2022 A.D. ~ Amazing Grace
TRIGGER WARNINGS: Rape, domestic abuse, and force marriage. There aren’t graphic depictions of the rape, but there are multiple mentions.
AMAZING GRACE 2122 (102 years after Man of Faith elected)
“It was by God’s Holy Grace that the American public elected a man of faith and reason. Although it took many years, the brave men he appointed to the Supreme Court were finally able to overturn the sinful, destructive decisions made between the nineteen-sixties and twenty-seventeen.”
I shift on the hardwood pew as Pastor Simms drones on. All around, members of the congregation are dressed in their best in celebration of one hundred years since “we took our country back.”
“No more sexual abominations,” Pastor booms. “No more disposal of precious babies!”
His lips glistens under the hot lamps in spite of January’s damp chill. He thumps his fist into his other palm, and his doughy cheeks flamed with passion. Each sentence he shouts vibrates in my chest.
I finger the dropped hem on my skirt. It’s muddy from the short walk from the pastor’s house to church.
At a rough jab to my arm, I let go of the hem. The house matron in charge of guarding me when Pastor can’t is seated to my right. She’s sworn she’ll whip me into shape, better than the old widow she recently replaced.
“In spite of our good work,” Pastor continues, “there are those among us who would see the liberal agenda return.”
A number of the church folk twist in their seats and pin me with glares. My cheeks burn as a small girl pops to her feet to look. Her mother hisses and sets her down with a muffled thud.
I frown toward the pulpit where he gloats over my discomfort.
“We must remain on guard. Be prepared to do the Lord’s bidding by leading lost souls to redemption.”
The crowd cheers.
“AMEN!”
“There can be no peace without acceptance of Jesus in our hearts.”
“AMEN!”
This goes on for another two eternities. Eventually, the closing prayer breaks though the fugue I’ve sunk into to escape the monotony.
The house matron pinches my arm and gestures to the choir loft. I wince and slide down in the pew. It never ends. A glance up tells me Pastor Simms is waiting.
For such advocates of free will, these people do not believe in allowing me my own. I stifle a sigh, put on my mask of faithfulness, and make my way to the loft. The half-blind organist waits with a blank smile. When I step up next to her, she presses the keys to the opening chords.
No matter how I try, I’ve always been incapable of butchering this song.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound…
Maybe it’s because I grew up singing it for my beloved grandmother. The one who smelled of apple crisp and denture paste. The one who secretly encouraged me to embrace who I was, even though I had no idea back then. At such a young age, I didn’t know I had a different answer to a question seldom asked anymore.
…that saved a wretch like me.
Maybe I sing it perfectly every time in defiance of what the world has always told me — that I’m a terrible sinner worse than the dirt on the ground. No matter what they say, I know I’m not a monster.
I once was lost, but now am found…
Pastor Simms says I sing it so sweetly because there’s an angel deep inside fighting to overcome the devil’s hold over me. As long as I sing the song every Sunday as the Lord has decreed to Pastor, it means I’m not completely lost to salvation. According to him.
…was blind, but now I see.
The singing is part of my punishment. The justice system calls it “rehabilitation,” but it’s punishment. The choice may have seemed obvious — prison with hard labor for twenty years, or wed a willing man of faith and surrender my freedom to him and his agents for that length of time. After twenty years living as a faithful wife, I would be allowed the same freedoms as any woman of faith. Only without the location monitor embedded in my shoulder.
The choice hadn’t been clear to me. The only difference between the two varieties of imprisonment had been the hope I might some day find an escape.
T’was Grace that taught my heart to fear.
Any delusions that being married to Pastor Simms would be less frightening were quickly shattered.
He quoted Bible verses during my weekly repentance beatings. And each night that he sank himself into my body, he listed Adam’s descendents in known order.
And grace my fears relieved.
As the pastor’s project wife, everyone expects me to fail. So I sing. And I pray in the public eye. Anything to convince him, and them, that I’ve invited Jesus into my heart.
Not all of the faithful hate me. A few embrace Jesus’s messages of love and forgiveness. They show kindness, like oases in the desert lands of judgment. I used to believe I might have need of their kindness if I ever hoped to escape.
How precious did that grace appear…
The hard part has been in not succumbing to the daily onslaught of teachings and deprogramming. I’ve grown so skilled at pretending to have accepted their faith that I’ve almost fooled myself. Pastor, however, is not so easy to convince. Additional beatings are the price for my deceptions.
…the hour I first believed.
Maybe there was a Jesus like in the Bible. Maybe not. I never truly thought it possible. Not before, not when I was a teen who used to sneak away from home most nights dressed as a man. I didn’t know how to blend in to a society that no longer accepted people like me.
Through many dangers, toils, and snares I have already come.
It was my voice that gave me away the night my life changed. Singing always set me free, and I thought I was alone that night. The moon was full, and most people were hidden inside, tucked away from the blanket of hot, wet air.
Foolishly, I wandered out into the glacial canyons to watch the moonlight play off the waterfalls. There were few green spaces let, and the forested canyon was my favorite.
Before singing, I scouted the area, and I was certain I was alone.
But I wasn’t. And he wasn’t pleased to find a woman in man’s clothes. I survived the beating. I barely survived the trial. When he was found innocent by means of his emotional trauma and my temptation of him, he came after me again. And again. I had to move three states away and register in a spinsters’ home to get away. Only to learn I carried his child.
’Tis grace that brought me safe thus far…
I hid my condition. If it had been discovered, I would’ve been kicked out and sent to be overseen by the father, my attacker. The stalker who the justice system protected.
I’d heard whispered somewhere about ways to end pregnancy, and I tried them. A fall down the stairs, vile concoctions, and even “accidentally” being hit by a slow-moving car all failed. Eventually, I found a rare metal hanger.
…and grace will lead us home.
I nearly died. A housemate found me bleeding out. The crime scene people found the remains crusted into the weaves of a towel. The evidence. They matched the DNA to my attacker an added harm to him to my prenatal murder charges. In the court’s eyes, multiple sexual encounters did not mean I was serially assaulted by that animal. In fact, they added charges for my “false accusations” from the canyon attack.
The Lord has promised good to me.
The rehabilitation program was started around the time I was born. Prisons were filling with wanton whores who needed to be shown God’s true Grace. Or something to that effect.
My attacker offered to marry me, but his wealthy family paid him to make the scandal go away. Since I’d crossed state lines with an unborn child without the father’s consent, it became a federal matter. Offers were open to both states.
Pastor Simms entered my life then. He promised the court he would be good to me and that he would bring me to the Lord’s favor, like Mary Magdalene.
His word my hope secures.
They told me I was lucky to only be sentenced for two decades, but twenty years of hard labor was terrifying. Pastor Simms made a good showing of how kind he would be. That he would give me time to adapt and grow.
The prospect of being violated by prison guards was, by all accounts, real. I’ve never wanted to be with any man, but I was forced to choose between cruel strangers or one who presented himself as a kindly widower steeped in faith. I should have known better.
He will my shield and portion be…
Pastor Simms isn’t completely devoid of kindness. In private and at church services, he focuses on my “rehabilitation” by shaming me for my sins. In public, he defends me. He buys foods he knows I like. At our first anniversary, he purchased dinnerware in my favorite blue and white pattern. He then turns around and tries to make me feel guilty for being ungrateful, for resisting him in other ways.
…as long as life endures.
He is serious about our life-long commitment. His first wife died of cancer, and their dedication is well known. Even though he could have taken another wife due to her infertility, he stuck with her. To the congregation, I am a filthy imposter.
Now I’m married to him for life.
When we’ve been there ten thousand years…
It’s been almost three years, but it feels like far longer. Ever since the doctors informed us last year that the hanger caused too much damage for me to ever carry another pregnancy, Pastor has grown colder. My rehabilitation now includes a gun pointed to my head if I don’t pray hard enough.
…bright shining as the sun…
He keeps me indoors now, and the house matron is well paid for her silence. For the first two years, he was proud of his generous marriage to an unrepentant sinner. Since the news of my infertility, the beatings are worse, so bad I’m only allowed outside to walk the fifty paces to church on Sunday mornings. I have to wear ankle-length skirts and long sleeves to cover the marks on my skin. It’s not so bad on this January day, but in the middle of summer, the heat makes my vision blur and head spin.
The house matrons have always scolded me for defying him even though I stopped trying to do so after the first months. I do my best to play the perfect Christian wife. He sees through my act every day.
…we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise…
The cycle is endless. I sing without the hint of an off note or skipped words at the end of services. We eat at his preferred diner. He administers me weekly beating, and I spend the week keeping his home spotless.
Last week, I found the key to his gun box while cleaning. I hid it in the one place he’ll never look. I feigned innocence, but he knocked another tooth and was especially brutal in bed last night.
The house matron must have taken pity this morning. She left me on my own while she helped herself to a drink from Pastor’s cabinet.
…than when we first begun.
I sing the last note deliberately, shrillingly sharp. This gets his attention. He freezes among the church members he’s entertaining. They stare up at me.
The organist glances over. Her eyes widen, and she scrambles away. I slowly raise my arm and proceed to sing the final verse.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound…
My ears ring as the tang of gun powder hits my nose. Screams reverberate from the cathedral ceiling.
…that saved a wretch like me.
He clutches his chest and sinks to his knees. I squeeze again, and blood spouts from his shoulder. He falls backwards.
I once was lost but now am found…
One more pull, carefully aimed, and his head disappears in a red haze.
Heavy footsteps pound up the loft stairs. I turn toward the men of the church. With all my soul, I sing my final notes.
Was blind but now I see.
I turn the gun toward my face. It’s more awkward than I imagined, but I now see down the barrel. A wisp of smoke curls in the darkness. I can’t see all the way to the bullet chamber. That’s okay. It doesn’t matter.
I pull the trigger.
