Free Leaving Fishers by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page B

accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you accept the love and dominion of the Fishers of Men, as the representative of God’s mission on earth?”
    Dorry blinked, trying to comprehend his words. Everyone was waiting.
    “Yes,” she said.
    “And do you vow to dedicate your life to God as embodied in Fishers? Do you vow to forsake all outsiders and all worldly pursuits and endeavors for the good of God’s kingdom?”
    “Yes,” Dorry said again, not stopping to think this time. That was what everyone expected.
    Then Pastor Jim was pushing her down, down, into the warm water. She forgot to take a breath and came up sputtering. Water dripped from her hair. Brad and Angela led her out of the pool and wrapped her in warm towels, handling her as tenderly as a baby. Dorry noticed that, though they were both wet up to the waist, they did nothing for themselves. The three of them stood on the edge of the pool, arms around each other, watching the rest of the baptisms.
    “Welcome to Fishers,” Angela said gently. Her lips brushed Dorry’s cheek, almost like a kiss.

Chapter
    Nine
    AFTER THE BAPTISMS, DORRY FELT LIKE A new baby chick, freshly hatched from its egg. But no chicken had ever felt such joy—or been greeted so happily. She couldn’t stop grinning as people told her, over and over again, “Welcome, welcome. You are God’s child.” It was after 2 A.M. before the retreat group got into the vans and went back to the lodge, but people still lingered downstairs by the fireplace for another hour or two, reliving the evening.
    “If I die tonight, I will die happy,” someone said.
    “If I live a million years, I will never forget this night,” someone else said.
    Dorry kept quiet, afraid that speaking would destroy her fragile euphoria. She couldn’t possibly explain how she felt.
    When they finally went up to bed, Angela said, “Here, I’ll show you how to pray.”
    So Dorry knelt beside Angela, Angela showing her the proper angle to tilt her head, the proper way to fold her hands. Angela began praying out loud: “Dear God, we rejoice in the salvation ofmy new sister, Dorry. Thank you for your wisdom in choosing her and making her one of your own. Please make her a worthy member of your flock. Allow her to grow in wisdom and faith. . . .”
    Dorry nodded off before Angela was finished, but Angela didn’t get upset. She gently shook Dorry and helped her to bed.
    The next morning, Angela woke Dorry to pray beside her again. “You must do this every morning and every evening, to stay connected to God,” Angela said. It was very early, and Dorry was still very tired. She couldn’t listen to all of Angela’s long prayer. Suddenly she realized Angela had stopped talking.
    “Your turn,” Angela said, without looking up.
    “I—I—” Dorry stuttered. “I, uh, thank you, God, for this . . . day. Thanks for saving me. Um, please bless everybody. Amen.”
    Dorry knew it was a pathetic prayer. She opened one eye and peeked at Angela, but Angela only resumed her own prayer, her words flowing evenly as a brook. When she’d said her own “amen” and gracefully stood up, she patted Dorry on the back.
    “It takes a while to learn how to pray right,” she said. “I’ll give you a list of what to say.”
    The rest of the retreat passed as hazily as a dream. At breakfast some of the others talkedabout going to the Fishers’ big Sunday service downtown, but in the end they all agreed it would be better to worship alone as one small group. They wanted nothing to disturb them. The honking of one horn in city traffic might jolt them out of savoring their salvation. At the lodge, everyone spoke in soft voices, moved slowly, touched gently. They all understood.
    At six o’clock, when it was time to leave, Dorry gave in to tears, hugging everyone good-bye. “I’ll miss you,” she cried to Janelle.
    “Good grief, you’ll all see each other at Fishers functions. Maybe as soon as