In the Wilderness - Kim Barnes [84]
The story I told became something outside of myself, something that had happened to that other girl. If my parents remembered what I had told them on the way home from the Langs’, they never said, and without the reaffirmation of words to keep it alive, the summer became first an emptiness, a dark pause, and then the before and after of the story expanded until finally there was nothing left of that time in between to tell.
As I attempt to glean the telling moments of decision and awareness from the next four years of my life, from the time I entered ninth grade until I graduated with honors in 1976, I understand how difficult becomes the task of facing my own vulnerabilities and fears, resentments and regrets. And in seeing this I see also my inability to view even in retrospect that teenage girl as anyone innocent or without guile. Does some part of me still abide by that doctrine which insists that the child becomes responsible for the fate of her soul at the age of twelve?
Church filled every nook of my life. Instead of going to dances and movies, our youth group held dinners, put on skits, passed out tracts each Saturday and participated in church conferences all over the state. When revival came, I attended service each night. At camp meetings I searched out those my age who sat at the back, rigid with rebellion. I told them I knew what they were feeling, told them of my own dark times.
Among those followers of God who believed they saw the path my life must take was a quiet man who came to lead revival when I was sixteen. He was a stern but gentle speaker, not given to raucous condemnations or physical outbursts of praise. His dark suit and studied demeanor made him look more like a doctor than a preacher.
There was one night I had felt burdened, beset by some melancholy I could not name. I had made my way to the altar and begun my prayers when he stopped in front of me and raised my chin.
“Daughter,” he said. “God is with you.” I nodded, and he continued. “You have a special calling. It is very strong. You will teach many.”
He moved his hand from my chin to my head. The gentleness of his touch made me want to cry. “Pray with me, sister,” he said, and I did, tilting my head back so he could cup it fully, feeling the balance of our weight between us. He spoke quietly, and the prayer he offered felt intimate, something only the two of us and our god need know.
“Dear Jesus, our sister stands before You to ask Your guidance in her life. We thank Thee, Lord, for the gift You have given, for the special ministry she will undertake. We pray she be given the faith and strength to accept Your will. In God’s name we pray. Amen.”
“Amen,” I whispered, once again feeling my life held out to me as though it were a rare and precious thing. Healer, leader—a child who carried with her the promise of miracles. I felt drained, unable to walk from that room into a life not of my own making. My path was clear, my choices clearer: I could hear and obey, I could turn away and lose not only my own soul, but the soul of all those I might have saved.
But this was at a time when I considered myself incapable of choice. The exhaustion I felt I believed stemmed from a spirit made meek in the face of its Creator. I knelt at the carpeted altar, crying, praying until I lay prone in front of the preacher, who would not leave me until my spirit’s thirst had been quenched.
It is often like this for those possessed of the Spirit: hours of speaking in tongues, singing and dancing, until finally your head lolls, your legs buckle. Later, you find yourself on the floor, arms still raised, covered by coats and prayer cloths. You feel the sweetness of surrender. You feel taken,