In God's Name

Prologue (June 1985, Jehovah’s Valley, Oregon) THE PREACHER HIKED the ridge overlooking the valley. He wasn’t a young man anymore, almost 50, and hiking the steep hill took work. But he liked to be on the ridge and watch the sun rise, chasing the shadows of darkness away as they moved across the valley below. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear not, for the Lord is with me,” he quoted to himself. It seemed an appropriate promise for a man in his later years and it comforted him. He carried his Bible, a black, leather-bound King James version that had seen some hard use. Later in the morning he had a sermon to deliver—an important one. The first in the Valley’s new church. It was the first Sunday in June; he had led the congregation to its new home four weeks ago. A month of living in tents, starting to learn the land and its cycles, planting crops and building the church. It was their first building and the awkward skills of amateur builders showed. But it was sturdy and built with love for God—that was what counted. The congregation called him Preacher. It suited him; he thought of himself that way now. He had led them here, and he would care for them here. He didn’t have advanced degrees, but he knew how to be a preacher. His father had been one; he’d been given a good education as a teen. He knew Latin and some Greek. He knew how to study the Word of God, to use the English language to speak God’s truths. Twenty years in the Navy had taught him a few things as well. Preacher shook his head. He’d gotten out of the Navy at 38 and returned to his parents' home in Darrington, north of Seattle. Soon, he was driving truck during the week, and preaching in small churches throughout the northwest valleys of Washington state. He had a calling, some people said. He met Mary, married, had three children—something he hadn’t thought he’d ever have. Sowed plenty of wild oats in the Navy and none of them grew; he’d thought perhaps he couldn’t have children. But God had blessed him and Mary. His two sons, nine and seven, were probably getting up now to start chores. Good boys, he thought with pride. They’d grow up to be Godly men here. His eldest, 10 years old, was a daughter. He sighed. She should be up as well, helping the women with breakfast. But he doubted she was there. She tended to sneak off, to read and to daydream. He despaired sometimes. He’d seen war. He’d been in ’Nam, still woke from nightmares of the screams. Thank God, he was out now. Divided by the Vietnam War, by assassinations and protests, the country had turned away from God. He had watched the developments, troubled, troubled especially at the thought of raising children in a world of hedonism and sin. Gradually a congregation of 10 families formed. They would pool their money and move to a place where they could serve God and raise their families according to God’s will. They owned nearly 4,000 acres here in eastern Oregon. It was a dry land, but fertile. Crops would grow; he was sure of it. There was water, natural springs and the Thief Valley Reservoir that could be brought to the crops in the valley. The people were willing to work hard, and God would bless their efforts. He had faith in that. The 10 families had over 30 children to provide for. It gave a community meaning, Preacher thought now while looking over the valley. Jehovah’s Valley, they’d named it. Mary was a teacher; she would handle the little ones. Teens would be sent to a nearby school. He believed in education. He wanted the children to learn all they could to be able to serve God with their minds as well as with their hands. It was dawn, the sunlight warmed the whole valley now. Preacher stood up from the rock he had been perched on. Off to his left a young girl’s voice broke into song. “Morning has broken, like the first morning.” He knew the voice, his daughter’s voice. A strong voice, clear in the morning air. He frowned and moved in that direction. “Daughter,” he said firmly, startling her, breaking the song. “You should be below, helping with breakfast,” he said. “Yes, father,” she whispered and fled down the hill, as graceful as the deer he saw some mornings. Her skirts flapped around her legs, was that a hem coming out? Yes. Although her hair was in braids, it still looked a mess, with fine hair flying loose around her face. Raising a daughter to be a good Christian woman might be the hardest task the Lord had assigned him. He shook his head, and sighed. She’d left her Bible behind. He picked it up and glanced at what it was opened to. The story of Mary and Martha. He sighed again. It was a story that troubled him. Jesus had reprimanded those of his followers who had tried to send Mary to the kitchen with her sister Martha. Mary had chosen the better things, Jesus had said, to sit at his feet and learn. The Preacher made his way carefully down the rocky slope. Surely Jesus would understand that there was no room here for a Mary. Martha was required to keep the community fed and clothed. Someday perhaps. But not now. The song his daughter had been singing echoed through his mind. It captured his mood on the ridge exactly. She had a way of doing that, of being able to call out emotions with just the right words. Not for the first time, he wished she’d been a son. The dedication of the new church was a day of celebration. The congregation had worked hard, very hard, for a month now. Preacher was happy with the way the morning sermon had gone, followed by a meal of fellowship and thanksgiving. There had been no work on the Sabbath today, the Preacher decreed. He and the other men spent the afternoon relaxing, a rare moment over the past month, watching the children play while the women cleaned up after lunch. The congregation returned to the church that evening for a children’s pageant. The Preacher sat with his wife in the back pew, watching the children perform an arrangement of songs and skits that again captured the congregation’s mood perfectly. As the children finished, they began to sing a children’s song: “This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.” Each child lit a candle from the one his daughter held and went down into the congregation. Candles were handed out among the adults and each lit their candle from the person next to them. “Hide it under a bushel. No! I’m going to let it shine.” Preacher accepted the candle offered by his son. He lit his, turned to his wife and passed the light on. “Devil wants to blow it out. No, I’m going to let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.” The Preacher swallowed a lump in his throat, as the whole church filled with light, everyone softly singing. “This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.” After the service, Preacher stood at the back of the church with his wife, shaking hands, wishing the congregation well as they left for their tents for the night. “Your daughter planned the whole thing,” Mary whispered proudly. “She’s so gifted.” The Preacher glanced at the small woman next to him. His daughter still stood up at the front of the church, softly singing. “This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.” Adults glanced up at her and smiled as they shook the Preacher’s hand. “There is only one gift the Lord wants from a woman, the gift of submission,” he said sourly to his wife. “You should set a better example for your daughter, who seems to have a problem with that gift.” His wife bowed her head. “Yes, husband,” she said softly. “Let it shine, let it shine.”