This was the worst part of his day. The chapel. Obi didn’t know why they called it a chapel when it was really a barn. It smelled like sweat and manure and moldy straw, and there weren’t even any animals. It was always dark, even in the daytime, like now. The only light came from the sun shining between the wooden boards that made up the walls and the spots where the black paint had peeled away from the windows.
He pushed his brown hair from his eyes with grimy hands, his fingers cracked and bleeding from digging up rocks the day before. The overalls he wore were too big and rolled up at the ankles. The soft blue shirt he wore with the white plastic buttons was also too big, but his mother had tacked the sleeves up over his elbows so he wouldn’t have to keep pushing them up while he worked. He’d started off the morning in his brother’s old work boots, but he’d wiggled them off the moment the storm clouds had blotted out the sun.
At the front of the church, his mother stood in a dress the same gray blue as the overcast sky outside. The wind was kicking up a fuss, whistling through the gaps in the planks and causing the rickety building to groan. None of the grown-ups seemed worried about the safety of the building, but Obi had his doubts.
He wasn’t sure what was worse, staying outside digging up rocks all day or kneeling on the concrete floor reciting bible verses. Maybe they were equally bad. The adults of the congregation were already in place, on their knees with hands raised as they whispered hissed prayers that made Obi think of a thousand vipers. He didn’t understand any of it. His older sister Sarah said it wasn’t for him to understand. They just needed to have faith. Faith in what, Obi didn’t know. God? He was only twelve, but he was pretty sure God wasn’t out here in the middle of nowhere Kentucky watching his mother pour uncooked rice on the cement floor.
All the children of the congregation stood with him in a line from oldest to youngest. Seven of the thirteen kids were his siblings; his brother Daniel was the youngest at just four years old. The pastor, Samuel, stood in a pair of black pants and an untucked black shirt, his long brownish-blond hair falling to his shoulders. He watched as Obi’s mother drew a line with the rice all the way down the row of children. When she finished, Samuel stepped forward, starting with the oldest in the line, his seventeen-year-old sister, Rebecca.
“How are you, sweet Rebecca?” Samuel asked, kissing her knuckles.
His sister giggled. “Well, Brother Samuel. And you?”
He laughed. “I am also well. Even though it is dark skies outside, the light of the lord shines down on all of us, does it not?”
“Yes, Brother Samuel.”
“Now, sweet Rebecca, please recite Leviticus 19:15.”
Rebecca closed her eyes and squinted. “‘You shall do no injustice in court. You shall not be partial to the poor or defer to the great, but in righteousness shall you judge your neighbor.’”
“Excellent, child. Excellent. Please go kneel with the rest of the congregation.”
Rebecca pivoted, a smug smile on her face, her white dress twirling around her, one strand of her long brown hair escaping its bun.
Down the line Samuel went. Obi’s sixteen-year-old brother, Abel, his fifteen-year-old sister, Sarah, and his fourteen-year-old brother, Jacob, all recited their verses without incident. When he got to thirteen-year-old Ruth, his demeanor changed. Samuel’s brown eyes narrowed and his mouth flattened as he stared at the freckle-faced girl with her frizzy ginger hair and her white dress that looked dingy gray from wear.
“Ruth. Your mother says she found you playing in the sunflower fields again. You know we never go past the fence line. You are a stubborn and ornery child. You are confined to your room for the next three days. Now, recite Romans 13:4.”
Ruth’s eyes grew round and welled with tears. “‘For he is God’s servant for good… But…’”
Obi’s insides slithered at the barest hint of a smile on the old man’s face. He didn’t understand why Rebecca thought he was nice. There was something so…wrong about him. He ordered people around, made them work all day, while he did nothing. Rebecca wasn’t the only one. Both his parents always went out of their way to please Samuel in all things. They said he was a servant of God and his word was God’s word, but that didn’t make sense to Obi. Wasn’t God’s word, God’s word? They had a whole book about what Jesus wanted, why couldn’t they all just read that?
“Perhaps if you spent less time trespassing and being disobedient and more time studying your verses you wouldn’t be struggling now.”
Tears streamed down her dirty face. “‘For he is God’s servant for good. But if you…if you…’”
“That’s enough. Kneel.”
The girl looked down at the row of uncooked rice. “On that?” she asked, voice wavering.
“‘For he is God’s servant for your good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword in vain. For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God’s wrath on the wrongdoer,’” Obi recited before dropping to his knees on the rice, hissing as the hard grains dug into the tender skin. “I’ll take her punishment.”
A hand gripped his upper arm, hauling him to his feet and brushing off his knees. “You’ll do no such thing, Obidiah Shaw,” his mother snapped. “Ruth must answer for her own sins.”
“What sin? She couldn’t remember a stupid verse. The bible says we’re supposed to love one another. Matthew 5:44. ‘But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.’”
His head jerked as his mother slapped him across the mouth hard enough to feel like his eyeball had exploded and his cheek had caught fire, but that didn’t stop him. He was right. Jesus taught about love and being good. He didn’t want them to punish one another. “Matthew 6:14. ‘For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your heavenly father will also forgive you.’” His mother began to drag him down the makeshift aisle. “John 13:34. ‘A new command I give you. Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.’ John 15:13. ‘Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends,’” Obi continued shouting so that he could be heard over the chatter of the congregation.
Before he could go on, his mother slammed the door of the barn, all but dragging him across the dusty dirt field. Overhead, thunder rumbled and clouds swirled in shades of smoke and ash. He stumbled, his bare feet catching on chunks of rock and weeds. He yelped as his mother yanked him up by his arm. “What is wrong with you?” she shouted. “I don’t understand why you’re like this. You could be one of his chosen ones.”
She hauled him into the small white cabin that his family called home. She tossed him down on the thin mattress that he shared with Daniel before dropping herself into a small wooden chair and putting her face in her hands. “You work hard, you know your bible by heart, but you insist on sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. You can’t help everybody.”
“That’s not fair. What he did wasn’t fair. She’s just a little kid.”
“You’rea little kid, Obi. Younger than her, and yet, you study hard and you work hard. You cannot keep trying to save people who don’t deserve to be saved.”
Obi’s eyes filled with tears. “That’s not what the bible says.”
