Bloodcurse

Holiness

My first foster family, the Carvers, were a deeply devoted bunch who went to the Sunday service every week and had both their biological children convinced that God has created the Earth and the universe and most importantly of all, sinners. In their warped little world, everyone but God himself was a sinner and beyond the point of saving if they didn't spend their entire lives repenting, and so repent the Carvers did - in very strange ways. One time, I caught their adolescent son, Simon, standing in the shower and screaming. It was so bizarre that, not knowing any better at the time, I asked about it at dinner. His parents told me that Simon had sinned, and God had told them the only appropriate punishment was to scald him until he learned. Adam later told me that the sin Simon had committed was going out with some girl who was a counselor at the same bible camp he was teaching archery at. It became this unspoken rule that if it ever came to light that you had done something wrong, there would be a punishment ten times worse. My brother made the mistake of listening to The Rolling Stones one night, and the Carvers made him stand outside in the rain while they watched from the kitchen window. I think he stood there all night. When he was allowed back inside, his lips were blue and his entire body was shaking so badly that he couldn't even open the door by himself. They made sure nobody sinned if they could help it.

My second foster family, the Reynolds, were also religious, but not quite that intense. They had those framed cross-stitch sayings all over the house, 'Jesus is the reason for the season', 'Bless this mess' and the likes. Misses Reynold made them herself, along with decorative pillows she gifted the neighbors on every Christian holiday. Adam and I slept in a room that doubled as her studio, so we had to get up and get lost every day at five in the morning and were only allowed back inside when it was bedtime. The second Adam came of age and had made enough money for us to leave, we did. I only later found out he had swiped one of the pillows before we vacated the premises. He kept it on his side of the bed, and it read in pink and orange cross-stitch: 'Worship the Lord your God and serve only Him' It was sold along with the trailer in the end, but I wonder why he chose to keep that one.

Anyhow, my experiences with faith have been plentiful albeit not fruitful, as the Carvers and Reynolds taught me to regard religion as something painful, ugly and scary. The older I got, however, the more I started to see the value in it. I wasn't religious by any means. I was eight years old and had just lost my older brother, the only person I had ever come to depend on, and my life was understandably thrown into turmoil and grief. A few months afterwards, I was already living with the Olson's by then, my school class took a field trip to an old, historically relevant church. Apparently, it had been destroyed in some battle and was then built back up, but they not only restored it, they also worked the remains of the town's fallen soldiers into the structure of the new church to honor them. It was eerie, to say the least, though I have to say it was also impressive. I mean, you would never have guessed you were surrounded by bones and pieces of armor when you looked at the cherubs painted on the walls, and the gentle saints watching over the pulpits. On that field trip, we all took turns speaking to a priest. I forget his name, but he was a very kind person and when he asked me how I was feeling, I couldn't help but talk about Adam. Nobody ever mentioned his name, not my foster family or my teachers at school who had all known him very well, since he took custody of me once he turned eighteen. It was so painful not to hear his name mentioned anymore that I simply broke down and told the priest everything, and he listened to me very carefully before putting his hand on my shoulder and saying: "You will meet him again someday." Somehow, that consoled me more than people telling me they were sorry, or that he was in a better place. The idea of being able to see him again became the thing that kept me going for many years, until I got old enough to understand that not everyone believed in the concept of heaven, or in any sort of afterlife at all. I'm still not sure how I feel about it. I wish it was true, so much so that I think you could say I do believe in it. But is it really an honest and unbiased belief when it only came to fruition once my life was struck with tragedy? I don't know.