Read Online Not Without My Sister by Kristina Jones, Celeste Jones, Juliana Buhring - Free Book Online Page A
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robbers; but the walls also kept me in, shut away from the outside world, like a convent.
I had been used to playing in open spaces—the campsite, the farm, and the beach. But here, on the outskirts of a polluted city, I felt caged with nowhere to escape from the constant noise and so many people living closely together.
When we first moved into the big house, our family of five stayed in one room on the second floor. Dad and Serena slept on a double bed, and the girls and I had a triple-bunk bed. As soon as we had settled in, our shepherds Paul and Marianne told us, "We're now officially a World Services Home, and that means tighter security. Everyone is going to need to change their names."
Later I asked Dad why. I couldn't imagine being called anything but Celeste.
"It's a security measure," he explained. "The Family might recognize us on the street. New names will throw off anyone if they happen to see us or hear us talking when we're outside. We have important work to do and if our enemies find out where we are, it would hurt God's work."
Now we had to hide just like Mo did, even from the Family that we were supposed to be servicing.
"What about Rebecca, my middle name?" I suggested. Dad was pleased. "My parents chose the name Rebecca." "And what about you? What's your new name?"
"I've chosen the name Happy."
I thought Dad's choice of name was very odd; but worse, he grew a handlebar moustache. I told him he looked awful, and to my relief he shaved it off soon after.
As a World Services Home, we were directly under Mo and Maria's control. These operational homes helped to oversee and produce the Mo Letters, videos, and publications for the Family. They stayed apart from normal communes and were financed by the tithes of the common Family members. Mo had introduced a 10 per cent tithe in the early 1970s on all income from litnessing, inheritances, and Flirty Fishing. The percentage had slowly increased, and by this time an additional 3 per cent was levied for additional administration costs. If a commune failed to pay their monthly tithe on time, the penalty was excommunication until the debt was cleared.
The rules in World Services were tighter and there were more restrictions on our freedom. We were not allowed to tell anyone our phone number, address, or even the country we lived in. All personal correspondence had to be read by the leaders before being mailed, and all letters from the outside were opened before being handed to us. I was never told our address and the only phone in the house was in Paul and Mar- ianne's room.
Even though I had little contact with my mother, she knew I was in Greece and then Sri Lanka because of the videos we made that were distributed to all Homes worldwide. Now, I was not allowed to tell her anything. We couldn't talk about the weather or what we ate in case it would give our location away. I wrote her a letter--another one of those sad little missives sent out into the unknown--but all I could say was that I was doing fine and learning lots of lessons. With my note, I sent her and my sister and brother some hand-made gifts that I had labored long and lovingly over during school time. To my delight, a few months later I received a letter back from my sister. It didn't have much detail but it contained a photograph of Kristina, aged about seven, standing on a porch with banana trees in the background.
It is impossible to express how I felt as I gazed at that photograph. The last photo of her I'd seen had been the snapshot Dad had shown me in Greece, of Kristina and me in a pushchair. This was of a grown-up girl with dark-brown hair down to her shoulders and beautiful blue eyes.
I treasured that picture and kept it with my other keepsakes in a little box. But why hadn't Mum sent me a photograph of herself or written a letter? It was all very mysterious—but almost everything in my life seemed to be tinged with secrets.
Manila sweltered in the tropical sun and everyone
I had been used to playing in open spaces—the campsite, the farm, and the beach. But here, on the outskirts of a polluted city, I felt caged with nowhere to escape from the constant noise and so many people living closely together.
When we first moved into the big house, our family of five stayed in one room on the second floor. Dad and Serena slept on a double bed, and the girls and I had a triple-bunk bed. As soon as we had settled in, our shepherds Paul and Marianne told us, "We're now officially a World Services Home, and that means tighter security. Everyone is going to need to change their names."
Later I asked Dad why. I couldn't imagine being called anything but Celeste.
"It's a security measure," he explained. "The Family might recognize us on the street. New names will throw off anyone if they happen to see us or hear us talking when we're outside. We have important work to do and if our enemies find out where we are, it would hurt God's work."
Now we had to hide just like Mo did, even from the Family that we were supposed to be servicing.
"What about Rebecca, my middle name?" I suggested. Dad was pleased. "My parents chose the name Rebecca." "And what about you? What's your new name?"
"I've chosen the name Happy."
I thought Dad's choice of name was very odd; but worse, he grew a handlebar moustache. I told him he looked awful, and to my relief he shaved it off soon after.
As a World Services Home, we were directly under Mo and Maria's control. These operational homes helped to oversee and produce the Mo Letters, videos, and publications for the Family. They stayed apart from normal communes and were financed by the tithes of the common Family members. Mo had introduced a 10 per cent tithe in the early 1970s on all income from litnessing, inheritances, and Flirty Fishing. The percentage had slowly increased, and by this time an additional 3 per cent was levied for additional administration costs. If a commune failed to pay their monthly tithe on time, the penalty was excommunication until the debt was cleared.
The rules in World Services were tighter and there were more restrictions on our freedom. We were not allowed to tell anyone our phone number, address, or even the country we lived in. All personal correspondence had to be read by the leaders before being mailed, and all letters from the outside were opened before being handed to us. I was never told our address and the only phone in the house was in Paul and Mar- ianne's room.
Even though I had little contact with my mother, she knew I was in Greece and then Sri Lanka because of the videos we made that were distributed to all Homes worldwide. Now, I was not allowed to tell her anything. We couldn't talk about the weather or what we ate in case it would give our location away. I wrote her a letter--another one of those sad little missives sent out into the unknown--but all I could say was that I was doing fine and learning lots of lessons. With my note, I sent her and my sister and brother some hand-made gifts that I had labored long and lovingly over during school time. To my delight, a few months later I received a letter back from my sister. It didn't have much detail but it contained a photograph of Kristina, aged about seven, standing on a porch with banana trees in the background.
It is impossible to express how I felt as I gazed at that photograph. The last photo of her I'd seen had been the snapshot Dad had shown me in Greece, of Kristina and me in a pushchair. This was of a grown-up girl with dark-brown hair down to her shoulders and beautiful blue eyes.
I treasured that picture and kept it with my other keepsakes in a little box. But why hadn't Mum sent me a photograph of herself or written a letter? It was all very mysterious—but almost everything in my life seemed to be tinged with secrets.
Manila sweltered in the tropical sun and everyone
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