
split the evening sky like a high school crowd cheering a slam dunk. After a deep breath, Anne-Marie thought: This is totally trippy, but I’ve never felt it before. That’s why I’m afraid. I don’t have an anchor here.
The shining faces, aglow with joy and passion, didn’t look trashy anymore. Some people were waving their arms above their heads. Already unsteady, Anne-Marie stood timidly at the edge of the shelter. Long, crude wooden benches offered the only seating. There were no empty seats nearby. I’m glad, she thought. I need to be on the edge. I need to know I can escape or go my own way if I want. Sara and she leaned against one of the steel support poles, still holding hands. I hate holding hands, she reminded herself. Especially with touchy-feely people like Sara Curtis. But at this point in time, at this moment, she needed it.
The noise level was practically deafening, louder and louder with each passing verse of the unfamiliar hymn:
Ride on, ride on, in majesty!
Hark! all the tribes hosanna cry,
O Savior meek, pursue Thy road
With palms and scattered garments strowed!
Ride on, ride on, in majesty!
The wingèd squadrons of the sky
Look down with sad and wondering eyes
To see the approaching sacrifice.
There were no musical instruments, not even a piano. The crescendoing, bold singing voices didn’t need any. The elevating gusto caught Anne-Marie off guard; with no warning, she felt lifted up to a high place, her fear dissipating. Now she wasn’t moving; the current wasn’t a river flow, but voltage. The congregation’s zeal, the closed eyes in uplifted, shining faces, the arms swaying back and forth, generated electrical current.
But the change in Anne-Marie’s spirit was so rapid and unexpected that it disoriented her. What am I doing here? she asked herself. What is happening here?
Ride on, ride on, in majesty!
In lowly pomp ride on to die;
Bow Thy meek head to mortal pain.
Then take, O Christ, Thy power and reign.
The sudden silence that followed the singing intensified the charged atmosphere, cutting her loose from all things familiar. A foreign but irresistible magnet drew her into the electric field. Now I’m an electron. Whose orbit am I in?
“What?” asked Sara, in a whisper.
“Nothing.”
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know what I am. I don’t know myself.” She trembled, shivered. Why would she be cold wearing a school letter jacket?
“Give in to it,” Sara urged in a louder whisper. “Go where the Lord would take you.”
Anne-Marie couldn’t answer. Still trembling slightly, she was thankful when a small space at the end of a nearby bench opened up enough room for the two of them, if they squeezed together tight. It comforted Anne-Marie that they were sitting at the edge of the building; she could look out into the night sky as the maples and pin oaks faded from view, as the first stars formed. It was warm for March, but the maple branches were still bare and stark against the purple-rose sunset.
Their broken silhouettes reflected the helter-skelter grabbing at her stomach and her heart. The fear, panic, comfort, apprehension, mystery, and voltage fought to claim her core, but merely tumbled one on top of the other, only to recede and swell rapidly from moment to moment.
She turned back to Sara, who was still gripping her right hand while praying in a whisper Anne-Marie couldn’t hear. The silence had changed to a low humming. People throughout the tabernacle began to pray, muttering, mumbling, and whispering. She repeated her own thoughts in a whisper that trembled: What is happening here? Shall I pray now? She felt like she could. Shall I say, the Lord is my shepherd … but then she realized, that’s a psalm, not a prayer. But maybe a psalm was a prayer, what else could it be?
“Brother Jackson is coming,” Sara whispered to Anne-Marie.
“How do you know?”
“I saw him behind the curtain. He’s getting ready to come out.” She squeezed Anne-Marie’s hand again before she said, “You’re not still afraid, are you?”
Anne-Marie swallowed hard. “Yes and no … I can’t say for sure.… No.” The lump in her throat brought her up short, but it was the truth. Little by little her fear moved aside to make room for the mystery of anticipation. “I’m just mixed up,” she finally added.
Then Sara took her arm again, as well as her hand. “It’s the Lord’s challenge, Anne-Marie. His invitation. Let Him into your life.”
There wasn’t time to answer: Brother Jackson came on stage and she was locked on him in spite of herself. He was beautiful, nothing like what she expected. He stared boldly at the crowd for a full minute, or even longer, without speaking, standing with his hands on his hips, his dark eyes traveling slowly from face to face. If he had even a trace of self-consciousness or nerves, Anne-Marie couldn’t detect it. The longer his eyes traveled from one person to the next, the more she felt the lump in her throat.
She sucked in her breath sharply when the eyes fastened on her own; now she had goose bumps to go with her chills. It was as if by simply looking into eyes he could craft a spiritual bond that no words could name. The hush had become so complete it was palpable; the honking of a single goose seemed as loud as a public-address system.
It was then that Brother Jackson spoke: “How ’bout Jesus tonight?”
His question seemed to break the spell. No one spoke, but there was scattered applause.
Brother Jackson smiled with peaceful assurance, then he asked another question: “Who loves you?”
A few voices answered, “Jesus,” but somewhat timidly and not immediately. Brother Jackson cocked his hand next to his ear before he repeated his question. “Who is it loves you?”
“Jesus!” proclaimed the throng, this time without hesitation.
Then, practically shouting, he said, “Say what? Now one more time, tell me who it is that loves you!”
“JESUS!” This time it was as loud as a crowd galvanized by a game-winning touchdown. Anne-Marie felt chills again, this time up and down her spine, and they had nothing to do with the cool night air. She zipped her letter jacket up snug around her neck.
“Then how ’bout Jesus every night?” the evangelist asked with a smile.
Anne-Marie heard the murmured responses, but she couldn’t help staring at Brother Jackson. He was lean, but the definition of his muscles was sharp. The sleeves of his blue work shirt were rolled up high enough to reveal his biceps. He looked really strong, as blessed in his body as in his soul. There was a greenish tattoo on his right forearm, but Anne-Marie wasn’t close enough to make out what it was. His lustrous, dark hair was pulled back into a modest ponytail. The track lights above the stage seemed to highlight his even suntan; she guessed he must have just arrived from a preaching mission somewhere in the South.
But most of all, it was his smile. Radiant and captivating, it seemed to flash across his face with each right answer like heat lightning. He didn’t preach. He would ask and they would answer. “When does He love you?”
“All the time,” answered someone promptly.
“All the time!”
“Come on, do come on.”
“When you’re good?” asked Brother Jackson.
“Gome on.”
“Yes!”
“Lord yes!” declared the fellowship of believers.
“When you’re bad?”
“Yes!”
“That’s right.”
“When you sin?”
“Yes!”
He will ask and we will know, thought Anne-Marie. It’s not in the knowing, but the saying. We will know the answers, then will be the giving and taking, back and forth. Each time the voltage will increase; people will be swept along like rafters on a river bound for glory. She had never known such feelings before. The knot of anticipation in her stomach loosened with the ongoing ebb and flow between Brother Jackson and the flock.
The evangelist spoke more quietly. “When does God turn
his back on you?”
“Never.”
“Never!” shouted a man near the back.
“Bring it on, that’s right,” said Sara loudly.
Anne-Marie whispered timidly, “Never.”
“How many of you are sinners?” asked Brother Jackson in a more urgent tone.
Every hand went up immediately. Anne-Marie followed the rest.
A tall black man was standing about twenty feet away. “I have sinned against my fellow man!” he declared. “I am powerless against sin, but I know to lay my burdens at the throne.”
“Praise God for that testimony,” said Brother Jackson, with the magnetic smile once again spreading across his face. “And when does the Lord ignore your cries? When does He hide His face from you?”
“Never!”
“Never,” said Anne-Marie quietly.
Brother Jackson directed the congregation as surely as any conductor led an orchestra. The lump in her throat felt nothing like her customary knot of remorse and guilt. The lump was splendid somehow, and the tingling that spread throughout her limbs felt wholly spiritual.
How many times had she heard these themes in church, that God’s love was unconditional, that if you confessed, your sins would be forgiven? Hundreds? That the grace of God wasn’t a limited-time offer? Hundreds more?
But it was this time, this place, and most of all, this man. That’s what was different. She thought of a Bible verse, He makes all things new, but wouldn’t know where in the Bible to look for it.
Brother Jackson was asking, “Who has a ticket for God’s grace?”
“We do!”
“All of us! No one is left out!”
“Come on, do come on!”
Anne-Marie had to turn away, her face suddenly wet with tears. Brother Jackson was too glorious to look at. She turned to the woods without seeing the maple limbs. Sara was gripping her right knee tightly when she wasn’t waving her arms in the air.
I’m going to be different now, Anne-Marie told herself. I can surrender.
She removed Sara’s grip from her knee, stood up slowly, and walked toward the woods. She couldn’t look at Brother Jackson a moment longer; it was like staring into the sun. Nobody noticed her exit, and she wouldn’t have known if they did. She felt a comfort zone, like a spiritual cocoon of the Lord’s own making. I’m going to be different now, she told herself again.