Taken hostage. That’s how people would describe the ladies in those Western stories when we were growing up—those poor beautiful dignified homestead women, taken hostage by the savages.It used to thrill me. Now I find it funny that no one ever acknowledged how those pioneer women were technically already hostages to begin with.
Hours after dinner, the children are in their rooms and the hail has given way to a heavy silent snow when Old Caleb walks into the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him.
I look at the open door. “Aren’t you—don’t you want to—”
He gives me a look. “It’ll be freezing in here in three minutes if we shut this door.”
Well, then. I suppose the children will listen.
I lie in my—our—bed, the quilt pulled up to my chin, and watch as he takes off his cowboy hat and sets it on the bureau. He hesitates. Then he gives a little shake of the head, as if ridding himself of some terrible thought, and begins to undress.
My mind skitters nervously left and right. I think of reality shows, of producer vans and scripted conversations, and my spirit tightens in my chest. What a silly fantasy. That little pebble I pulled from the ground and shoved under my mattress—what a shameful game of play-pretend. A desperate act of imagination. This home is no production set. There are no hidden cameras in the kitchen, no microphones tucked away in the collar lines of the children. No one is coming to save me and take me home. If I needed any more evidence to prove this point, it is here, right now, in this room: maybe a show might soon allow a man to hit a woman, might even allow her to walk right into the steel jaws of a trap—but we’re not yet at the point where he could rape her.
Though of course it can’t be rape, what’s happening here. There’s no such thing as a husband raping his wife.
His shirt’s off, now. His pants fall to his feet, and he kicks them tothe corner. He takes off his underwear. This is my husband’s body. There is the mole on his stomach; there is the leftward-leaning hang of his ball sack. I am biblically familiar with this alien body. I close my eyes and send off a quick prayer.
Stay with me, Lord. Do not leave me in my hour of need.
He reaches for my body beneath the blanket. Hand on hip. Turning me over. Climbing across. Opening me up.
You’ve done this countless times before, Natalie. There’s no reason to be afraid.
Except this man’s erection is hard, harder than hard. Fully risen. It doesn’t help that I’m completely dry. From the deepest part of my body, three words rise to the surface, the greatest and most instinctual act of survival I can offer for myself: “I love you,” I say.
Above me, my husband smiles.
It hurts. He doesn’t ask me what I want. He doesn’t ask if I’m all right. It’s exactly how I imagined sex to be when I was a young girl: a man who takes without asking, who fills me completely, who assumes control of my body and finger-puppets me from the inside out. Yes. Exactly this. Like Abel’s imaginary rifle: terribly real. He grunts, pulls out of me, flips my body over, and reenters from behind. I cry out. I feel like a barnyard animal, a pig rutting in the straw, but it’s a relief to let the whites of my eyes travel wildly around the room, searching for some sort of visual comfort. The windows, the wall, this quilt. The pace of this, the steady thudding—my teeth rattle in my skull. I focus on the stitching beneath my fingers while prayers fly along the corridors of my mind.
Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day … For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all … So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen iseternal—
A pause, a single tap on my thigh, a manual instruction, like I’m a trusty quarter horse. I lower my thigh. He pushes deeper. I gasp. In an instant the pain tips over into brightness, heavenly warmth,a love I’ve never known. Instinct takes over. I find myself reaching toward it, arching my body in response, lifting my head in ecstatic prayer—
How long, OLORD? How long will you hide your face from me? … Consider and answer me, OLORDmy God; light up myeyes—
And then He does. He answers my prayer, He speaks back to me. The room fills with light. I cry out in shock. Old Caleb keeps pushing, carrying my body closer and closer to His heavenly arms. It feels like choir music is echoing through my limbs, and I sayThank you,I sayOh, God, my God,I sayyes, yes, yes,YES—
Oh, my God.
My God!
I say yes.
We are lying together, husband and wife, in the freezing dark. Old Caleb is snoring. I am wide awake, staring into the darkness, counting my breaths. When I reach one hundred, I sit up, throw back the covers, and get out of bed. I stand by the mattress for a moment, listening to his steady breathing to make sure my movement hasn’t woken him up. He lets out a long, nasal snore.
I tiptoe away from the bed, slip through the door, step out in the hallway, and close the door a few inches behind me. Then I walk quickly down the hallway and into the kitchen, where the fire is still working feebly. I add a log to the fire. The children have been sleeping for hours, hopefully. The house is quiet as death.
Now that I’m alone, I’m buffeted by a strange, chilling calm. I’ve had a revelation—no, not a revelation. That would imply the realization is new, and it doesn’t feel new. It feels like a truth I’ve known all my life; like a childhood memory, resurfacing after so many years of being lost to the annals of my mind.
I’m under surveillance in this house, yes—but only by Him. This, all of this, is a test.
My Maker wants to see what I am capable of.
I sigh and wander wordlessly over to the kitchen sink. Watch thesnow falling onto the roof of the barn. It’s gathering quickly. We’ll get several feet overnight.
Doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith, sweetheart.
Sometimes the most obvious truths of our world are the ones that get buried most easily.Obviously,the Lord has put me here, on this homestead, with this family—and like all things He does, He brought me here with intention, with a plan. So much of my life was dedicated to broadcasting a vision of nostalgia; a better and more beautiful version of America. A celebration of the days of yore. Now the Lord wants me to feel the truth of my own message. He wants me to learn, and listen, and improve, and submit, and—
