THE SUMMER DRAGGED ON, with each week the same. Although it was wonderful not to have to go to the warehouse on Sunday, there were plenty of regular chores to do around the house. Wednesdays always seemed the longest to me, maybe because they marked the halfway point of the week. On one particular Wednesday, my muscles were especially sore from chipping gunk off a disgusting trade-in stove for hours. All I wanted to do was go home and fall into bed. I followed Celia to the station wagon and squeezed between her and Hyrum. With Yolanda and Teresa and their children, there were twelve passengers.

As she exited the parking lot, Mom announced, “Who wants to go ‘gift boxing’ tonight?”

The response was both immediate and enthusiastic. “Yes!” Next to gardening, “gift boxing” at a Goodwill collection bin was our favorite after-work pastime. Digging through bags of clothing was definitely less smelly and cleaner than rummaging in a dumpster. For efficiency, the strategy was to grab as many bags of clothing as we could transport home, where we would sort through the bags to see what fit. Odds were, we would all have “new” clothes by the end of the night. And what didn’t fit would be returned to the donation bin.

“Quiet down, please.” Mom raised her voice to be heard. “We’re almost there, and we don’t want to announce our arrival.” The station wagon bounced along through Northglenn, a suburb of Denver, before Mom pulled over to the side of the road a couple of blocks from the Kmart parking lot, our destination. She adjusted the rearview mirror so she could see me. “Let’s go through everything again, Anna.”

I swallowed and nodded dutifully. I was the “designated diver” because I was the only one in the car who could fit through the small opening in the receptacle.

“When we get there, I’ll back up right to the front of the bin. And what do you do?”

I felt all eyes on me in that moment and stammered, “I, uh —well, Heber will lift me to the opening. I look in to see how many bags of clothes there are. If there are enough, I climb in. If not, we’ll go to a different one.”

“And why is that?”

“I have to have enough bags to stack on top of each other to be able to reach the opening to climb back out.”

“Yeah, you don’t want to get stuck in there,” Heber laughed.

Mom glared at him, so I didn’t have to. “Then what?”

“Then I start handing bags to you and Yolanda.”

“How many?”

“As many as I can —still leaving enough to stack into a pile.”

Mom smiled her approval. “What happens if somebody comes into the parking lot?”

“You’ll drive away, but you’ll come back to get me.” Though I made the statement without hesitation, I must have sounded as though I questioned her.

“Of course I will. But what do you do?”

“I stay as quiet as possible so the people won’t hear me.”

“Good, Anna. It’s important that you don’t get caught in there.” She readjusted the mirror and drove toward the parking lot. “Okay, kids, it’s time to ‘shop.’” She got out of the car and opened the side door for me.

I crawled over Celia and Kathleen and followed Heber to the back of the station wagon. He opened the rear door, and I climbed up on the tailgate. As my brother hoisted me up to the opening, he whispered, “How do things look?”

“I see lots and lots of bags. This bin is really a good one.”

“The clothes are probably already in bags, but let me know if you need a couple of paper sacks. And don’t try to sort through anything. We don’t have enough time for that.”

Heber lifted me even higher so I could climb in. I rested my forearms on the thin metal opening, which felt like it would slice my arms open. I took a deep breath. There was no turning back because my family was counting on me. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoisted myself, and dived through the narrow slit. I landed on a couple of plastic bags filled with soft clothes.

When I opened my eyes, I couldn’t see much more than I could with them shut. I waited a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dim light streaming from the streetlight through the narrow opening. I rubbed the sore spots on my forearms where bolts from the bin had left indentations.

“Everything okay in there?” Heber’s voice sounded far away.

I stood up quickly, trying to keep my balance on the shifting bags underneath me. “Yes, I’m about to start handing you stuff.” My soft voice echoed off the metal walls and sounded kind of cool. Under other circumstances, my siblings and I could have had fun playing in such a place. But not under these conditions. I just wanted to select bags and get out of there. Before the police came. Or someone dropped off a donation.

I hefted a few bags through the opening to Heber, who whispered, “Got it” with each handoff.

I touched one bag and felt something wet and sticky. Since I couldn’t see what it was, I quickly tossed it aside and wiped my hands on my pants before I moved on to another.

I worked quickly, talking to Heber only when absolutely necessary. By now I could see pretty well. I tried to keep my mind on the task, but my heart tugged it in different directions. I remembered asking Mom one time why we couldn’t buy clothes in a store like other kids did. What I didn’t ask was why we had to scrounge through shirts and pants and jackets that people didn’t want anymore. She told me that we have to sacrifice for God’s kingdom and that the money had to go for much more important things than something as superficial as fancy clothes. I should just be grateful.

I recalled our class pictures that year at school. I had selected a pair of faded jeans and a tan shirt with multi-colored, horizontal stripes, the nicest one I had. I watched as other girls walked into the classroom. Two styles ruled the day —flowing Bohemian blouses paired with cute appliquéd jeans, or jewel-toned velour tops and designer jeans. Most girls had their hair feathered Farrah Fawcett–style.

While I waited in line with my classmates to be photographed, the girl in front of me turned and asked, “Didn’t you know it was picture day today?”

I nodded.

“Then why would you wear that?”

I crossed my arms over the front of my hand-me-down shirt and bowed my head in shame.

Tonight I hoped I’d find something good in this bin.

I lifted sack after sack of clothing over my head, flattening some of the bags to squeeze them through the opening. I could hear Heber catching them on the other side. Finally, I heard him say, “Anna, that’s enough.”

I stacked several bags to create a squishy pyramid, climbed to the top, and peered out of the opening at Heber standing below.

“Can you pull yourself up?”

“I think so.” I placed a worn sweatshirt I found at the bottom of the collection bin over the base of the thin metal opening so I wouldn’t cut my forearms and hoisted myself up once more. I wriggled through the opening into Heber’s waiting arms.

“Great job, sis! This is a really good haul for one stop. We have a lot to go through when we get home.”

Mission accomplished. And maybe I’d find a pretty shirt and a pair of designer jeans that fit me.

We each held a bag of clothes in our laps for the drive home. Gift boxing was like Christmas to us. Actually, it was better, since our family rarely celebrated that pagan holiday.

When we arrived home, we placed the bags into a large pile on the living room floor.

Mom, Yolanda, and Teresa began opening the bags one by one and holding up items for everyone to see. We were always told to stay calm during this process, but what usually happened is we’d all see a potentially nice article of clothing, like a cute shirt or denim skirt, and we’d begin clamoring for it. The adults always got the final say about who got what, and they gave the better items to the most-favored kids.

Sometimes I would see something I thought was really cute, but because there were so many girls who were the same size, I hardly dared to hope I might actually end up getting to keep that item. Most of the time, we got things by sheer luck, depending on which of the women held up the article of clothing and which girl was in good favor with her. After the sister-wives had divided up all the clothing among the kids, we were allowed to trade with each other, as long as the items fit. If I really liked something someone else had, I might have to trade two or three items to get it.

That particular night, Mom sifted through the next-to-last bag and pulled out a bright red piece of fabric. She held up a scarlet, polyester, bell-bottomed jumpsuit that zipped up the front. I just had to have it. Please say Anna, I repeated silently over and over, until I heard my mom say, “Anna, this looks like it might fit you.”

I beamed at her and caught the jumpsuit as she tossed it my way. I hurried from my spot on the floor to go try it on. It fit perfectly.

Everyone congratulated me on such a great haul of clothes that night. I thanked them, but I was most excited about my red jumpsuit.

I nearly wore it out the first month. After wearing it to school a dozen times, I realized how risky that was. What if some girl recognized my “new” jumpsuit as one of her castoffs? I would never have lived that down!

I figured out why I liked the outfit so much. Heber had an Olivia Newton-John record album with a striking photograph of the singer sitting on a wooden rocking horse on the back cover. She was wearing a bright red, zippered jumpsuit like mine. I always imagined I looked like her when I wore my red jumpsuit. It was an odd dichotomy, given that we were supposed to be such super-spiritual people. Heber had bought that album —one of many things he kept hidden from my mother —with its worldly cover photo, which put the idea of such fashion in my head.

My excitement took me back to a similar night before I was old enough to go gift boxing. When the bags of clothes were divided up at home, I ended up with a cute pink-and-gray plaid dress with a tie at the neck, which I remember begging my mom to let me wear for school pictures the next day. She refused because the dress had a V-neck and needed to be modified with a triangle of white fabric at the neckline since modesty was paramount in the polygamist culture. (I am wearing that dress in my photograph on the cover of this book!) Our clothes certainly weren’t fancy, but I could usually find something I liked.

Two days after the gift boxing, Mom picked me up from school so we could go by the Goodwill donation bin to drop off our “donation” of clothes that didn’t work for anyone in the family. It seemed strange seeing the bin in the daytime. The hypocrisy of piously making donations of our stolen goods was lost on me.

According to my father, lawbreaking and lawlessness were justified because the US government and culture were both corrupt. The disciples who followed him were God’s chosen people, which meant we could go outside the normal bounds of rules and regulations. The ends justified the means. Although at times I was worried about getting caught stealing, I kept my concerns to myself.