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Authors: Jennifer LoveGrove
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Sheâs never been this close to a demonized person before, but finds it difficult to actually be afraid of Agnes. Maybe sheâs faking her gift.
â Itâs true. Iâm the youngest person there who gets the Holy Spirit in my heart but when I start speaking in tongues, everybody listens. Even the old people.
She waits but Emily has no response to this.
â Donât you speak in tongues at your church at all?
Emily shakes her head hard.
â No way!
â No? No one does? That must be so boring! Is your Sunday School teacher nice though? I love my Sunday School teacher, Miss B.; sheâs the best teacher yet. She never yells or anything. Sometimes she brings us cookies.
â We donât have Sunday School.
â Really? You donât have Sunday School? What do the kids do?
â The same thing as everybody else. Sit and listen.
â But do you understand everything at church, just like the grown-ups?
â I guess so.
Emily isnât sure. Sometimes she doesnât quite get everything the elders say, but she assumes it will be clear eventually, if she pays enough attention.
â Anyway, I donât go to a church, either. Itâs not called that. Itâs just a hall. The Kingdom Hall.
â Well, you should come to my church. It sounds way better than yours! The bell rings and Agnes skips away, calling over her shoulder.
â Bye!
Until then, Emily hadnât realized sheâd been holding her breath. She exhales and pushes the cart back to the front by Mr. MacKayâs office.
On her walk back to class, Emily wonders what an entire church full of Pentecostals speaking in tongues would be like. Terrifying, probably: drooling, shouting gibberish, flailing their arms, then falling to the ground with their eyes rolling back into their heads. Heaps of well-dressed Pentecostals writhing on top of one another in the aisles, their limbs indistinguishable from each otherâs, as their glasses fog up and their shoes fall off.
Emily doesnât know what makes Agnes the best at speaking in tongues. Is she the loudest? Does she talk for the longest? Does she know what she is saying when sheâs got the Holy Spirit? How come a little girl is allowed up onstage to do that? She wishes sheâd thought of these questions before the bell rang.
She canât ask her parents about speaking in tongues. Emily knows she would get in trouble just for talking to Agnes at school, since being Pentecostal is worse than just being worldly, so Emily decides not to mention this conversation to her parents. But Agnes doesnât seem that dangerous to her.
11
I WAS SCARED. I DIDNâT KNOW what time it was when I woke up and that was enough to terrify me. I was trying to catch my breath, and I felt as though I was late for something, but I didnât know what. There was some sort of fog, thick and churning, all around me, and it was inside of me too, in my mouth, my eyes, my joints, my head. It was hard to move my limbs and my head throbbed and something was attached to my arm.
A white light buzzed above me, unnecessarily loud and cruel, and I winced. I forced my head to turn and look around, but that motion took longer than it should have. Everything was too slow and too loud and it made me angry. The walls were mint green concrete grids and the thick air smelled like ammonia and vomit.
I was wearing next to nothing. Where were my clothes? How dare someone take my clothes? Thinking was difficult; I couldnât focus, and trying made me feel nauseated. My right arm hurt when I moved it. I punched my free hand into the white beside me. Someone began to mutter nearby, but I couldnât make out specific words.
I leaned over the edge of my bed and tugged aside a curtain â two empty beds and the back of a mumbling woman as she lumbered out through the doorway in rumpled grey jogging pants. I blinked and looked again, then nearly fell from the edge of the bed to
â Itâs true. Iâm the youngest person there who gets the Holy Spirit in my heart but when I start speaking in tongues, everybody listens. Even the old people.
She waits but Emily has no response to this.
â Donât you speak in tongues at your church at all?
Emily shakes her head hard.
â No way!
â No? No one does? That must be so boring! Is your Sunday School teacher nice though? I love my Sunday School teacher, Miss B.; sheâs the best teacher yet. She never yells or anything. Sometimes she brings us cookies.
â We donât have Sunday School.
â Really? You donât have Sunday School? What do the kids do?
â The same thing as everybody else. Sit and listen.
â But do you understand everything at church, just like the grown-ups?
â I guess so.
Emily isnât sure. Sometimes she doesnât quite get everything the elders say, but she assumes it will be clear eventually, if she pays enough attention.
â Anyway, I donât go to a church, either. Itâs not called that. Itâs just a hall. The Kingdom Hall.
â Well, you should come to my church. It sounds way better than yours! The bell rings and Agnes skips away, calling over her shoulder.
â Bye!
Until then, Emily hadnât realized sheâd been holding her breath. She exhales and pushes the cart back to the front by Mr. MacKayâs office.
On her walk back to class, Emily wonders what an entire church full of Pentecostals speaking in tongues would be like. Terrifying, probably: drooling, shouting gibberish, flailing their arms, then falling to the ground with their eyes rolling back into their heads. Heaps of well-dressed Pentecostals writhing on top of one another in the aisles, their limbs indistinguishable from each otherâs, as their glasses fog up and their shoes fall off.
Emily doesnât know what makes Agnes the best at speaking in tongues. Is she the loudest? Does she talk for the longest? Does she know what she is saying when sheâs got the Holy Spirit? How come a little girl is allowed up onstage to do that? She wishes sheâd thought of these questions before the bell rang.
She canât ask her parents about speaking in tongues. Emily knows she would get in trouble just for talking to Agnes at school, since being Pentecostal is worse than just being worldly, so Emily decides not to mention this conversation to her parents. But Agnes doesnât seem that dangerous to her.
11
I WAS SCARED. I DIDNâT KNOW what time it was when I woke up and that was enough to terrify me. I was trying to catch my breath, and I felt as though I was late for something, but I didnât know what. There was some sort of fog, thick and churning, all around me, and it was inside of me too, in my mouth, my eyes, my joints, my head. It was hard to move my limbs and my head throbbed and something was attached to my arm.
A white light buzzed above me, unnecessarily loud and cruel, and I winced. I forced my head to turn and look around, but that motion took longer than it should have. Everything was too slow and too loud and it made me angry. The walls were mint green concrete grids and the thick air smelled like ammonia and vomit.
I was wearing next to nothing. Where were my clothes? How dare someone take my clothes? Thinking was difficult; I couldnât focus, and trying made me feel nauseated. My right arm hurt when I moved it. I punched my free hand into the white beside me. Someone began to mutter nearby, but I couldnât make out specific words.
I leaned over the edge of my bed and tugged aside a curtain â two empty beds and the back of a mumbling woman as she lumbered out through the doorway in rumpled grey jogging pants. I blinked and looked again, then nearly fell from the edge of the bed to
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