The Other Side of Darkness (10 page)

So we both kneel by the couch, and she starts the prayers. “O Lord,” she says with genuine passion, “please reveal yourself to us today. Make your presence known to us, and please show us what you want to do in our hearts. Purge us from our iniquities, purify our spirits. We pray against the Evil One now. We know he is lurking around every corner, just waiting to catch us off balance so he can knock us down, so he can destroy us. We pray that your Spirit will bind Satan’s spirit now. We pray that you will hold his powers back while we gather here to learn from your Word and to experience your bountiful gifts …” For several minutes she prays, and I do my best to agree with her, to say “amen” when it seems appropriate, and finally she collapses forward on the couch and tells me I must continue for her.

“My spirit is getting exhausted,” she says breathlessly. “I need for you to go to battle for me, sister. I need you to hold back the
attack of Satan and his demons. They don’t want us to gather here today. I can feel it. You must pray against them with power and might.”

So I pray against the demons and their evil influence. I pray against the devil and his deceptions that would lead us astray. I pray that Cynthia will be strong in the Lord and that she will remain impervious to the Enemy’s fiery arrows. On and on I pray until I’m surprised that Cynthia is nudging me.

“Well done.” She points to her watch. “But it’s nearly time for the ladies to arrive.”

“Oh!” I blink at the light in the room as I open my eyes. “I almost forgot about that.”

She laughs. “You’re an excellent prayer warrior, Ruth. It’s no mistake that the Lord picked you to partner with me this year. We will be a great team for the Lord.”

Hoping to appear humble, I nod with a solemn expression, then excuse myself to check on the coffee and tea things in the kitchen. But once I’m by myself, I feel exuberant, like I could dance and sing and praise the Lord all day. To think that I am Cynthia’s partner now, that the Lord has chosen me to help this deeply spiritual woman! It’s almost intoxicating.

Later on I try to conceal my disappointment when only three women show up for our Bible study. I’m embarrassed that I’ve put out enough coffee cups and things for at least a dozen women. But it is a consolation that at least they are three very spiritual women. Edna Bristol, Margie Morris, and Amy Johnson join us in the living room. There is no need for introductions since we’ve all known each other for years. But Cynthia does tell them that I am her new prayer partner, and they seem to approve.

Edna is the oldest in our group. A widow and recently retired from the post office, she is in her midsixties, I think. She’s always been a pillar of faith in our church and even more so since her retirement. Margie and Amy are my age, give or take a year or two, and Cynthia is somewhere in between. I’ve never been sure of her age, although I’d guess she’s in her mid to late fifties. She came to our church about the same time Pastor Glenn took over, and I’ve always assumed that she followed him here from their previous church.

Cynthia teaches from Revelation today. She focuses primarily on the section in chapter three where the Lord accuses the church of Laodicea of being lukewarm.

“ ‘You are neither cold nor hot,’ says the Lord.” She repeats this verse with emphasis. “ ‘Because you are … neither cold nor hot, I will spew you out of My mouth!’ ”

My living room is quiet now, and we’re waiting for her to continue. But instead of reading or teaching, Cynthia just sits there, slowly looking at each one of us, steadily moving her intense gaze from one woman to the next as if she can see right through our clothes, past our layers of skin, and straight into our souls, which I fear she is able to do. And when she looks at me, I can’t return her gaze. I look down at the Bible in my lap. I can’t bear the fire of her penetrating stare. I feel certain it will melt me. Suddenly I remember that old scene from
The Wizard of Oz
where Dorothy throws water on the Wicked Witch of the West. Just like that, I will melt.

“Ruth,” Cynthia says in a soft, compassionate tone, “why are you afraid?”

I look up at her and see that the other three women are looking at me now. “I … uh … I don’t know.”

“Are you concerned that this verse applies to you?”

I shrug. That actual thought hadn’t occurred to me. More than anything I think I just didn’t want to get caught in her spotlight.

“Are you worried that your love for the Lord is lukewarm?”

I consider this possibility. “Maybe so …”

“You have such a good spirit,” she continues, “but something seems to be holding you back, Ruth. Can you feel it, ladies?”

They nod and seem to agree. And as unspiritual as this may sound, I briefly wonder if they aren’t just relieved that her attention has been focused on me instead of them. Or perhaps I am the only one in need of Cynthia’s attention right now.

“I have a strong sense that it’s time for a cleansing prayer,” she says to the other women. “Will you join with me for Ruth?”

Once again they nod in somber agreement.

“Are you ready for this, Ruth?” she asks.

Suddenly I remember that Rick is home. Sleeping, or maybe not, only twenty feet or so away from us. What if he is awake, listening at the door?

“Ruth?” Cynthia places her hand on my arm. “The Lord wants to cleanse and deliver you. Are you ready?”

I take in a deep breath. How can I deny the Lord? Then I nod. “Yes.”

She motions to the other women, and the next thing I know, Margie has placed one of the extra dining-room chairs in the center of the living room, and I’m being escorted to sit in it. Then I am surrounded, one on each side, and all of them are placing their hands on me.

I’ve seen other people with hands laid on them at the front of the church, but never wanting that kind of attention, I have always managed to avoid this myself. And now the feeling of their warm palms
and fingers pressing into my shoulders, my back, my head, my arms—it’s unsettling, overwhelming, and slightly nauseating. And suddenly I feel too warm, and it seems the air is being sucked out of the room. I can’t breathe, can’t catch my breath. Perhaps I will actually pass out and Cynthia will assume that I’ve been slain by the Spirit and everyone will be happy and go home.

“Block all doubts from your head,” Cynthia commands me. “Focus on the power of the Holy Spirit, Ruth. We are all going to agree for your deliverance now. Ladies, we are doing warfare here. I expect everyone to do her part.”

They all begin to pray, just quietly to start with, sort of to themselves, and I can’t really make out the words. Then Margie and Cynthia both switch over to their prayer languages, or tongues as some people call it, and yet all I can hear is a buzzing sound in my head, like cicadas on a summer night. But slowly the buzzing goes away, and some of their prayers become understandable.

“I bind the spirit of oppression,” Amy says with sincerity. “Satan, you oppressor, I bind you in the name of Jesus. You are to have no part of this woman! In the name of Jesus, you must depart.”

“Yes!” Cynthia agrees. “The Spirit is leading you, Amy. I also sense there is oppression in Ruth’s life. But it’s not just Satan alone. He is also using a
human
to oppress her. Someone close to her is being used by the devil, someone who wants to hold her down spiritually. Am I correct, Ruth?”

With my eyes still tightly closed, I consider this. “Maybe … I’m not sure …”

“Yes,” continues Cynthia, “it’s someone in your family … Do you think Satan has positioned this person to oppose you, to oppose the Holy Spirit?”

I open my eyes. They are all looking at me, waiting with expectation, as if I am supposed to tell them something profound, something I don’t even know or understand myself. “I don’t know,” I say weakly.

“Show us, Lord,” persists Cynthia. “Show us who this oppressor is so we may bind that person, cast that evil person out.” Then they continue praying, some in tongues, some in English, and I consider who this oppressor might be. There seem two obvious possibilities. One is Rick, since I’ve been acutely aware of his presence in the house all morning. But the other one is my mother. If anyone has ever oppressed me, it’s her. Finally I admit that I know who my oppressor is.

“Who?” demands Cynthia. “Who is it, Ruth?”

“My mother.”

They all nod as if they understand, and then they fervently pray against my mother’s power in my life; they bind Satan’s connection to my mother and then her connection to me. They pray against generational ties that defile, and they proclaim my new freedom by the power of the Holy Spirit. Again and again they bind these evil powers of oppression in my life, and after a while I begin to cry, first softly and then eventually without any control at all. I am sobbing and blubbering and wailing so hard that by the time they all say their final “amen,” my blouse is damp from my tears. I am surprised that Rick hasn’t walked into the living room, maybe even in his boxer shorts, to see what is going on. But the house is quiet. Then they all hug me. They assure me they understand.

“I’ve been through something very similar,” Amy admits. “Only it was with my grandfather. He sexually molested me as a young child. Although I didn’t actually remember it happening to me.” She glances at Cynthia with what seems like uncertainty, then smiles.

“But the Spirit led us,” says Cynthia. “He showed us how Amy had been hurt.”

“It took almost a year of deliverance prayer to get beyond it,” says Amy.

“That’s right.” Cynthia pats Amy in a maternal way.

Amy nods, but her eyes seem sad. “Cynthia was the first one to help me to uncover and acknowledge the abuse. Without her, I’d still be in bondage today.”

The others share stories of being freed from other serious things. Much of it seems related to sexual abuse of some sort—rape, incest, or promiscuity. My problem actually seems minor in comparison. But I feel a huge sense of comfort and relief as well as an amazing new sense of freedom. I know that something huge happened here today. Something spiritual and powerful—something of God! And by the time the women leave, I feel that I have joined a very special sisterhood.

“What was going on in here?” Rick demands as soon as the last car pulls out of the driveway.

“Why?” I put the unused coffee cups back in the china cabinet.

“It sounded like someone was having a fit.” He narrows his eyes. “It wasn’t you, was it?”

I shrug, thinking about pearls before swine again. “It was a very moving Bible study. I think we all were touched by it.”

He makes a grunting sound, then fills his favorite mug with coffee and heads for the television. I suspect he really doesn’t want to know the details. And that’s fine with me.

As I take the dining-room chairs from the living room, I notice the gap in my photo montage. And while the arrangement now seems slightly off balance, there is no way I intend to bring that evil
photograph back. Especially after the deliverance prayer over the generational curses that come through my family, my mother’s side in particular. Maybe I can find something else to stick in there. And as I stand looking at the montage, I wonder about the other photos. I really don’t know who all these people are, not really.

It was years ago that I began to gather old family photos, old memorabilia cast off by others. I simply thought they were interesting and part of our family history, not to mention decorative. But now as I look at these strange faces, I wonder how many other family curses might be hidden behind their sober expressions. How many other secret family sins are contaminating this generation?

I consider removing all the photos. Maybe I can box them up and stick them in the attic for the time being. But this will rouse questions from Rick. He’s well aware of how long I labored over this project, how proud I was to complete it. I really don’t want to have to explain this ancestral curse and oppression thing to him. For one thing, he just wouldn’t get it, and he might even make fun of me. But the other thing, the thing that stops me dead in my tracks, is the nagging conviction that there might be more than one oppressor in my life. I am not ready to face that possibility yet.

I
’ve barely set down the phone, taking a moment to ask the Lord’s blessing on my work, when it rings so loudly that I literally jump off the kitchen stool, causing the phone to crash to the floor. I scramble for the receiver and my wits and am relieved, at least at first, to hear Colleen’s voice on the other end. But then I quickly remember Cynthia’s warning to me as well as my last conversation with my old friend.

“How are you?” I ask in a somewhat stiff voice.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, I was just finishing up calling people about next week’s concert.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot all about that.”

“Are you coming?”

“It actually sounds kinda fun,” she says, which gives me hope. “But I’ve got so much to do now that I can’t say for sure.”

“Really? What are you doing that’s so pressing?”

“That’s why I called, Ruth. We’re moving!”

“Again? You guys just moved into your—”

“No, I mean
really
moving. Dennis got this huge promotion at work, and it involves a transfer to Albuquerque, and we’ve got to be packed and ready to go in two weeks.”

“Two weeks?”

“Yeah. Can you imagine?”

“No. It sounds horrible to me. Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

“Of course! Dennis is ecstatic. Even the boys are excited.”

“But have you prayed about it, Colleen? I’ve heard that New Mexico is a very dark place spiritually.”

“Then maybe they need some lights down there.” Colleen laughs, like this is really funny.

“Seriously, Colleen, have you guys prayed about this? I mean, you’re ready to uproot your family, take the boys out of school, and go down to … to God only knows what?”

“Maybe that’s how Abraham felt when he headed for the desert. Or Noah when he was building that animal yacht. Only God knew where they too were going.”

“So you believe the Lord is leading you to New Mexico?”

“Dennis feels like it’s the right thing. And I’m a hundred percent behind him.”