Driven To -and- Fro
I am 8 years old.
My heart is firmly planned in my throat.
The warm breeze from the open front seat windows hits the thin plastic of the dry cleaning bags and makes them buzz like a nest of angry hornets.
I am all at once terrified, heartbroken, and confused. My stomach starts to hurt. My chest gets tighter with each passing mile. I sit, sweating and smothering, between a full rack of plastic wrapped dresses and a poorly designed quadrilateral backseat car window that folds out instead of rolling down.
The Dallas suburbs gradually give way to open Texas prairie before performing a subtle transformation into the hills and pines of northeastern Texas.
My pulse is racing.
This is the familiar route to our assigned feast site of Big Sandy, but the Feast of Tabernacles is still months away.
My mother hangs on every word of an unfamiliar voice emanating from our car's cassette player. The man speaks words I can't quite make out over the sounds of buzzing plastic bags and road noise. This is mostly because the rear speakers of our baby blue Datsun 210 are blocked by scores of old grocery bags that have been haphazardly packed up in a methodical yet panicked rush.
The white knuckles of my mother's delicate and feminine hands are steadfastly positioned at 10 and 2 on a steering wheel that is tightly wrapped in "lace on" style light blue spongy fake leather.
The contents of our overstuffed little Japanese 2 door sedan are mostly a mystery to me. I don't know what is being brought with us or what has been left behind. The mystery has me more than a little concerned.
None of this makes any sense and I wonder silently to myself, "Should I be crying right now?"
In an attempt to find some kind of grip on my situation, I retrace the day's events again in my mind.
It starts as a perfectly normal day. I get dressed, eat some Cheerios, ride my bike to school, hang up my backpack, try to learn things, go to gym class, followed by lunchtime, back to regular class and then...
"Your mom is here to pick you up for your doctor appointment. You need to go to the office and check out."
Wait...What??
Let's clear something up right now
- I don't go to doctor appointments.
- I've never had doctor appointments.
- I don't even HAVE a doctor.
When I get sick, a minister comes to our apartment, puts olive oil on my head, prays for 10 minutes, and leaves without even washing his hands. Once in a great while I get amoxicillin when it's really bad strep throat and the ministers give us special permission after "laying on of hands" has been done and my fever is still really high - but even then it comes from a naturopath, not a doctor.
I tell the teacher that they have the wrong kid. I'm certain that I don't have an appointment today.
"Go to the office and sort it out. Maybe you just forgot - or your mom forgot to tell you about it."
Sort nothin'!
The sky's blue, water's wet, and I don't go to doctor appointments. These truths are indisputable. But if I have an opportunity to get out of class for a few minutes, you better believe I'm gonna take it!
When I get to the office, I am gobsmacked to see that, yes, my mom, is in fact, actually here to pick me up. WTF?
Even more strange, mom is telling the lady at the front desk about how I'm overdue for my checkup, and how much she likes our doctor, and blah, blah, blah.
An icy prickling feeling slowly rolls down my neck and through my spine. Something here is very wrong. Mom silently picks up on my concern and shoots me a look that sends a crystal clear message; DO NOT SAY A SINGLE WORD. My dismay is overwhelming, but I remain silent.
We finish signing out and quickly make our way through the main doors of my elementary school.
I see that my older sister is already waiting in the front passenger seat of our car, which is packed completely full with bags and random loose items like photo albums and plastic cups. Mom tells me to get in and buckle up as quick as I can. The back seat is so loaded with church clothes hanging on that damn adjustable size garment bar that's covered in ribbed plastic so the hangers won't slide, that it takes me a while to locate my seat-belt. Mom doesn't wait for me to find it before she launches that little 4 cylinder engine in rapid succession through all 5 gears... unbelievably FAST!
I ask my sister what's going on. |
| Hydrogen Bomb Over City Revelation 6:4 Basil Wolverton for WCG 1959 ©1998 Monte Wolverton |
My mind suddenly fills with all of the images of mushroom clouds they've shown us throughout my short life; at church services, holy days, on the World Tomorrow telecast, and on countless pages of the Plain Truth magazine and other church publications.
Four Horsemen, the opening of the seals, frightening beasts ... is that why I'm not in school right now?!?
"Dallas is going to get bombed, " my sister continues. "We're going to Big Sandy."
Mom barks at us to be quiet and turns up the volume.We merge onto US 75 south.
Is Big Sandy far enough away from Dallas for us to be safe ?I'm not sure, but it really seems like it might not be. |
| Spoiler Alert: It sure ain't Herbert Armstrong |
I know better than to ask my mom or my sister about it though. The man on the tape has their rapt attention and is apparently giving vital information about what's about to start happening to the most highly populated area of the Lone Star State, in addition to other major cities around the country.
My mouth goes dry.
I try in vain to push some hanging clothes out of the way to see if mom has packed us any water. It suddenly hits me that whatever is in this car with us now is all there is left of my entire life.
Did she pack my teddy bear? Are all my toys about to be obliterated in a nuclear blast? Did she bring anything for me to wear other than church clothes? What about the little turquoise corduroy baby pillow that my Grammy made? Is it in here somewhere?
Today is the day I have been told to prepare for, every single day of my short young life.
 |
| Plague of Boils Revelation 16:1-2 Basil Wolverton for WCG 1959 ©1998 Monte Wolverton |
We merge on to I-20 heading East.
Traffic is light.
Mom speeds up.
I've been educated endlessly about how my grandparents, uncle, aunts, cousins, teachers, my dad... basically everyone not in our church is going to suffer horribly and die in the Great Tribulation. I'm expected to be okay with it by this point.As it turns out though, I am, incredibly NOT okay with the thought of what's about to start happening to so many people whom I love very much.
I hope they all die today,
before things start to get really bad.
I start to wonder what my next few years are going to be like.
Will there be any books to read at the Place of Safety besides the Bible?
Will we have school?
Will Mr. Dunlap (an associate pastor at the time) will bring his guitar?
I catch myself looking at the bumpers of other cars we pass on the road to see if they have bright green "Feast Stickers" like we normally do on the way to Big Sandy. Will we need special stickers for the Place of Safety too?
 |
| Fire From the Sky Revelation 8:7 Basil Wolverton for WCG 1959 ©1998 Monte Wolverton |
Are we gonna have to live in Booth City for a while before we go to the real Place of Safety?
 |
| Boils and Darkness Revelation 16: 10-11 Basil Wolverton for WCG 1959 ©1998 Monte Wolverton |
I consider praying, but when I close my eyes, every horrible image Basil Wolverton ever drew for the Worldwide Church of God comes to life and fills me with dread.
Imaginary screams fill my ears and are accompanied by the imagined sounds of booming explosions, falling rubble, and Jericho Trumpets*.
[*I didn't know at the time that Jericho Trumpets were devices only attached to the German Ju 87 dive bombers - I just thought all war planes sounded like that because that's how it was on TV. Ernst Udet gave them the perfect name, inspired by the horns blown at the Battle of Jericho to bring down the walls of the city.]
Suddenly, my attention is drawn away from those apocalyptic visions to the front of the car.
My Mother and sister are grumbling. Mom turns off at the first exit she sees, we go under the overpass, turn left to the on-ramp, and start heading back towards Dallas.
Wait. What just happened?
I ask my sister why we turned around. She is really annoyed with me and says, "you didn't hear that? He was wrong**. We're going home." Her tone indicates that any further questions will be met with increased hostility.
[**To this day, I still have no idea what he said that was "wrong," but I've always assumed that it was a specific date or action that had already passed into history without incident by the time they heard the tape.]
Mom ejects the tape and turns off the radio. We ride in silence for over an hour, as we make our way back to the apartment complex we call home. We arrive to find that we are lucky enough to find a parking place in the front row. At least unloading the car will be a bit easier.
Trip by trip, we eventually get everything down the long sidewalk, up the stairs and back into our apartment.
Mom starts to unpack and tells me to go play outside. Obediently, I head to my room to grab my torn green NERF football that I salvaged from one of the many dumpsters* around the apartment complex.
[*By 2nd grade, I had become a dumpster diving salvage expert and had amassed a collection of discarded toys, hats, shoes, jackets, and various items that I needed or wanted but couldn't get otherwise.]
I walk in the room and get a huge emotional gut punch.
There he sat on my bed, exactly as I left him this morning.
Theodore.
A teddy bear handmade decades ago by one of my Grammy's friends, as a thoughtful gift to my infant mother. After twenty some-odd years, the bear passed to my sister, who decided one day (for reasons I have never been able to understand) to find out what he looked like without his button eyes, and flippantly removed them with a pair of safety scissors.
Seeing the newly blinded bear as being ruined, she threw it at me - and I fell in love with him instantly. He was my best friend and faithful comforting companion for every long sleepless night spent fretting about demons or whether or not there might have been any lard or other pork product in the school lunch I ate that day. He absorbed the majority of tears I cried in my young life and became a substitute for the love and attention my parents didn't find it necessary for me to have.
To say that I needed that old stuffed bear would grossly misrepresent my dependence on Theodore for my mental health and survival - and if the guy on the tape HAD been correct, Theodore would have been instantaneously reduced to his basic atomic components via nuclear blast while various beauty products and multiple pairs of high heeled shoes were deemed essential for us to survive the three years we were told we'd be hiding in the caves of Petra (or wherever the Place of Safety actually turned out to be.)
Damnit!
I grab my raggedy remnant of a pale green foam football and head outside, but I don't feel like playing.
Across the parking lot, there is a fifteen foot wide strip of grassy berms that separate the apartment parking lot from the busy road running in front of it. I lie down on the grass, tuck my football under my neck like a pillow, look up at the clouds, and listen to the cars whooshing by a few feet away.
Is any of this stuff real?
What if Mr. Armstrong doesn't really know what he's talking about? What would it mean if he was wrong - just like the guy on the tape was today?
Are we really just in some messed up fake religion/cult like people say we are?
How can I be sure about anything?
Trying to picture where I would be right now if we hadn't turned around and come home, I find that I'm almost as relieved about the Tribulation not starting as I am about not having to spend tonight in Booth City*.That place is a fetid shithole inside of a smoldering garbage dump and I hate it with the passionate fire of ten thousand suns.
Has Mr. Armstrong ever spent a night trying to sleep in one of those moldy, mosquito infested sweat boxes??
[*"Booth City" was a collection of around 300 metal sheds originally built in 1959 as temporary housing for WCG members during the Feast of Tabernacles and later used as dorm space for Ambassador College students. The "booths" had limited electricity and no plumbing. Showers, toilets, and sinks were in 2 communal cinder block bathhouses separated by a huge block wall dividing the male and female housing sections. Two students/singles or a married couple with one child would share a 120 sq ft booth and four students/singles or a family of up to 6 shared 180 sq ft. The entire property was full of sand-burs, "chiggers," and fire ants. Temperatures often stayed over 80 degrees at night and humidity never went below 60%]
 |
| "Booth City" was adjacent to the 82 acre "Piney Woods" camp ground. From there we would walk through pine needles, dirt, and weeds, in our best church clothes, almost a full mile to the "Field House" which held over 8000 worshipers during the Feast of Tabernacles. |
All of this church stuff is messing with my head.
My stomach starts to hurt again and I hope it isn't because I'm hungry. It's obvious that there wont be any dinner tonight because Mom is going to lock herself in her room for the rest of the evening to pray and study. That was her answer when the wheels of our lives came off the rails - and today was one hell of a runaway train.
By now, the sky is beginning to glow orange at the horizon. Sunset is descending through the Downtown Dallas haze 15 miles to the west of me and all of my questions. Time to head inside.
Sure enough, My mom's bedroom door at the end of the hall is closed and locked. My sister is in her room writing something. Probably copying Bible verses from her Y.E.S. lesson to help her memorize them before Sabbath service the day after tomorrow.
I grab a couple of slices of whole wheat bread, spread on some tarter sauce to make a sandwich*, and turn on the stereo. We are allowed to occasionally listen to one of the Adult Contemporary FM stations, even though it is technically a sin. Mom doesn't see any real harm in us hearing Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond lament the ever decreasing floral gifts in a fictitious relationship.
[* Poverty Pro Tip: when you don't have much food in your house, tarter sauce on bread is almost, but not quite, like a tuna salad sandwich - sans tuna.]
After I finish my sandwich, I take a bath, brush my teeth, and flop down on my bed - still just in my faded maroon terrycloth bathrobe. The one that Grammy made for me. Another one of the things I dearly loved that would have been vaporized in a fraction of a second if today had gone the way my mother mistakenly thought that it would.
Frustrated and emotionally fragile, I decide to just skip putting on any night clothes, flip off the light, and crawl under my sheets.
I hate my life so much.
Even with the strange and stressful experience of the day and its resulting questions and emotional storms still raging in my mind, I am eventually able to cry myself to sleep, with Theodore locked firmly in my grasp.
The next morning there is a fresh new day waiting for us .
A bowl of Cheerios and a ride to school in the car because my beloved second hand (actually more like third or forth hand) white, red, and blue star spangled American Flyer with the banana seat is still chained up on the bike rack since I didn't ride it home yesterday.
When we pull up to the school, I mention that, when it really is time for us to flee to the Place of Safety, it's important for Theodore and my lunchbox full of LEGO blocks to come with us.
Mom only responds with, "have a good day" and "come right home after school."
Oh.
Apparently yesterday is going to be another one of those things that "never happened."
Ugh!
I hate those.
I take extra time walking to my classroom so I can come up with a believable story about my fictitious doctor appointment and the reason why I didn't come back to school afterwards.
The lie gets told.
Everyone believes me.
Life goes on just as before.
I am getting really good at lying to the people at school about church stuff. Unfortunately, that will soon evolve into chronic habitual lying about anything and everything*. Living a double life between school and the cult has a heavy mental burden and reality is one of the first things left abandoned by the wayside.
[*I later learned that compulsive lying is a common social malady among WCG Gen Xers.]
The journey to maturity is long and treacherous. Along the way, lying becomes so toxic that I experience a seismic shift in my attitude about truth and flatly demand it of myself and others without exception.
Today, as an adult, I have an uncomfortable overcommitment to honesty that can make building and maintaining lasting friendships extremely difficult. It's something I am working to overcome with the help of my mental healthcare team.
To my knowledge, neither my mother, nor my sister has ever spoken about that day.
It has become another of what I have come to call "Ghost Days."
A Ghost Day is invisible, when looking at the past through the eyes of a narcissist, but its effects are still measurable. A narcissist will deny that the events of the day ever occurred while providing no evidence of an alternate accounting for that time period.
I guess if you wanted to chart my progression from a young faithful Armstrong follower to the disfellowshipped heretical person I am now, the day of the Armageddon false alarm would mark the first big crack in the foundation of my belief structure.
That day, I saw up close with clear eyes just how easily and quickly my mother could be made to deeply and earnestly believe in a false prophet. Sometime between breakfast and lunch that day, she completely lost her critical thinking skills and began acting irrationally.
She also clearly showed what her priorities would be in a time of crisis and my needs were clearly very far down that list.
It was, in a way, simultaneously the very worst and somehow most beneficial day of my entire life.
And yet, according to my mother, it never even happened.
Do you have a day that shaped your life like this day shaped mine?
I'd love to read about it if you do.
Share your story with me either in the strictest privacy via email or publicly in the comments section below.
As always, I'm happy to read any comments you'd like to share or answer any questions you may have.
Thanks for reading.
That's wild. I started attending the year after that I believe. Wish our family had started a year earlier to have experienced that. My Dad would have not allowed any more nonsense and we would have been saved from the years of foolishness.
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