Jesus Land by Julia Scheeres Page A

between his thumb and index finger and raises it over his head.
    “Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: do this in remembrance of me.”
    He sticks Christ in his mouth and chews, and the congregation follows suit. He then drains Christ’s blood from his silver wine goblet in one long gulp, and the congregation mimics him with their glass thimbles.
    Rick Hoolsema, my seventh-grade boyfriend, sits a few rows ahead of us in his family pew, and I watch him take Communion. Watching the back of Rick’s head kept me awake during Reverend Dykstra’s long-winded sermons when I was twelve, as I waited impatiently for the service to end so we could sneak off together. As soon as Reverend Dykstra pronounced the final “amen” and bustled down the aisle toward the narthex, Rick and I would rush up the back stairway to the windowless attic, where we’d feel our way through fusty stacks of Psalter Hymnals and the cool satin of hanging choir robes to a cushionless sofa. There, we’d sit facing each other in the darkness, taking turns running a fingertip over each other’s palms, without speaking, as bats fluttered overhead and cars honked faintly in the parking lot. After Rick’s glow-in-the-dark wristwatch marked five minutes, we’d slip back down the staircase to reunite with our families.
    These fingertip caresses were exquisite, amplified by our inability to see the lust and embarrassment in each other’s faces. There was only a tingling sensation and our open-mouthed breathing. But our caresses never progressed beyond our palms; years of Sunday school, Christian school, Calvinettes, Cadets, Young Calvinists, andYouth Group had taught us to keep ourselves pure for the marriage bed, and even the smallest token of physical affection was given with much hesitation and reluctance. “‘Petting’ encourages sinful thoughts,” our youth group leader told us.
    By the time Rick gave me my first kiss at the end of seventh grade—in a closet, during a party when the adult supervisor left the room and David pushed us inside, Rick skimmed my lips with his, then scrambled away—Jerome had already taken most everything else.
    A second offering is taken—Mother gives me only a quarter this time—and Reverend Dykstra clears his throat and adjusts the microphone. I take a bulletin from the pew back; the sermon title is “God Is ALL You Need.”
    “Beloved in the Lord: All of us Calvinists are familiar with the first question and answer of the Heidelberg Catechism,” he says, leaning forward and gripping the pulpit. “Our children memorize it in fifth grade, and I’m sure you adults can recite it by heart as well . . . that is, at least I hope you can. If not, there’s still space available in Mr. Vanderkleed’s Wednesday night class.”
    Laughter riffles through the pews, and Reverend Dykstra leans back and grins, taking it in, before putting on his stern preacher face again.
    “It is a profound question, the cornerstone of our faith: What is your only comfort in life and death? The answer is equally profound: That I am not my own, but belong—body and soul, in life and death—to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ, who preserves me in such a way that not a hair can fall from my head without the will of my heavenly Father.
    “What does this mean, exactly? It means that God is the only comfort we need in a world where Communist missiles may fall at any moment and our families and friends may fail us. It meansthat nothing happens without God allowing it to happen. It means that He is in control.”
    My mind wanders, as it always does, lulled toward random thoughts by Reverend Dykstra’s singsong voice. Sunlight streams in rainbow colors through the stained glass windows; green and orange stripes fall across my pale yellow skirt. Outside, a basketball thuds down the sidewalk next to the church. On the other side of Mother, David plays with a paper cut on his thumb, pressing the seam open and closed, and Mother