Freedom Village by Catherine Zickgraf (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) What I noticed first in the pamphlet was the dress code. Long blue skirt, white blouse, long blue sweater, red tie—modest and patriotic clothes to free me from sexual dysfunction. The Pastor had given my folks that pamphlet in church, then I snuck it away when they went to sleep. It said: “The girl must first realize she needs Godly Guidance in her life. She must want to turn away from her sin.” And: “We offer troubled girls a sixteen-month live-in program. But they must want to break free from their pasts.” I doubted my parents would ask my opinion, then respect my decision. So I knew I’d be boarding the bus from Philly to upstate New York and hidden away in the Christian prison-school. It was almost Halloween. The leaves had budded, climaxed, and died. They were done, and the branches were empty. I imagined climbing into the bus, hugging my book. That’s what I would pack for my sixteen months away. It begins with a hospital certificate— the kind the DMV will not accept as proof of anything. And on that card were two curled, inked feet marks, circles where his toes once touched that card. My son had touched that card. The hospital had written the wrong birth date on it, November 17, so they crossed it out and wrote “16” instead—emphasizing the six to amend their mistake. That date was almost a year ago now, the branches again empty of leaves. I was scared of his first birthday. How do you mark such a day? For the lawyer and his wife, that was easy: baby’s first chance at icing-smeared hair, photos of child and toys and Grandparents. But how could my earth spin that day? And me “breaking free from my past?” I promised myself I’d make it count, at home, in my room, on the floor, with my thoughts. But how to mourn? I didn’t really know. I was only fifteen and apparently in need of Godly Guidance just to pick out my clothes.
by Catherine Zickgraf (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) “My Mother uses a wheelchair, too,” the pastor said, his arm splayed wide against his office door, holding it open for us. “Mom's such a strong woman. She trusts God, and He gives her power to do things her body doesn’t want to do.” He yanked a chair out of my path as Tom positioned my wheelchair in front of the wide cherry desk. “You two will have to meet. She’s a woman of great faith—and she doesn’t really get depressed. She may be eighty-two and confined to a wheelchair, but she doesn’t let her health stop her from doing what God wants her to do.” He closed his office door, strode behind my street-dirty wheels, and settled himself in his leather chair. “So I completely understand your situation,” he concluded. Long triangles of sun flashed on his wall of theology books. For the last few months, we’d attended Covenant Fellowship Church. The building was perched on a newly-deforested hill above Route 322—its stony façade reflecting God’s swirling sky. The leadership assigned us to Pastor Machowski, and today he was interviewing us for church membership. “Let me tell you what we expect of our members,” he began. “First, you need to attend the worship service more often than not. It’s easy to be missed in such a large building. So just check in with your group leader, and he can record your presence for that Sunday.” I listened. Tom took notes. “Second, it is very important that you tithe. The sacrificial giving by our members allowed us to build this large facility.” He slid a cassette toward us. “Please listen to this, Malachi Chapter Two: God Commands Us to Build a Sanctuary. And then pray about how much you should give the church.” Tom reached for the tape, read the title to himself, pocketed it. “Finally, dedicate yourselves to one of the church ministries. I think we should have you, Catherine, join the Telephone Ministry. My Mom leads that team. She phones visitors during the week and encourages them to keep coming to our Church. You two can work on that together. I’m sure you guys will have a great time since you have a lot in common.” “Um, Pastor,” Tom interrupted, “my wife’s very ill. Obviously, she can’t walk. But she doesn’t have good use of her arms either. The wheelchair was specially made to support her neck because she can’t even do that herself. And she hasn’t been able to lift a phone up to her head in months.” Now I didn’t want this ordained man of God to label me hard- hearted, not softened to the gospel of Jesus Christ, not willing to contribute to the welfare of a larger community. So I spoke up: “There is one thing I am physically able to do. I can pray daily that the people of the church are comforted by their God in their darkest hours.” I was tearing up. “People who are suffering need our compassion, and they need continued strength to endure their lives.” I wished I had a tissue. Pastor Machowski had a counter-offer, though. And I promise you this really happened: “Well, look, there’s a woman named Sandy, maybe you’ve seen her during the service. She’s the one in the wheelchair in the front, right-hand side of the sanctuary. Boy, she has a lot of pluck—she insisted on working in the Parking Ministry. So before the church service, she circles the parking lot and directs church members to their parking spaces. We can have someone push you while you do that. Should I have her call you?” We had no words for this man—we were astonished. As my young husband backed my wheelchair into the lobby, I was embarrassing myself: pink eyes, dripping nose. The entire secretarial staff could see on our faces our apostasy or refusal to submit to church leadership or whatever they wanted to see. We left that man in his elegant office, convinced, I’m sure, that I was too proud to sacrifice myself for others the way Jesus had done. The following Sunday we visited another church, and we never heard from Pastor Machowski again.
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