Chapter Six

THE MUSTARD SEED

Growing up, I lived in a world where God was good. I was taught to believe this, and I did.

I loved the ritualistic elements of worship services, especially the sing-and-response psalms: Those perfect echoes of longing were like magical spells being cast in the dark, quiet sanctuary. I liked singing slow, meditative hymns as people silently lined up in the aisle to take Communion. I watched Mom pray and tried to imagine her thoughts. Sometimes she opened one eye and glared at me. "I'm praying," she would whisper, "so stop staring." When I was very small, I tried to stick crayons up her nose to break her concentration. I didn't like her energies to be focused elsewhere—I wanted her full attention all the time. She was the orbit I wanted to move around, because with her I did not feel different, partly because we talked about my disability only in terms of logistics and in a positive way. I felt normal and safe around Mom. Meanwhile, her daily life was a flurry of files, appointments, insurance premiums, and conversations with doctors. I hopped through it all, moving around on a metal brace, in various casts, and then with an artificial leg, always overactive and demanding.

At church I felt loved. When I was in the hospital, all of the older ladies from the quilting circles and prayer groups sent me cards with little girls and bunnies and flowers on them. They wrote in their shaky handwriting: "Get well soon! Love, Edith; Love, Dorothy; Love, Velma, Alma, and Ruth." When I arrived home, there would be a pile of gifts and cards waiting for me, some from people I hardly knew.

Not only did the members of the congregation dote on me, but I was always chosen for the most glamorous roles in the church musicals. I was a shepherd, an angel, and a sheep during different years, but after I reached a certain age, I played Mary, the pure, openhearted virgin and the model of a good—even perfect—woman. I cherished this role like none other. My thick glasses, wooden leg, and buckteeth seemed to disappear when I put on the blue robe and the white cotton headdress, picked up the plastic doll, and became the focus of everybody's admiration on the most important night in the Christian religion. The birth of Jesus. The mother of God. Was there any more powerful or sacred role to play? I sang lullabies with a chorus of shepherds and angels and rocked a fake baby Jesus to sleep. There was never a suggestion that God wasn't for everyone—He was. And at Christmastime I was His emissary, limping onto the stage with a baby in my arms—the savior of the wounded, the sick, and the sinful. My virtue became my beauty. People told me time and time again, particularly after these performances: "We're always praying for you," "You're in our prayers," and sometimes, although not as often, "God loves you best of all."

People have been praying for me my entire life: at the moment of my birth and throughout all of my surgeries. Yet I have always had an uneasy relationship with prayer. If you didn't get the answer you asked for, something people were always alluding to ("God always answers prayers, just not in the way we wish Him to or in the way we expect"), then how could you know it was really the answer—from God—and not just something random and inexplicable that happened to you? I didn't like the mystery of prayer itself or the ambiguity of the possible answers. The idea that "bad things happened" was no comfort to me—did it comfort anyone?—and was something I felt I already knew.

Still, I learned my prayers, and as I grew older I prayed for what I most wanted, even though the idea was to recite the precise words from the chosen prayer and then lift up one's concerns, allowing God to take care of the rest. Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me; cast me not away from your presence; and take not your holy spirit from me. I hated my body. I prayed for a new one. Hadn't any of those faithful people prayed for me to be healed? How did I know if their petitions had been answered? How could they tell? Was it a light in my eyes? A spring in my limping step? I was praying for God to make me whole. I couldn't imagine that anyone might be praying for something entirely different. It was in church where I felt most wholly loved. It made sense to go there for the bodily transformation I desired.

Fourth grade was my last year of instruction in the act of prayer and the proper petitioning of God. I had memorized the appropriate creeds, prayers, and basic theological terms. I was only a few days away from the real body and blood. I was gearing up for something huge. I wanted to be healed on that first Communion. I figured I had dealt with this leg business long enough and it was time for my reward.

The day did not go exactly as I'd planned. As I stepped out of the car to head into church, I heard Brian Tanner screaming at me from the top of the church stairs. He was surrounded by boys I knew and would soon be kneeling next to with my tongue out to take the Communion wafer from my dad's hand.

"Peg leg, Peg leg! Emily has a wooden leg!" Brian sang at the top of his lungs. His friends gathered around him, laughing and pointing. I stood still for just a moment, deciding what to do.

"Piece of shit!" I yelled. Mom, who had been chatting with someone nearby, ran up to me, grabbed me by the arm, and swooped me into the church. Through the window of the main door, I could see the side of Mrs. Tanner's face; her painted lips were pursed in anger.

I couldn't bother with Brian. I had more important things to do. Mom stopped me at the bottom of the narthex stairs and straightened my dress. "Now," she said. "You be good. Honestly." I didn't care that I had embarrassed her. I had my eye on the prize. I heard the organ begin the opening hymn, and Dad walked by, singing, in a swirl of white robes.

"Brian's mean," I said in my defense.

"Well, he's still not a piece of blank." Mom looked at me. I opened my mouth.

"Don't fill in that blank," she warned. "That is not a word we use. You'll apologize to Brian later. Honestly!"

"What about what he said? What about him saying sorry to me?"

"Oh, he will," she said, and grabbed my hand as we went up the stairs and into the sanctuary.

In both Matthew and Mark, there are stories about the power of a small bit of true faith—the parable of the mustard seed. For truly I tell you, if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, "Move from here to there," and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you. Before my first Communion, I was given a necklace with a tiny, cream-colored seed inside a glass ball that hung from a short gold chain. In Mark, the mustard seed, the smallest on the earth, would grow up to be the biggest of all, putting forth large branches so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade. This kernel of faith was strong enough to work miracles. Mine was whole, yellow, and perfect. It was just waiting to burst free of the glass and sprout into something huge. The idea of it made me giddy.

I believed that God expressed truth through the stories in the Bible and that each of them carried a lesson about life. This parable made me think that if someone believed in something enough, with his or her whole heart and soul, miracles could happen: Seeds would sprout, nests would be made, birds would fly from branch to magical branch.

Every time I read this biblical passage in the weeks leading up to my first Communion, I was filled with hope. My mission was this: If I prayed hard enough, if I believed He could do it, I thought God would give me another body. I stretched out on my bed and prayed. I closed my eyes. Silently, I recited the first part of the Lord's Prayer—Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name—but I filled in the rest of this newly memorized prayer with my own wishes. Nothing happened. I wasn't strong enough, I assumed. I just didn't have it in me. It was the Communion that would seal the deal; eating the body and blood of Jesus—even though, as Lutherans, we were taught that it was not the real body and blood—was the ticket, the missing ingredient in my magical transformation.

Brian was kneeling next to me at the Communion rail. We watched Dad bless someone farther down the row. The boy's pink tongue shot out and took the Communion wafer that was set in the middle of Dad's huge hand like a tiny white raft. I practiced my devotional gaze: I lifted my eyes and tried to make them glassy and unfocused so that God would know I was serious and worthy of His attention.

"Hey," Brian whispered, nudging me.

"Shut up," I whispered back. I concentrated on moving that mountain. Move from here to there. Move this leg, give me a new one. I thought of a word I liked: "aloft." I imagined my wooden leg floating up and away into space and a flesh-and-blood limb taking its place on my body. Move it aloft. God could do anything, I thought. It would be that easy. Dad got closer and blessed Brian. I shifted on my knees slightly, and then the wafer was on my tongue, dissolving, and Dad's hand was heavy on my head for the blessing. Now, now, now, I thought, but when I stood up, I still needed to use the railing. The artificial leg was still attached to me; my body was still my own. I didn't look at Brian, and he said nothing more to me. My faith had failed me; it was clearly not pure or strong enough.

I was numb when I went up to take my gift of a Bible and then march out with the rest of the communicants. I picked at a piece of our celebratory cake in the fellowship hall. Dad winked at me from across the room. I lifted my hand off my paper plate just a little. He turned his head to an older lady who had approached him. Mom was huddled in the far corner with Brian's mother, their two coiffed heads leaning in to confer. They both had one hand on their hip, and their faces looked serious. Mom's hand touched Mrs. Tanner's arm and stayed there.

I left the fellowship hall and went to the bathroom. I stepped into a stall and shut and locked the door. The air was bitterly cold and slightly stale and smelled of dirty water caught in a drain. Now, I thought—with heat and hate building up inside me—was the time to pray. I prayed that Brian would combust and blow up into many pieces. Then I prayed to be forgiven for my violent thoughts. Finally, I approached my real purpose one more time. I steadied myself on the toilet seat. I cleared my throat and closed my eyes. I prayed to God to make me whole. I'd give Him one more chance. Maybe difficult prayers could be heard only after the Communion was actually received. Maybe God was waiting for the wafer to be completely digested. I swallowed hard several times. A new leg, a real one, a new one. Flesh and blood, flesh and blood, I chanted. I clamped one hand around the mustard-seed necklace and another on my right thigh. I believe, I believe, I believe, I said over and over again in my mind. The murmur of voices in the fellowship hall dissipated and finally disappeared. Do it! I begged. Do it now! I could hear Dad closing and locking doors, and then he was calling for me. I heard the clip of his dress shoes echoing over the tile floors.

I held my breath, looked down, and lifted my skirt. Everything was still the same. The left leg was wooden, hinged, and shining beneath the white tights. I felt tears prick my eyes. I thought, Liar. "Liar," I said out loud, just as the door opened.

"What? Hey, are you in there?" Dad's voice echoed inside the bathroom. "What are you doing? Mom's been looking for you."

"I'm fine," I said, trying to keep my voice level.

"Are you ready to go? How long have you been in here?"

"Not long. Just a few minutes."

"I'll wait in my office for you. Hurry up."

"Just a second," I said.

Dad paused. "Brian didn't mean what he said. He told me so himself."

"I meant what I said."

"Okay," he said, and sighed. "We'll talk about it later. And I've got your Bible. You left it by the cake."

"Great."

The door whooshed shut. I stood up and flushed the toilet unnecessarily. I walked out with my head up as if I needed to preserve some dignity from what had happened in the bathroom stall, although I had obviously been alone. I vowed to never pray again. I took the necklace off that night and shook it as hard as I could. The mustard seed broke into tiny pieces inside the glass. There had been no magic in that seed or in the story after all.

The next Sunday I saw Brian, led by his mother, walking in my direction. I tried to escape, but Mom caught my arm. "No. Brian has something to say to you."

"I don't care," I said.

"Just listen to him," she said.

"Mom!" I protested.

"Shush," she whispered, and turned to greet Mrs. Tanner.

Brian stood looking at the floor. Mrs. Tanner's grip on his arm looked as firm as my mother's on mine.

We stood in the hallway that was lined with black-and-white photographs of the church founders, mounted behind glass. Brian looked at the floor and kicked at it with one foot. I turned my face away, but I could still see his profile in the reflective glass cases. "Go on, Brian," Mrs. Tanner said. Her jewelry gleamed in that narrow space full of reflections. Delicate beads of hair spray balanced on her hair.

Brian handed me a picture that he'd drawn of me, using a bright red marker for my hair. He'd also drawn me with two perfect legs and wearing an evening gown the likes of which I'd only ever seen on Barbie. Around my feet he'd drawn huge purple tulips and yellow daisies.

"I'm sorry I called you that," he said. "I think you're great." But in the picture I didn't have glasses or a wooden leg or big, unwieldy buckteeth. I was a perfect little girl. He'd even drawn me with blue eyes, which I was desperate to have. I thought Brian and God were mocking me.

Mom looked at me. "What do you think?" Her eyes looked sad. I knew what I was supposed to do; I'd been taught to be polite.

"Thanks," I mumbled.

"I didn't mean it," Brian said to the floor. Mrs. Tanner nudged him. "Honest," he said, looking up at me. "I'm sorry."

I looked at the image of myself in the drawing: perfect, whole, beautiful. I wished he'd never given it to me.

"Anyway, you were right," I said. "I do have a wooden leg." In that moment, it felt compulsory to say this. Before the shame of the statement registered in me I felt a strange power, like a shock wave, moving through my whole body.

They all looked at me. "Yes, you do," Mom said. "And you are great."

"Uh, sorry," Brian said, although he sounded unsure about what he was apologizing for. All I'd done was told the truth.

Mom squeezed my shoulder. "What do you say, honey? Brian said he was sorry."

"It's okay," I told him. "Uh, yeah, it's all right."

Mom held out my hand and grabbed Brian's hand as if we were appliances and she was plugging us in. We shook hands.

"There now," she said as Brian and his mother walked away. When Mom touched me, I shook her off and walked away.

Dad used to take me to the nursery and let me play, alone, while he counseled people. I'd peek out the door and watch another disturbed soul come up the stairs of the narthex and shake the snow off their boots before stepping into his office. This was the place I went now, for solace. I wanted to get lost in the sea of babies who always needed my help and didn't care how my body looked, as long as I changed their dirty diapers and played with them.

Growing up, I was considered special and different because I was the pastor's child. In this, Andy and I were finally equal, as the attention had nothing to do with my leg or being the poster child. At church, both of us received identical treatment. We got along best while we were shaking hands in the receiving line, trussed up in our Sunday best, the two cute pastor's kids, doing their best to act like adults. We stood up straight, shook hands with each person as they moved through the line, and said, "Merry Christmas," or, "Happy Easter," followed by a few seconds of idle holiday conversation.

I especially liked joining Dad in the receiving line at the end of the service during these two holidays, when the church was guaranteed to be packed with strangers. As they left the sanctuary, people bent down to say hello to me, people who had come for this one service and would probably never come again. I loved these visitors because I could easily fool them. My act worked perfectly. They would go home remembering me as the smiling, redheaded minister's daughter who would grow up to be beautiful and smart (or this was what I imagined). All of those people, literally hundreds of them on Christmas Eve and Easter morning, would be duped. None of them would know my secret, and I considered this a serious triumph. I could talk to any of those people in line, even longer than Dad or Mom could.

I had special, beautiful dresses for holidays: for Christmas, dresses with black velvet bodices, green-and-red-plaid silk skirts, and black patent-leather shoes; for Easter, pale yellow dresses with layers of white lace cascading down the front, a white straw hat with small plastic daisies nestled in the crown, and a white patent-leather purse in which to carry my offering. My long hair was always decorated with bows and ribbons that matched my dress. From the way I stood, nobody knew I had an artificial leg, and I relished this easy deception. It was intoxicating to pretend to be something you were not if you knew you could never be the way you truly wanted to be. I looked forward to those hand-shaking sessions; I felt they proved that I was strong enough to do the impossible, with or without God's help.