5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Hand to my heart
Caleb
“
...in God’s name I pray. Amen.” The Church of the Good News has emptied out. Reclining back in the pew, I hear a vacuum cleaner somewhere in the building. Lately, I struggle making it to a service. Squeezing the bridge of my nose, I close my eyes, searching for an answer. God’s voice is harder to hear. I can handle being shunned by my FLDS family, and I can live with running away from the prophecy. I can’t lose God’s guidance, though.
“Caleb? I didn’t realize anyone was still here.” Standing in the open doorway to the sanctuary, the new church secretary, Becca, wrings her hands.
“Sorry, I’m heading out.” Becca walks beside me to the main doors. “Do you lock up by yourself? Is that safe?” If I’ve learned anything from Hutton, it’s to assess all situations for risks when it comes to women or children.
She chews on her lower lip while pulling the pink cardigan she’s wearing tighter around her. “Um, I, I…” Blushing, she focuses on her feet.
“I only mean…” Good job, I’ve succeeded in making her feel bad. “With the break-ins around here recently…”
She’s still studying the floor while I open the door, only to hear sirens in the distance. Illustrating my concerns perfectly. “Tell ya what, I can stay until you're ready to go.” I’d rather not since I promised the boys we’d read from The Adventures of Robin Hood . Last night, they insisted ninjas were infiltrating the merry men. I’m looking forward to another rowdy time settling them in for bed.
Becca looks up, her face still reddened. “You’d do that?”
While she cleans the glass leading into the kitchen area, I wind up the vacuum cord. Other than occasionally greeting other church members, I’ve never had the opportunity to become familiar with them. Our family is busy. Between the rescue animals, the kids, and helping at the vet clinic as a vet tech, it gets hectic. To break the awkward silence, I tell her about our rescue horse that kneels to eat, showing her a couple pictures on my phone. It seemed like a good topic, since the horseshoe keychain hanging off her purse says, “Life is Better with Horses.”
“I’ve never seen a horse do that,” she replies, “and I grew up on a farm with rescue horses. Is that your son in the picture?” Standing a few feet from our Palomino mare, Huggie, is Weston dressed like a cowboy. That was the phase he went through last spring.
“Yes. That’s one of them. Our six-year-old, Weston.” I smile to myself, thinking about how much he cares about not just Huggie, but all the animals we’re helping. “He’d camp out in the pen with the horses if we let him.”
She’s surprised to hear we have six children as we continue to talk. I keep explanations about our family to myself. Not because I’m embarrassed but because I don’t know how to explain it to a new friend. I’m married, but I’m not. I’m polygamous but not exactly. I’m a dad, but not biologically. Sometimes, it’s easier to avoid specifics.
“I don’t think I’ve met your wife. Does she come to church with you?” Thankfully, I have my back to Becca, pulling a garbage bag from one of the trash bins near the kitchen, because I freeze. She hasn’t noticed her because Eden has never been here.
I try to sound unbothered. “You wouldn’t have seen her. She doesn’t attend services here.” Does that make it sound like she goes somewhere else? Because that’s a lie. I’m not trying to bend or break the truth. “I should make myself clear…She has different beliefs than I do.”
We both carry full garbage bags from the building to the dumpster near the backside. Becca softly says, “That must be difficult.” Her hand lightly rests on my arm as she goes on to ask, “Do your kids come to church?”
“No. Not because my wife doesn’t want that. I…” Wiping a hand over my mouth, I stare at the highway in the distance with the sun setting. “I have a past problem? I guess it could be called a problem with the religion I grew up in. I want my children exposed to as many ways of thinking as possible so they can decide their own path.”
Becca cocks her head before saying, “Do you read scripture? I would suggest looking at the Gospel of Matthew. The Lord warns of false messiahs and prophets sent to deceive. As a parent you might want to arm them with the word of the Holy Spirit; so they’re not led astray.”
She means well. Changing the subject back to the rescue animals, I’m not forced to reveal a part of my reluctance to bring the children here is convincing the rest of our family it’s a good idea. The only person who could back me up is Blaine who was raised as a Catholic, but his experiences with “religious” people have not always been positive because he’s bisexual.
As she climbs into her gray hatchback, she smiles at me warmly. “Thank you for all your help. I don’t know many people here yet, so it was nice to talk with you. There is an adult ministry group meeting on Sunday after service. You should join us. It’s a small group of six people, but I think that’ll allow us to grow closer with God that way.”
I don’t commit to attending. My connection with God has never felt dependent on other people; not my uncle, the leader of our FLDS Holy Brotherhood sect; not my father; not the minister of this church. It’s felt like a spark in my soul that lately, has been flickering.
Waving to her as she drives off, I stop dead in my tracks. I prayed to the Lord for a sign, asking Him to make my way known to me. I love the family I now belong to; Eden and the kids are my heart. God’s voice drifting off has me questioning if I’m making the wrong choices, so I asked him to direct me. Becca mentioning false prophets takes on a whole new meaning. Is God warning me of something?
Offering a prayer, I fold my hands and say, “Gracious Lord, we give you thanks for the blessings of the food we eat and the love we have around our table. Thank you for our home, family, and friends. Thank you for our health, work, and play. Open our hearts to your love and help us be blessings to those we encounter. We ask in your name. Amen.”
I hear Eden say, “You can be mad without being mean, Waves.” Dinner is tense. Matt grilled steaks, and Hutton threw together a salad. Blaine feels the need to tell me there’s complaining because Matt didn’t do it the way I do, and Hutton put too many tomatoes in the salad.
Once we’ve all dished up, Waverly throws her fork down onto her plate before stomping away. On her way past Zinnea she loudly says, “Just because you don’t have any friends doesn’t mean you get to tell lies to mine!” The message of our meal’s blessing seems to be going unheard. By everyone.
Blaine leans toward me. “You got home later than normal…” He proceeds to fill me in on what I missed prior to supper. Wes and Zach filled the bathtub near their room, tossing in rolls of toilet paper to see if they’d absorb the water. Waverly came home from school angry, Zinnea told her friends she wets the bed, though I can’t imagine why she’d say that. Matt needs to talk to us about something heavy that has him distracted, and Eden has been quiet. According to Blaine, suspiciously reserved.
“Sounds like it was eventful. I stayed to help lock up the building with the new church secretary. She appreciated it.” Warner’s sippy cup is launched, striking Zach in the side of the head. While Matt pulls the crying five-year-old onto his lap to look him over, Keir washes Warner up, telling him not to throw things. He’s three; he’ll do it again.
Wes grabs Zach’s hand as his crying turns into sniffling. “Hey, Zach, wanna hear a joke? What’s brown and sticky?” He giggles to himself as he shakes Zach’s whole arm in excitement.
I speak up, “Wes, let’s not-,” I don’t want to encourage talk of poop at the dinner table. Blaine is ready to put his hand over Weston’s mouth.
He yells over everyone, “A stick! What did you think it was?”
Just like that all the pent-up tension disappears as everyone left at the table starts to laugh. Even Hutton who rarely cracks a smile. “Did you hear me? Who’s the secretary? Is it the weird chick who smells like a cross between mildew and wet dog?” Blaine asks as he flips his fork between his fingers.
“Come on…be nice.” I can’t help laughing at his description. Leave it to him to remember those details from one of only a handful of times coming along with me to church. “No, that was the choir director. Becca just moved here. Get this…She was raised on a farm that did animal rescue.”
Blaine drops his fork, his eyes narrowing at me. “Uh-huh, sure. Let me guess, she’s single and has a crush on you, Big Gulp.”
“No, it wasn’t like that.” Not to mention, I’m married. Looking down at my wedding ring designed with my birth stone, I twist it out of habit. It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind Blaine of my status, but I drop it, like I do many of the arguments I have in my head with him. I’m closer to him than I am Eden’s other husbands, but he drives me nuts. “She’s aware I’m married. It’s possible to be friendly with someone without it meaning something else.”
It’s in this moment I make the decision to join the adult ministry group. Why can’t I have a friend outside the family? Everyone else does, except Hutton, but he’s not wired that way.
Blaine’s abandoned our conversation in favor of teasing Eden. Typical.
I’m settling back against the pillows as Eden enters the room with a bag of popcorn tucked under her arm and two strawberry milkshakes. “Got your favorites.” Her voice is hoarse, and the jovial tone sounds forced. With her reddened nose, glossy eyes, and her earlier reserved demeanor, I’d be an idiot not to notice she’s upset about something.
“Angel? What’s wrong?” Taking the shakes and sitting them on the bedside table, I fold her into my arms.
A ragged breath leads to full-body sobs. Picking her up, I cradle her close to me. A lump forms in my throat, and tears pool in my eyes. I hate seeing her upset. I’d rather absorb every last bad emotion threatening her than see her suffering. “Eden, angel, tell me what’s going on.”
It could be anything. Lately, the problems have been plenty. Was it Waverly’s outburst at dinner? Maybe it’s our next-door neighbor building a large sign in his yard facing our property, which is sure to be mean. Matt is leaving soon, and his absence disrupts the balance in our home. Her grandfather Roger is having health problems. It’s likely all of it. “Angel?” Kissing her forehead lightly, I implore again, “Tell me?”
Swallowing thickly while wiping her cheeks she bites her lip before replying, “Can I ask you something? Please answer honestly…”
“Of course.”
“Do you think …Do you feel…uh, how do I word this?” She drops her face into her hands, shifting away from me slightly. Muffled, she continues, “Do you ever feel like I pushed you to be here? To be with me? That the way we met caused you to make decisions you wouldn’t have otherwise?”
Not this again.
Every few months she has a crisis of conscience, regretting the fact we met while she was a graduate student doing an internship with cult survivors. But how would our paths have crossed otherwise? I was an eighteen-year-old Holy Brotherhood Mormon who was told I’d be the next prophet before I ran, and she was a twenty-four-year-old college student looking for answers about her past. Worlds apart in life experience. Each time she questions it; I’m forced to examine it again. To make the argument that the start of us doesn’t matter. But each time, it weakens. I find myself indulging in the same doubts. Do I belong here? I want to…
“Eden, why is this coming up…again?”
“You’re not answering me.”
Because the answer isn’t easy. It’s not definitive anymore. I may have fallen out of favor with God because I’m living a lifestyle that could be displeasing. Her expression of hurt when she looks at me causes me to say quickly, “No. Whether our story started in the bookstore the day we met, or God placed you and I in the same place at the same time…we would’ve found each other.” Do I believe that as strongly as I’m asserting? Not anymore. Not after church this afternoon. That realization only makes me feel guilty. I’m letting Eden down, God down…our family down.