Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
I cannot be trusted. It’s one of the rules I’ve learned in this world I live in. My parents do not trust me, and I cannot trust myself. Even my feelings are lying to me. No matter how wrong something seems, I must ignore my feelings and trust only the Word of God as it is taught to me. Every question that is asked of me has a predetermined answer. I must always, always give the right answer.
I am always lying. I’m lying right now, with my face, during this prayer meeting. Mom prays, long and loud, and I keep my face still. Calm. Blank, through years of practice. Make the right shape, I tell myself, look devout. Draw your brows down, look like you are concentrating. You can do this, Valerie.
I try to focus on the prayers, but they just keep droning on. I wonder how many times my mom can say “Lord God” in one prayer. I stop counting after twenty. Cracking one eye open, I peek across the circle at Hannah. She’s staring blankly at the carpet, but I catch her eye and she immediately looks away. Squeezes her eyes shut. Come on, Valerie, get your head in the game. Inhaling deeply, I carefully arrange my face into the shape of calm contemplation. I start to exhale but stop the breath. Slow down, don’t sigh. Don’t do anything that could be considered disrespect. Just a slow, gentle exhale.
“And, Lord God, we pray for our sister Donna’s daughter, Lord God. May she, Lord God, find you, Lord God, and follow your ways, Lord God,” Mom goes on.
I’m tight inside. I don’t like prayer time. I might even hate prayer time. But prayer is important. Obviously. Prayer is talking to God, and only a heathen would hate talking to God, and I am definitely not that. Definitely not. I breathe deep again and squeeze my feelings tighter, smaller; I mold the shape of my face stiller, calmer. Mom elbows me. Oh, she’s stopped praying. Crap, it’s my turn. Say something. I give myself a desperate pep talk. What prayer can I pray that will glide by the scrutiny? What prayer will make them nod thoughtfully in agreement but not attract any probing questions later? I huff out a silent laugh at the hilarity of planning a prayer addressed to God but performed to impress the people listening.
“Heavenly Father,” I start. I clear my throat. A solid start, but not passionate enough. Come on, Valerie. Sound devout. “Thank you for bringing us here today.” I lean into it. That sounds better. “We thank you for the gift of fellowship with one another. We ask that you bless us and keep us close to you always.” A bit short, but I’m out of things to say. For Pete’s sake, we’ve been kneeling here for an hour already. “In your precious son’s name we pray, amen.”
A collective sigh escapes the group. Not relief, obviously—who would be relieved to be done with prayer time?—but there is a definite sigh released around the prayer circle. The women look around, blinking in the harsh light after so long with their eyes closed, rising from their knees and discreetly stretching. I get up from my knees and am heading toward my friend Hannah when her brother Andrew rushes in front of me. His lanky form is all angles and awkwardness.
“Hey, Valerie,” he mutters, eyes down, body slumping in on itself.
“Oh . . . hey, Andrew.” I try to continue toward Hannah, but he doesn’t move. “How are you?” I ask, trying to be polite, even though I’m not feeling very friendly. But it’s fine, because guys aren’t really supposed to talk to girls around here anyways. No dating and little interaction, except with the intention of marriage. Courtship, we call it.
“Good,” he mumbles.
“Um, I’m gonna go talk to Hannah now—”
He turns and rushes away as I’m still talking. All right then. That was . . . something.
“Hey, Hannah!”
“Valerie!” Hannah beams at me. “How was your week?”
“Good, how about you?”
“Absolutely wonderful!” Hannah chirps. Looking into Hannah’s smile is a bit like looking into the sun. It’s blindingly bright, and a little ragey.
“Did you write your paper yet?” I ask.
“Yup! Thirty pages on the Ark of the Covenant and its message for our daily lives! You?”
“Not quite; I need to go to the library to do some research. I have a few things I want to look up.”
“Oh, really? I just used our Bible encyclopedia!”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, I guess I could, I just wanted to do some more research.”
Hannah grabs me by the arm and pulls me in closer. Her eyes quiver with excitement as she leans in and says urgently, “The Zellers scheduled a meeting with my parents!”
I wince and lean away from her squealing. My mind flashes to the Zeller family. Ten children, fifteen-passenger van, kind of cute son named Seth . . . oh. Oh.
“You mean . . .”
“Yup!” Hannah shrills.
“You don’t think . . .?”
“I think so!” Hannah whisper-shouts, in a state of glee a few steps above her normal blinding cheer.
“But Hannah.” I tilt my head, trying to put this gently. “You’re only sixteen.”
“Almost seventeen,” she says defensively. “So by the time we finish our courtship—”
“I mean, yeah, I guess.”
“I am dying of excitement. I mean, our families have so much in common! The Zellers have ten children, we have nine; we drive the same fifteen-passenger vans; we both even have the same kind of chickens! White leghorns! I mean, it’s just so . . .” Hannah runs out of breath. Refills her lungs. “It just feels so right. Like the Lord has been planning this and is bringing us together in His perfect timing.”
“Are you sure you want to? Getting married, I mean, it just seems so . . .”
Hannah’s bright smile drops so suddenly that I feel the mental whiplash. Gone is the bright cheerful countenance. The face beneath is suspicious and disapproving.
“Marriage is God’s plan for women, Valerie.” She leans into my name. A warning.
“Well, I’m happy for you,” I backpedal. “Keep me posted.”
“I will!” Hannah replaces her smile swiftly and securely. It’s so strong, I wonder if I imagined the shadowy moment before.
“All right.” Hannah turns to leave. “I’ve got to get these littles to the bathroom and get the babies changed before we head out. I’ll call you!”
I watch her skip across the room, vibrating with excitement, as she heads off to collect her many younger siblings. At sixteen years old, Hannah is as competent as any adult. She cooks meals, washes laundry, watches her siblings, spanks them with a wooden spoon, teaches them to read and write. She seems mature enough to be married, sure, but I can’t help thinking about how young she still is. I’m only seventeen myself, and certainly not ready to start courting anyone.
But that is what we’ve been taught. That courtship and marriage are the correct path for women of God. Men are raised to provide for their families, to lead and protect, and us women are to care for them and bear their children. To fill our husbands’ quivers with arrows for the Lord. I know this. I’ve heard it in sermons and devotionals and lectures again and again. And even though it sometimes stings to hear that I am not my own, that I belong to my dad and God and my future husband, that’s my own sinful nature letting doubt creep into my mind. And so, I’m trying to pray. To hear the voice of God and believe what I’ve been taught with all my heart. And I hope that with enough faith, things will finally feel right, and I will feel the joy and peace that God gives to those who trust Him.
