Read Hungry for the World for Free Online

were afflicted shudder beneath the preacher’s hand, watched them fall and writhe, and I never doubted that the agony I witnessed was anything less than the demon itself being seared by the name of the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost.
    We believed that the laying on of hands would heal the sick and raise the dead. We believed that there was only one road to Heaven and that it began at the altar. We raised our faces and spoke in tongues—a language known only to God and the angels. People called out their prophecies; women danced in the aisles, their hair set loose and flowing; menwept without shame. Those who were taken by the Spirit,
slain
, we said, collapsed to the floor, and we covered them with clean linens where they lay trembling and murmuring their delirious joy. Only in the church were we allowed so much release, such pure physical and emotional exhilaration. Perhaps this is why my parents, weaned on the dry teat of inexpression, found their greatest joy in those hours of praise.
    We broke the bread that was the Body and drank the dark liquid that was the Blood of Christ. To consume the Eucharist with anything less than a pure mind and heart was unforgivable, and each communion, I searched my soul for some remaining sin. If I chose to let the plate go by, my secret trespass would be apparent to those around me. If I chose to partake, I might be doomed to eternity in Hell.
    Yet I could not forego the ritual—the miniature glasses of grape juice clinking against the pewter tray (wine was forbidden), the way they nested so snugly, each in its individual slot; the coin-sized wafer, thin as a page from my Bible. When I held the unleavened bread in my hand, waiting for the minister to repeat the words of Christ at the Last Supper, I could not feel its weight. But it was there, softening with moisture, adhering to my palm like a second skin.
    As young as I was, I could not escape the seeming impossibility of my mortal predicament: Christ could descend at any moment, come to carry his chosen ones home, yet only those whose garments were white as snow would be caught up. The smallest lie kept hidden, the mildest jealousy left unconfessed, would be enough to stain us forever, mark us for passage to Hell. Yet we could never be flawless, doomed as we were to imperfection. Our only hope was the second-by-second policing of our bodies and minds. “Go and sin nomore,” Christ had said. But how could we not? We were as God had made us—all sinners in His eyes.
    As a woman, doubly cursed, my greatest hope was to find a husband who would continue to lead and protect me as steadfastly as my own father did. To earn such a blessing, I must remain pure of heart and body. The evil that might tempt me was everywhere, the preacher warned: in pool halls and movie theaters, bowling alleys and card rooms. Dancing was a sin, as were smoking, drinking, rock and roll, swimming with the opposite sex. I signed the Youth Pledge, swearing that I would not partake in any of these things. It seemed easy enough. I had never seen a pool table. The late-into-the-night pinochle marathons my parents had once staged with my aunts and uncles had ended when my relatives gave up the logging life and moved to Lewiston. The nearest movie theater was a hundred-mile round trip. It would not be until I had children of my own that I saw
Fantasia
, which, with its wizardry and enchanted brooms, embodied our belief in black magic.
Snow White, Cinderella, Old Yeller
—all off limits, all part of the American childhood that was not mine and would never be.
    Television in and of itself was not a sin, but we did not have one and could not have received the distant signals anyway. When I visited my grandmother Nan, who had moved with my new step-grandfather to Lewiston, my parents were vigilant:
Gilligan’s Island
was acceptable;
Bewitched
, with its nose-twitching sorceress, was not. Only after my parents were gone would my grandmother allow me to watch
Dark