Incredible

Chapter 1

white victorian house in New Jersey neighborhood

It was December in Montana. I was standing in foot-deep snow, waiting for a bus and shivering in my blue wool cape. The flat white landscape seemed to stretch on forever. I was going nowhere without that bus. I waited for what seemed like hours but it was probably more like 15 minutes until the bus arrived. 

At the health clinic, when they heard my whispered voice and my cough, they took me back to a room immediately. A young doctor arrived quickly. "I heard you all the way down the hall. That's some cough you have."

He checked my temperature and listened to my heart and lungs. "You have a fever, and your lungs are congested. Do you have a history of asthma?" 

I nodded. That's why I was struggling to breathe.

My voice wavered. "I only have about $50 right now." Another rattling cough. I didn’t say the reason I had only $50 was that I had been in a cult, and had given everything away to them.

He nodded. "I understand. We see a lot of people who can't pay at this clinic. I have some sample antibiotics that should work. If you are not better in a few days, call me so you don't have to come in. I also have something for that asthma."  He paused. "Hang in. It will get better with time."

With the medicine in my purse, I returned to the small white farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, Montana, where my client Corrie was waiting. Taking care of her was how I earned my $50 per month.

How did I find myself in this predicament? It's complicated. I am still trying to figure out why I went along with everything when it got crazy. One thing I already know contributed. I was a vulnerable lonely kid with no self-esteem and no support network. I was a perfect mark.

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After college, I moved to New Jersey to take a job teaching high school. I had trouble making friends, a familiar situation for me, and I couldn't find a church I wanted to attend. So after a year of this loneliness, I wrote to a community I knew on Cape Cod and asked them for recommendations. They wrote back, "We are sorry, but we don't know of any charismatic churches in the area. There is one small house church you could try. It is at 170 West Palmer Street in Rahway. But we cannot vouch for them."

That didn’t stop me, so lonely was I. I gave the house church a call that week and was invited to attend their community bible study on Thursday evening at 7 PM.

That night I arrived in the evening twilight. The house was a large Victorian that had been painted stark white. It had a tricycle on the porch and a neglected garden in the yard. The lawn had scattered dandelions throughout. It was clear that whoever lived in the house was either too busy or not interested in yard work.

When I knocked on the weathered door, I was greeted by a young woman with a friendly smile. "Come on in! We haven't started yet."

        In an old-fashioned parlor with faded flowery wallpaper, five chairs were arranged in a semicircle around the fireplace. Three were seated, two women and a man. The woman who had originally greeted me took a seat and invited me to do so. The man stood up and began to talk. I noticed a little bit of stiffness in the members of the house as he stood.

He said something about the house and the people who lived there, but I found his manner irritating. He was small and thin, with a precise manner of speaking and an attitude that he was in charge. If a person could be freeze-dried and still remain animate, then he was a prime example. Cold and desiccated–that was him. It was remarkably difficult to focus on what he was saying. 

I did catch his name, Frank, and his wife's name, Nancy. The woman who had let me in was Elena, and the remaining woman was Suzie. They all lived together in this house. I didn't find that unusual, as I knew other communities that did the same. This was 1976, not so far from the hippie, Jesus-people days of the 1960s.

We did a regular bible study on a passage from the Gospels--I think it was from Matthew 10, because I remembered the verses  "Anyone who loves their father or mother more than me is not worthy of me. He who does not take up their cross and follow me is not worthy of me." (Matthew 10:37-38). This passage always scared me. Taking up my cross sounded horrible.

Then we had a time of fellowship, something like tea and cookies with gentle cross-examination.

Frank asked me what I did.

"I teach high school chemistry."

"Interesting! May I ask, where did you go to school?"

"MIT."

"Impressive!"

"Well, not really. We are not all geniuses."

'That I doubt. Welcome to our little group! I take it that you are a charismatic Christian. Who gave you our contact information?"

"The community on Cape Cod."

"Oh! Very good! Thank you for the information, and again, welcome."

I had just been interrogated. 

Elena stepped into the awkward silence. "It is good to have you. We don't have new people come to our group often. How did you like the bible study?"

"It was wonderful! I have always found those verses to be very challenging."

Elena smiled. "It's not so difficult when your love is strong and aimed in the right direction." She looked at Nancy. I didn’t know what to make of that.

Nancy was silent for a moment. I looked at her fully for the first time. She was tall, with black hair, stooped shoulders, and a pale face. She said, "Love conquers all our fear." Her voice was quiet and cool, as if speaking from a distance. 

"Yes! 'Perfect love casts out fear.' I hadn't thought of that reference from 1st John! Thank you…. I wonder what counts as perfect love…." 

We all sat there in silence for a moment, thinking about perfect love. For some reason, the tension in the room increased.

To lighten the mood, I said "Frank, you seem to know a lot about scripture."

"Yes, I used to be a pastor, but that didn't work out," said Frank. "Now I do freelance copyediting. Nancy dabbles in creative writing, mostly for her own entertainment." There was just a hint of scorn in his voice.

Elena spoke. "Oh Nancy, what you write is beautiful!" Elena turned to me. "Frank doesn't appreciate her talent. I could listen to her stories and poems all day. I hope you will be able to hear some of it soon."

Nancy smiled. “Thank you, Elena. Ann, perhaps you would like a tour of the house?”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

The house was spartan, with little artwork or softness, just bare walls and windows without curtains, and wood floors. Yet, as we stood in the upstairs hall looking at an ordinary corner with an ordinary plant, I suddenly knew I would be living there.

More to come next week!