Growing up Laestadian — Part 6
A visit from the men in black suits
There’s something going on in our house.
Worried conversations between mom and dad who hush when they see me.
They walk differently around the house, like faster than normal. Putting away books, neatening newspapers. Trying to prepare for something they don’t quite know how to prepare for.
Some men are coming over tonight. The ministers. Church board members. Dad has said something he shouldn’t have during a congregation meeting. I don’t know what it is. Nobody will tell me. But it’s why the men are coming.
Then bing-bong, the doorbell. Mom shoos us upstairs. I peek from the upstairs hallway as somber men in dark suits and ties enter through the front door. Whatever they need to talk to my dad about, it apparently can’t be done in jeans and sweaters. These men are not the kind of people who normally visit us. They are powerful. They can decide you’re not truly a believer. They can bind people, which means they turn people people into something between a believer and an unbeliever. People who are bound can come to church, but you can’t say “God’s Peace” to them, not until they repent.
Dad seems nervous, trying to please them. He’s not what you call a fighter. He’s thin, with glasses and a crew cut. He’s diabetic and when his blood sugar gets out of control, he can lose his temper, but right now he’s using his company voice. Mom’s lighter, higher voice offers coffee. My mom and dad are alone with those men. They have nobody to stick up for them. I want to go to them, to glower at these men who are being so mean, to show them that my parents have me on their side, but then Mom sees me and orders me into my room.
How long we wait upstairs, I don’t know. One man talks, in a grave tone, and then another. My dad answers. Mom’s voice, quick and nervous. The voices rumble down below. If they kick Dad out of church, or if they bind him, what will happen to the rest of us? Will we be bound, too? Will people look at us weird at church? Will we even go to church? Will we all go together, or will Dad stay home? All of these possibilities make me feel sick. I want life to go on like normal, all of us going to church together like we always do.
After a while, the voices change. They sound more like normal men. They speak a little faster. They sound friendlier. You can hear the clink of coffee cups. Then there’s the shuffling of feet as they start standing up. The clunk of mugs being set on the side tables. They start moving toward the door. You can hear relief in my mom and dad’s voices. By the time they leave, there are big, hearty “God’s Peace’s” and “Good night’s” and we know that we’re safe. Dad won’t be bound.
Nobody ever tells me what happened. Nobody ever talks about it again. One time when I try to find out, I get shut down. These are spiritual matters, not for ordinary conversation. We don’t question, we don’t ask why, we just obey and trust God. We trust the men who are elected to lead our congregation. All these things that happen, you have to bury them. You have to forget they ever happened. It was a good outcome, we can be thankful for that.
But I don’t forget. This evening has spilled trouble into my veins, a deep disquiet that lives on in my nightmares. For the first time, I see not just my parents’ vulnerability, but the vulnerability of our family, of myself. How one wrong comment at a meeting can sever us from everything we hold dear.
