RSS Feed

Category Archives: Ex-JW

Waking Up

Posted on

 

One of the oddest things about being one of Jehovah’s Witnesses is what happens when a JW “wakes up” and discovers TTATT (the truth about The Truth).

This awakening is a long process.  It starts with a niggling doubt, some teaching that just doesn’t quite sit right.  Maybe it’s a change in a teaching, what the Society calls “New Light.”  For me, it was a change in a core teaching about when The End would come.

The Watchtower Society has taught for well over 100 years that Jesus gave his followers a clue as to when the end would come.   In Matthew 24 his disciples asked him for a sign that the end was near.  Jesus described a whole laundry list of not-so-remarkable events (wars, earthquakes, etc.) to watch for.  Then he said, “This generation will not pass away until all these things occur.”

Mix together a vague prophecy, some devil-may-care chronology, a belief that God is communicating only with you, and a whole heap of hubris, stir well.  Yield:  An adjustable end-time teaching.  Serve relentlessly.   Without getting into nitty-gritty detail, the Watchtower Society had taught that the “time of the end” began in 1914 (with a whole lot of emphasis on WWI), and since Jesus had said that the end would come within the lifetime of a generation, it is logical to conclude that the system would end in the 20th century.  Many times in their literature they stated outright that the end would come before the new millennium.

Fun fact:  The Watchtower Society holds that God’s truth is revealed gradually, only when Jesus’ followers are ready for it.  They cite a handy scripture in Proverbs 4:18 that says that the light gets brighter and brighter, even though that scripture is not talking about doctrine, and is probably mistranslated in their Bible.  In any case, all JWs get really excited whenever there is “new light” in the Watchtower magazine.

Around about 1995, the Society could hear their chronological clock ticking and came out with some “new light” about the meaning of the word “generation.”  It was so murky and illogical that I can’t even remember exactly what their argument was.  It had something to do with the definition of the word “generation” that made it possible for any group of contemporaries to be part of a “generation.”   The moment I heard it I said, “We’re going to see the year 2000 in this system.”  I recognized it as a maneuver.  An organization that claims to be the sole conduit of God’s Truth shouldn’t need to maneuver,  shouldn’t find it necessary to overturn a doctrine that had stood for nearly a century just to save face (and they’ve changed the understanding of “generation” twice more since then).   That realization started the ball rolling for me.  It took another nine years for the ball to strike the pins.

During those nine years I started noticing cracks in the Christian personalities of those around me.  I saw politics and cliques at work, elders who hardly ever used their Bible when giving talks, and just general hypocrisy.  I was irritated.  Luckily, I was not alone.  I had a friend who shared my irritation.  Once she and I discovered our mutual growing antipathy we started to get together regularly for what we called “natter” sessions where we would express our feelings about the organization freely without worrying that the other one would turn us in to the elders.

I had known for several years that Jehovah’s Witnesses had a big problem with pedophilia.  Of course, in any microcosm you’re going to see a cross-section of the human condition, but there was a much bigger problem with JWs, and it still exists.  Their procedure for dealing with accusations of pedophilia does not involve law enforcement, nor is it likely the perpetrator will ever be disciplined for his actions.  Here’s why:  Even as recently as October 1, 2012 the Watchtower’s stated procedure when an accusation of child abuse is brought to the elders’ attention is for the elders to contact their local branch office of the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society.  The branch will give them instructions.  Under no circumstances are the elders or the accusers to contact the police.   In other words, keep it hushed up.

Within the congregation, the elders can convene a judicial committee only if there are two witnesses to the offense.  When does that ever happen in a case of child molestation?  I’ll tell you – never.  The perpetrator is considered innocent of the charge, and it is quite possible that the accuser will be the one in hot water for making an unsubstantiated accusation.

I knew of a situation in a neighboring congregation where this very situation existed.  There was more than one report of a young man in the congregation, an elder’s son, molesting younger boys, sometimes even in the kingdom hall.  Because nothing could be done to discipline the young man, he was free to prowl the congregation and snatch more victims.  Outraged parents took their children and started attending my congregation, even though it was a long drive for them.  Some of them actually packed up their households and moved to my town because their home congregation had become a dangerous place.

When I found out what was happening I was completely outraged.  Being a survivor of child sexual abuse myself (although it happened before I became a JW) I couldn’t understand how God’s organization could permit such a situation to continue.  Maybe the boys in Brooklyn didn’t know about it.  Shouldn’t we tell them?  Of course, being a woman, any letter I sent to headquarters would be sent back to the elders in my congregation.  I asked my husband at the time to write, but he decided he would “leave it in Jehovah’s hands.”   My faith was strong then, so I went along with his decision, but the idea that there were children suffering shattering emotional trauma was impossible to ignore.

If you are outraged that a mind-control cult is harboring pedophiles, please view this video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fcIC4g5tulw and visit this Facebook page:  The Association of Anti-Watchtower Activists

Next week:  The Final Straw

It’s not a church. It’s a kingdom hall.

Jehovah’s Witnesses meet together in a kingdom hall.  They’ll wince if you call it a church.  These structures are either remodeled existing buildings or built from scratch.

When my family started attending meetings we went to a kingdom hall that was a remodeled warehouse.  It was the ‘70s, so you can probably imagine the décor – gaudy carpet with lots of orange and red in it, plain-Jane fake wood paneling,  a brick planter in front of the platform (don’t call it a stage) full of orange and yellow plastic flowers, and dark stained woodwork.   We sat on metal folding chairs that had a vinyl “pad” on the seat about the thickness of a saltine cracker.

This building became too small for the growing congregation, so we did a remodel and extended the back of the building.  The work progressed slowly, even though some friends from other congregations came to help on the weekends.  There was one meeting I remember when the back of the kingdom hall had been torn down, so we spent the evening looking through plastic sheeting at the stars.

In another few years even the remodeled hall was too small, so the brothers went looking for someone to donate land to the congregation, which they found.  The property was an old farm with a house and barn and a nice big field suitable for a kingdom hall and parking lot.  Back in those days you could design your own kingdom hall.  Nowadays the Society offers you a couple of plans to choose from, but we digress.

The brothers decided, bless their hearts, that an elder’s family should live in the long-abandoned house, so a chunk of the collective effort was focused on making the house livable.  My family was the one chosen to live there and sort of guard the building site (although it was several hundred yards away).

At the building site, the brothers ran into grief almost immediately.  While digging for the basement they ran into a long ridge of granite ledge.  Of course, they would need to blast, so they applied for a permit.  The official in charge of issuing permits wanted his palm greased, and the indignant brothers refused to give in to his demands.  Instead, they hired a whole bunch of jackhammers and spent months chipping away at that granite ledge.

Five years later, there was a building with a congregation meeting in it, but it wasn’t completely finished.  Finally, a visiting circuit overseer shamed the elders into making up a punch list and getting all the little stuff done.   By then, it was time to remodel.   I had married and moved away, so that wasn’t my project.

That’s an extreme example of how long it took to construct a kingdom hall back in the day.  The Society decided that this was not cool because it kept the brothers busy building instead of preaching.  They devised a whole new way of construction – the quick build.  It was a revolutionary concept back when the first few quick builds went up.  Here’s how it works:

Weeks ahead of time the site is prepared with a slab and parking lot.  They have the utilities hooked up and ready to go.  The materials are gathered and food service is planned so that the workers can stay at the site.  On the designated weekend skilled crews of JW volunteers descend upon the work site and build the whole kingdom hall, right down to carpet and wallpaper, even landscaping, in less than three days’ time.

At first, a general invitation would go out to the entire circuit and a thousand people would swoop in, most of them just to watch the thing go up.  The building site was crowded, the port-a-potties were maxed out, and a lot of food went to feed people who were just standing around gawking.

“No, no, no,” said the Society, stamping their collective foot.  “That’s not what we meant.”  Then they devised a structure whereby Brooklyn could control it more tightly.  They designated Regional Building Committees (RBC) who would oversee every quick build in their area.  There was also a thick notebook of instructions that had to be followed to the letter.  I was at one quick build where the local elders messed up a few things (including arranging for the port-a-potties to be serviced) and all of them were removed as elders in the aftermath.  Yikes!

The RBC also scheduled the crews so that only the people needed at the time were milling around the site.  The drywall crew didn’t show up until later Saturday afternoon or evening, for example, and worked through the night.  Of course, the local congregation members could be there anytime.  They were usually doing grunt work or food service.

In order to get on a crew you had to apply to the RBC.  My ex-husband volunteered his carpentry experience and worked on a bunch of quick builds around New England.  I was not allowed to accompany him, not that I really wanted to.  Hanging around a building site that is not your own is no fun at all.  Worse, I’d be expected to participate in field service, letting the locals know about the project and inviting them to drop by for a little impromptu propaganda treatment.

There were strict rules on the sites, too.  No slogan t-shirts could be worn, for example, so leave your “That’s what she said” shirt at home.

On Sunday afternoon, the congregation held their first meeting in the new hall.  Of course, there were always a few details to finish up, and sometimes things were not quite ready for a meeting due to some unforeseen complication.  All in all, it was a pretty amazing process, but hoo boy, don’t cross the RBC or you’ll find yourself in a serious pickle.

You Can Go Back – But It’ll Cost You

 

Continuing from last week’s post, “Here Come Da Judge.”

 

So, basically, your entire world has just crashed into shards at your feet.  None of your friends at the kingdom hall can talk to you, not even your family members.  You are considered to be a wicked person, a danger to the faithful.  How you wish you could run into your mom’s arms and be comforted, but your mom is a woman of strong faith in the organization.  She believes that by isolating you she is performing a great act of love.  She hopes that you will feel enough pain that you will do whatever is necessary to be reinstated.  Well, it’s working.

Sitting at home that weekend you realize you have a long haul ahead of you.  Even the most repentant sinners can expect at least six months of cold shoulders before they can apply for reinstatement.   You decide you’ll just pull up your big girl panties and deal with it.

Still, it niggles in the back of your mind.  How can three men sit in judgment on you and then separate you from your own mother and your best friend?  You’re not a wicked person, just an idiot who had too much to drink one night and made a mistake.

In order to be reinstated, you will have to acknowledge the gravity of your sin, display works befitting repentance (read: grovel), show up at all of the meetings (however, be the last one there and the first to leave) and sit quietly in the back of the hall.  And the elders will assign a “spiritually mature” sister to study with one or two of the Watchtower Society’s publications.  Ultimately, you will have to meet with the same three elders who kicked you out in the first place to ask for forgiveness.

This will be difficult.  Brother Rigid has always had it out for you.  He doesn’t like any display of individuality, like the time you tried a temporary hair color.  It was just auburn, for pity’s sake – well, maybe a tad redder than the usual auburn.  He threatened your father with the loss of his congregation privileges if he allowed it to continue.  Even Dad thought that Brother Rigid was being overbearing.   You spent a long afternoon washing your hair over and over to remove the color and spent the next year boring angry holes into the back of his head during the meetings.  Every time that man looked at you he frowned.  Your clothes were immodest.  Your pocketbook was too trendy.  You caught hell for buying a tiny two-door car that is not suitable for field service.  Groveling to that [expletive deleted] is going to be painful.

Every meeting is painful because you see your family sitting there but you can’t approach them.  So, you plug away for six months, keeping your head down at the meetings, wearing only the most modest clothes, playing the part of a repentant sinner, and enduring weekly study sessions with Sister Smug.  She insists you come to her house, so there’s that weekly encounter with Brother Smug and the Smugettes, who whisper and titter before scuttling away like you’re the Devil himself.

At the meetings, anyone who has to get up to use the rest room walks past you.  All of them avert their eyes, but there are a few spiteful sisters who make a show of it, snapping their heads around.  Then there are the inevitable encounters at the grocery store.  Sister Wasp and her two young children round the end of an aisle, nearly crashing into you.  The children cower behind their mother’s coat and she looks annoyed by the encounter.  How dare you bring your sinful self to the same store she patronizes?  Oh, and the excruciating gas station encounter with Brother Bombast!  You were filling up your tank, and he pulled up to the pump directly across from you.  The man’s face turned bright red.  You stopped short of a full tank and drove off as quickly as you could.

Finally, after six months of torture you approach the elders and request reinstatement.   A date is set for them to meet with you and discuss it.  At the meeting they interrogate you about your lifestyle.  Have you been frequenting bars?  Do you have a boyfriend?  A sexual partner?  You answer every prying little question in a respectful voice with a little weeping thrown in for effect.  They tell you that Sister Smug reports that you have done well on your study.  They see that you haven’t missed a meeting, even coming when you had the flu.  They dismiss you so that they can talk it over.

Again you wait alone in the cavernous kingdom hall while three men decide your fate.  You can’t take another six months of this.  Please, please, let them vote for reinstatement.

Finally, they call you back in.  They tell you they have decided that you qualify for reinstatement, and it will be announced at the Thursday meeting.

Thursday evening rolls around.  As usual, you take your seat of shame in the back.  About halfway through the meeting Brother Elder #2 gets up on the platform and reads a brief announcement saying that you have been reinstated.  Ten heads turn to look at you, a couple of them smiling.

The meeting ends and you’re swamped.  First, you mother weeps all over you, then your little sister.  Dad gives you a hug and his loving smile.  Then it’s your BFF’s turn.  After that, Sister Smug squeezes out a few decorous tears and hugs you.  Then, Sister Wasp gushes, “Oh, how I’ve missed you!”

Eh?   You decide you’ll wait until you get home to roll your eyes.

Meanwhile, there are handshakes and hugs and a few more tears.  You’re back.

 

 

Here Come Da Judge

 

Picture this:  You’re a 19-year-old Jehovah’s Witness girl living a sterile life.  Aching for some fun, you go out to a bar one night with a workmate, and while there you meet a gorgeous guy who pushes all of your hormonal buttons.  You’ve had a couple of drinks so your inhibitions are lowered.  Before you know it, you’re waking up in a strange bed with said gorgeous guy snoring beside you.  As the shock explodes in your brain, you realize you have committed a grave sin – one that could result in disfellowshipping.

You’ve been indoctrinated to confess your sins to the elders (Jehovah knows anyway) and let them “handle” the matter.  However, you realize that your workmate and the gorgeous guy are not going to rat you out, so maybe you can get away with it.   Conscience be damned.

Then, at the next meeting one of the elders asks you to step into the library for a moment.  With your heart in your throat you tremulously enter the room and find another elder already there.  Neither of the elders is smiling, and your guilty conscience keeps punching you in the stomach.  Brother Elder #1 opens his bible and invites you to turn to 1 Timothy 5:16 and read it out loud.  “Therefore openly confess your sins to one another and pray for one another that you may get healed.”

Gulp.  How could they possibly know about your indiscretion?  There’s no way they could know!  They would have to have two witnesses to establish the matter.  You decide to bluff.

“What does this have to do with me?”  you ask.

“Sister Guilty, Brother Elder #2 and I and our wives were out in field service last Saturday morning, and we happened to see you leaving an apartment building wearing clothing that is more appropriate for the evening.  Could you explain why you were there?”

You think of possible excuses.  “Um, I was staying over at a friend’s house for the night while my apartment was being fumigated.”

Oh boy, now you’ve opened a can of worms.  Your workmate is “worldly” and therefore bad association.  Why would you seek her out after work hours?  And then there’s the matter of clothing.  Why were you wearing evening clothes?  Did you go to a bar?  A party? (More bad association.)  Why didn’t you bring appropriate clothing for the next morning?

Peering out from deep inside the hole you’ve just dug for yourself you can see the elders don’t believe you.  The jig is up.  Tears sting at your eyes, and you sob out the whole story to them.   The two brothers stand up.

“Sister Guilty, we’ll need you to come to the kingdom hall on Monday evening for a judicial hearing.”

The words hit you like a cold shower.  This could be the mistake that ruins your life.

Monday evening rolls around, and you’re in the hot seat at a judicial committee hearing.  Brother Elder #1 and Brother Elder #2 have been joined by another elder, Brother Rigid.  They open the hearing with prayer and then the inquisition begins.  They want all of the details.  ALL of them.  How much did you drink?  Did you use illicit drugs?  How many times did you do the deed?  Did you climax?  Did you use contraception?  Could you be pregnant?  Is the man a regular partner?  Did you participate in oral or anal sex?

For some reason, the floor does not open up and swallow you.  Crimson with shame and crying profusely, you answer their questions, even though they are absolutely invasive and inappropriate.

Once the elders are satisfied, they dismiss you to wait in the main auditorium while they deliberate.    In a short time they call you back in and tell you that they will have to disfellowship you since people in the community know about the matter, tarnishing the reputation of the congregation.

At the next meeting your disfellowshipping is announced.  Several confused publishers furtively glance at you, but you stay in your seat and endure the humiliation.  Humility is conduct befitting repentance, something you’ll need for the next stage – applying for reinstatement.  It will be at least 6 months or maybe longer before the elders will even consider reinstating you, so it will be a long haul of shunning, sitting in the back of the kingdom hall in the row of shame, and enduring snide glances from your former friends and family.

Next week:  You can go back, but it will cost you.

We Now Return to Our Regular Program

Posted on

Jehovah’s Witnesses are encouraged to live a modest life and be content with simple things.  This is so that they can throw themselves into their service to Jehovah.  They are discouraged from pursuing wealth, fame, or even a career because these things will tend to draw them away from God.  It’s called a “theocentric” life and is the source of true happiness.  In return, God will make sure they have everything they need.

There are a gajillion stories in the Bible about how Jehovah provided for this prophet or that widow.  One prophet had fled to the barren desert to escape the wrath of an evil queen, and Jehovah sent ravens to him to provide him with food.  God provides for the sparrows – why would He not provide for you?  During a famine one faithful servant of God found herself with an inexhaustible supply of cooking oil and flour.

Jesus himself said, at the conclusion of a parable on the folly of pursuing wealth, “Keep on seeking first the kingdom and his righteousness and all these other things will be added to you.”

My ex-husband and I were very sincere in our beliefs.  We were always looking for ways to improve ourselves and boost our spirituality and usefulness to Jehovah.  In return, we believed that we would be cared for by the god we worshiped.

Hubby’s parents raised him as a JW.  They envisioned him rising quickly through the organization to become a circuit overseer or district overseer – maybe even becoming a bigwig at Bethel.  Consequently, he would not need to learn a trade.  In any case, the end was so near that he wouldn’t have to worry about it.  In fact, his parents were told that he wouldn’t graduate high school before the end came.

I should add that he’s 61 years old now.  Whoa, talk about your failed prophecy.

My parents were more practical, pushing me to take typing and business classes in school so I was always able to find work.  However, it was never enough to support the two of us because I was determined to follow the counsel from Brooklyn – it’s not a career, it’s just a job.  I worked in a number of different industries – insurance, banking, oil, medicine, and always got terrific performance reviews, but I never got much farther than entry level in any one of them.  Just when I was getting somewhere we ended up moving because hubby couldn’t hold a job, partly because he had no skills and partly because of his daddy issues (couldn’t deal with male authority).  To be fair, I should add that he did eventually settle into a decent job, and as far as I know he’s still working there.

We focused on doing the divine will by faithfully serving Big J and being good Christians according to WTS teachings (hubby was working toward becoming an elder), but we were always barely scraping by.

In the midst of one particularly lean period of time I was sitting in my seat between sessions at a district convention chatting with two sisters from my congregation.  They were discussing the new ring one of them had just been given by her husband and the Disney vacation the other was going to take after the convention.

Now, wait a ding-dong minute here.

Hubby and I were working our tails off being good servants of Jehovah, but we were driving a 20-year-old clunker, living in a two-room apartment where water froze on the floor in the winter, and sometimes eating only rice.  And here were two less-than-average publishers (oops, got a tad judgmental there) who were enjoying luxuries.

Being a well-programmed JW my first thought was that we must be doing something right if Satan were testing us so savagely.  My second thought was, “What are we – chopped liver?”  Why are we clawing our way through the mud while these two chicks are gliding in style down Easy Street?

What I wanted to do at that moment was throw myself onto a fainting couch a la Scarlett O’Hara and weep bitter tears, but what I did was smile and nod and reprove myself for my momentary lapse into selfish thinking.

I had to remind myself that serving Jehovah is its own reward.  I mean, maybe my material circumstances were threadbare, but I was living the best way of life, right?  I had the spiritual paradise at the kingdom hall, I had a clean conscience, I had Jehovah’s approval, I had a good marri…well, I didn’t know any better back then.  That’s it – focus on the positive.  Focus on hubby’s good qualities, focus on the fact that you indeed have food to eat and a roof over your head, focus on the important disciple-making work, focus on the glorious future you have before you – the New System where everything will be perfect.

There, that’s better.  Hubby returned to his seat next to me and the afternoon program started, completely diverting all of my troubled thoughts.

I was back to my regular program.

 

 

Getting Baptized

Sorry I’m late with this post!

 

Baptism is a huge, ginormous deal to Jehovah’s Witnesses.  Without that ritual dunking you won’t survive Armageddon, and you won’t get the title “Brother” or “Sister.”  In fact, at one congregation I visited the Watchtower Study conductor made a point of calling on children and unbaptized people as “Mr.” or “Miss” rather than simply using their first names as most other congregations do.

In my case, Dad dragged us into the cult in the early 1970s at a time when JWs were trumpeting from the housetops that Armageddon would come in 1975 (or possibly earlier than that – we don’t know Jehovah’s timetable after all).   My brother and I were 10 and 12 respectively when Dad started studying, and a year older when he and Mom got baptized.  That’s when the pressure started.

There was an understanding that a child who had reached the “age of reason” no longer fell under the parental umbrella of safety from Jehovah’s judgment.  Since little brother and I were fairly sharp kids Dad felt that we had reached that age and needed to be baptized post-haste.  The trouble with that idea was that our “Bible study” had not kept pace with the folks, so we were not knowledgeable enough to correctly answer the pre-baptism questions.

We kids still had to finish studying our first book, “The Truth That Leads to Eternal Life” and then study the second book, “True Peace and Security – From What Source?”  Dad undertook the job of teaching us ( at our weekly family study) what he and Mom had only just learned themselves.  He also started quizzing us on the questions for baptism and reviewing the answers at the dinner table.  These questions and their answers were printed in a book that only baptized JWs and those preparing for baptism could own.  At the time there were 80 questions, and you had to know the scriptures that supported the answers.

Over the next year we received the parental indoctrination and even studied together at other times so that by the end of 1973 we could parrot the answers.  Then the two of us had to individually approach one of the elders and request baptism.  I was completely terrified of most men, and especially of the elders, but I managed to gather my courage and squeak out my request.

The elders arranged to divide up the ordeal into three sessions, one conducted by each of the three elders, and little brother and I were allowed to do the questions together instead of separately.  The elder I feared the most happened to come on a week when I had a nasty case of laryngitis and took every opportunity to poke fun at my croaking answers.  I was a shy, sensitive kid who took herself extremely seriously.  It was all I could do to choke down the tears.

We passed, thank goodness.  The reviews of those questions ranks right up there with my driver’s test as one of the most terrifying events of my life.  There was a circuit assembly coming up in January, so that’s when we’d get dunked.

The day arrived.  It happened that the circuit assembly was taking place at my high school, so it was a little bit surreal to see the place crowded with JWs instead of my classmates.  Usually, at a circuit assembly there are around 5 to 10 people baptized, tops.  That year, however, was 1974.  At that assembly there were 119 people baptized, most of them teenaged children of parents frantic to get their kids protected from the wrath of God by a quick splash in a pool.

We sat through the baptism talk, and at the end we had to stand up as a group and answer two questions:

Have you recognized yourself before Jehovah God as a sinner who needs salvation, and have you acknowledged to him that this salvation proceeds from him the Father through his Son Jesus Christ? 

On the basis of this faith in God and in his provision for salvation, have you dedicated yourself unreservedly to God to do his will henceforth as he reveals it to you through Jesus Christ and through the Bible under the enlightenment of the holy spirit?”

In unison we shouted, “Yes!” to each question.  Interestingly, I hadn’t actually dedicated myself to Jehovah in prayer.  For some reason nobody had told me I needed to do that.

After a prayer a song was sung as the baptismal candidates marched out of the auditorium.  The song wasn’t long enough for all of us to make it out of the auditorium, so they had to punt and announce a second song.  That never happened again at any assembly I attended.

Since the high school did not have a pool, we had to go to the local Boys’ Club for our dunking.  We went down to the locker rooms which for some reason were flooded with a half inch of ice cold water.  It was a challenge to get my pantyhose and undies off without getting them wet.  I changed into my “modest” bathing suit, grabbed a towel, and got into line with everyone else.  The males managed to change more quickly and were being dunked first.   The pool had been squeezed into a small space, so there was just a narrow ledge around the edge for us to walk on.  I was afraid I’d slip in, so I hugged the wall.

As I got closer and closer I could see that there was no ladder leading into the pool, so a couple of burly brothers were grabbing each candidate by the arms and lowering them into the pool.  A couple more were on the other side hauling everyone out.

Once in the water and therefore center stage (an uncomfortable place for me) I made my way toward one of the three brothers in the pool.  I was so flustered that I didn’t even notice that my father was one of the baptizers that day until he called my name.

I went over to him and followed his directions for how to hold my arms and my nose at the same time.  Then he tipped me backwards and under I went.  He wanted a hug, but all I could think of was getting the heck out of that pool and out of the spotlight.  He pulled me in anyway and then I made my way over to the burly brothers who hoisted my chubby body out quite easily.  The ledge on that side of the pool was even narrower, and with water pouring into my eyes from my wet hair I barely made it back to the locker room without incident.

Putting the pantyhose back on while standing in the water was my next challenge.  I spent the afternoon with wet feet as well as wet hair.

Once I got back to the lobby of the Boys’ Club I was surrounded by a group of elderly sisters from our congregation who were all crying and exclaiming, “By your own father!”  Honestly, I didn’t think it was such a big deal.  It was just a ritual I’d had to get through and now it was over.  Come to think of it, I experienced the same detachment on my wedding day.  Hmmm.

Little brother had been dunked by Dad as well, and met the same weeping contingent upon his arrival at the lobby.  Then Dad and Mom showed up, along with the newly dunked single guy we’d driven over to the baptism site.  He sat in the front seat and sobbed quietly all the way back to the high school.  I didn’t understand why everyone was so emotional.

It’s common nowadays for JWs to throw a party to celebrate baptism, but back then nobody did that.  We went back to the high school and ate the institutional food being served.  At home that evening there wasn’t even a congratulatory pat on the back from the parents, cake, or even a special meal.  Just a normal day.

That night I got down on my knees and dedicated myself to Jehovah in prayer, but I always felt funny about the fact that I wasn’t actually dedicated when I got baptized.

 

 

Adventures With Elders

Very shortly after we became Jehovah’s Witnesses my father rose quickly through the ranks to the position of elder in the congregation.  His life became much busier, and we saw less of him.  However, as he reminded us on the night his appointment was announced, the rest of the family had responsibilities too.  He sat us down and sternly told us that we had to be good examples to the other kids in the congregation.  He never wanted to hear that someone’s kid said, “But Brother Long’s kids do it and their father is an elder.”  I had to wonder why he was being so stern.  My brother and I were, if not model children, very well behaved indeed.

Dad had elders’ meetings to attend every so often.  Since he heaped verbal abuse on my head when he was at home, I was always elated when he picked up his book bag, straightened his tie, and left the house on a week night.  It meant I could spend the evening in the living room instead of holed up in my bedroom escaping to Avonlea or hanging out with the March sisters.

There was also a huge cloud of secrecy that hung around his activities as an elder.  When the phone rang and he answered it we were not allowed to ask who had called.  If we answered the phone and someone asked for him we would be severely scolded if we asked the caller to identify themselves.   We could never dig around in his book bag or any of the drawers of his desk.  We were to squelch our curiosity about anything he did as an elder.

Besides all of that, inevitably every meeting turned into a marathon session as he lingered afterward until we pretty much closed the kingdom hall down.  This led to some pretty late school nights and droopy eyelids the next day.

Since I married a ministerial servant, the workload wasn’t quite as heavy on my husband as on my father, and that situation continued for 10 years.  It was when dear hubby (DH) decided he desired to ascend Olympus and “reach out” for the office of elder that the pressure ramped up.

First, he had to qualify for recommendation, as defined by our body of elders.  It was well known around the circuit that you had to be practically Superman to get recommended by our body of elders, and some brothers had even departed for other congregations where less stringent requirements prevailed in order to get the desired promotion.

Along with him, I had to qualify too.  That meant I had to be putting in more than the congregation average in field service hours per month (which meant I had to go out every Saturday morning and at least one Sunday afternoon in the month), I had to keep a spotless home, entertain regularly (called “hospitality”), get to every single meeting and comment frequently, and accompany DH to the Wednesday evening field service meeting – all while holding down a demanding full-time job with a 45-minute commute each way.  That Wednesday evening thing meant that I didn’t get supper until afterward, maybe as late as 8 p.m.

There are a million other little things you have to do, like entertain the circuit overseer and his wife during their visit, take part in cleaning the kingdom hall, participate in any kingdom hall maintenance projects, visit sick JWs in the hospital or at home, and sometimes drop in on lagging publishers.

An example of this kind of unpaid extra work occurred during a month when I foolishly decided to add auxiliary pioneering (60-hour requirement) to my already bulging schedule, while still working full time (minus the commute – I had taken a job closer to home).   DH and I had been assigned to assist a sister in the congregation who had five children and a husband in rehab.

The phone rang at 2 a.m.  This sister’s daughter had been involved in a car accident and she needed help.  We jumped out of bed and drove the 20 miles to the hospital where we found our sister in a state.  They were admitting her daughter, and she needed us to take the baby and her 3-year-old son.  Ignoring my horrified expression she handed me the diaper bag and hurried away.

I need to pause here to inform my readers that I have never been the maternal type.  I never babysat, never sought out babies or toddlers, and I had most certainly never changed a diaper in my life.  I wasn’t even sure what year-old babies could eat.  Did they eat?  Our home was not baby-proof and contained not even a single toy.

Back home at dawn’s early light I found myself with an infant and toddler both sitting in the middle of the living screaming their lungs out.  I sure as heck didn’t even vaguely resemble their African American mother.  As soon as I thought people might be stirring I called a friend who had a couple of kids to ask if she could babysit these two.

Unfortunately, she was going to a wedding that day, but after laughing at me heartily, she offered to come over and give me a diapering tutorial.

DH rushed to the store and bought a passel of toys, none of which appealed to our young charges.  Mom came flying by at about 5 p.m. to nurse the infant and to tell us that she couldn’t take the kids back until the next day.

After she left I drew DH into the bedroom and with trembling hands and tear-stained face begged him to find someone else to take these children.  I could not face babysitting overnight.  We didn’t even have any baby gear!  Luckily, we found a family who, after finding amusement in my distress, happily took the kids for the night.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, that baby didn’t soil her diaper even once during that day.  I still haven’t changed a diaper.