Free Seductive Poison by Deborah Layton

drove me to the church in Redwood Valley, a ten-minute commute north of Ukiah. Larry had kissed me good morning hours ago and gone to his weekend job at the lumber mill, a job he took to earn extra money to give to the Temple. Weekdays were spent in his alternative service job.
    The Temple was a large wooden building Larry had helped build. There were floor-to-ceiling windows and a beautiful stained-glass one behind the podium with a dove in flight. The church was surrounded by vineyards and the entire community was encircled by beautiful rolling hills.
    Karen ushered me into the sunny sanctuary and I glimpsed a letter posted on a bulletin board. It was a thank-you note to Pastor Jones signed by Governor Ronald Reagan, embossed with the seal of the state of California.
    I’d have to tell my parents about the letter when I got home, I thought. I was shown to a metal folding chair and looked up toward the stained-glass window. The dove was now shining with the reflection of the sun as the minister’s voice, warm and nurturing, caught my attention. His handsome face was framed by coal black hair that fell slightly onto his forehead.
    I was struck by all the young faces in the audience. The congregation was made up of equal numbers of blacks and whites, although most of the black members seemed far older. There was a crowd of Asian, Indian, blond, and kinky-haired children chatting and giggling near the enclosed indoor pool. I wondered which of the children belonged to the pastor. I had seen his family’s photograph in the foyer. Karen had pointed out his wife Marceline, the three adopted Korean children, two girls and one boy about my age; an American Indian girl who was a young adult, a black son who looked eight or nine; and his own biological son, who appeared to be about fourteen. Karen had whispered into my ear that some of the members’ children were among the privileged few being raised by the pastor himself. She pointed out a white twenty-two-year-old and said, “John moved in with the pastor’s family some time ago and is being groomed for a very important role. He will study law at Stanford.”
    I watched Jones’s pained face as he spoke about the injustices in the world, why the war in Vietnam was wrong, how discrimination cut away at his heart, how he suffered when his black associate minister was mistreated, and how he, too, felt the pain of the little black children being sent away from the all-white schools. His manicured hands punctuated each statement. As I listened to his sermon I became aware of how spoiled, privileged, and white I was. He spoke about the pain we had to encounter to grow and fuel change and I thought that maybe with his directions, I’d be able to understand where I had gone astray and how I could correct the wrongs I had perpetrated.
    As he went on and on about the “haves” and “have-nots,” I began to fidget and play with the seam of my skirt. He sure talks a lot, I thought. I wish he’d hurry … I’m hungry. Suddenly there was silence. He had paused. I was afraid that he had somehow caught me and judged me as spoiled, restless, and unfocused.
    “Do not feel guilty,” he resumed. His eyes seemed to look directly at me. “You can change. We all have the ability to become better human beings.”
    This minister, the man his followers called “the Prophet,” “our beloved Pastor,” “my best friend,” and “Father,” felt so deeply about the inequities in our world that I made an effort to stay focused on his words. He seemed to be addressing every single person in the congregation.
    “Yes, come join us. Help me eradicate injustice from all our lives. Work with me to help those who are not strong enough to help themselves.” I wondered what eradicate meant.
    “Come forward. Be a part of a fellowship that will work to rid our society of hatred, racism, and poverty. I am inviting you to join in a new beginning, a life you can feel challenged by. Through my ministry