By L.A. Robbins

Cynthia and I are fifteen when the Jesus Freak movement sweeps our high school in Seoul, Korea in 1972. “Cool kids are into Mary Jane, not Jesus,” I protest as we stand at our lockers. I’d only just learned that Mary Jane was the nickname for marijuana. And sure, I knew some kids smoked joints behind the school grounds. But it’s when John, rangy and tall at seventeen, asks me if I’m a “head” that I twig. What does he mean, I ask; am I “ahead rather than behind?” He snickers; I’m being clever, right? In retrospect, drugs in 1970s teen culture must have been spawned by the escapism of American GIs in Vietnam, who found comfort in stronger substances than marijuana. They didn’t want to be where they were, doing what they were doing:

“And it’s one, two, three, what are we fightin’ for?

Don’t tell me I don’t give a damn,

Next stop is Vietnam.”

I don’t know when pot smoking first took the stage at our school but I do remember when I first saw Janine’s earring. A knock-out gorgeous Eurasian girl with olive skin, almond-shaped eyes, tight jeans and a fringed shoulder bag, Janine is a trend setter. We copy what she wears, how she wears it, do what she does. She slings her raven hair over her left shoulder and there it is: a tiny silver cross dangling from her earlobe. Word gets around – there are only 300 of us in the U.S. Department of Defense high school in Seoul – that Janine has been “saved”.

Cynthia and I are neither saved nor cool. We part our hair in the middle, wear jeans and Army jackets, listen to Jimmy Hendrix and Janis Joplin like everyone else, but we’re paying lip service. We’re too timid to join the tokers, for fear of not fitting in as much as worried about the effects of marijuana. And the Jesus Freaks… I have no truck with Christianity but this is not our thing.

“Did you see Janine’s earring?” I ask as Cynthia and I trudge up the hill to gym class. My breath makes peace pipe clouds in the gelid March air.

She grunts and pokes her steel-framed glasses higher on her nose. “Prayer meetings happen at hers on Wednesday nights.”

“What’s all the excitement?” I pull my jacket close when icy shards of wind pierce my sides. “Born agains – as if Christ had just risen.”

Cynthia’s brown curls make a wispy halo around her head in the blustery blow. She’s tall at 5’10”, taller than most of the older boys. She leans forward, hunching bony shoulders, her long neck aiming at the horizontal to diminish her height. No dice; she’s a gangly heron with an angled chin, her legs, wire-thin stilts that end in the long clodhopper shoes only boys wear. Like a boy, she galumphs along, taking huge strides so that I trot to keep up. It’s when you get up close that you see the bright blue eyes, the smooth-skinned face with intelligent planes of forehead and cheek. She’s smart and funny and brutally honest: my best friend. We have sleepovers every weekend. We confess to crushes on boys and giggle when we like the same one. We finish each other’s sentences and croon songs by Simon and Garfunkel, James Taylor, Three Dog Night. When slicky boys break into my family’s house and steal the silver and my father’s briefcase, Cynthia is compassionate: “How horrible. Do you feel safe?” I feel vulnerable, violated, helpless, I tell her. We talk about it. And everything else: controlling parents (infuriating), sex (horrible, especially what we’ve heard about South Korean prostitutes), marijuana (dangerous) and breasts (will ours ever grow?).

At the gym we change into sports uniforms, Cynthia, opening wide her locker door to hide her skeletal frame from girls who have hourglass figures, full breasts, long, straight hair and snooty manners. She pulls her white t-shirt over her flatsy bra. “Maybe the J-J-Jesus people will sort out the drug problem,” she says as we make our way out of the changing room. Her stammer appears when she’s nervous. I nod. It may end up as a timely phenomenon, this Christian obsession, converting fence-sitters who thought drugs were cool. Or stopping those who are daily drug users.

Still, I’m cynical. “Prayer meetings,” I scoff as we enter the big hall. ‘I’ve seen Holy Rollers on American TV– arms high, swaying in communion with Billy Graham or Oral Roberts. Or Tammy Faye, with those mascara-ed star eyes. Proselytizing about being a goodie-two-shoes Christian, helping old ladies across the street, loving their brothers. They’re raking in donations, Mom says.” We both snort.

In front of the volleyball net we are standing where Miss Grossman has indicated. In the nearby court, the senior girls have started a game. “No goodie-two-shoe Christians in our school,” Cynthia sidles over to whisper, jerking her head toward them. “Hippies go to prayer meetings; Janine’s the biggest hippy of all.” Janine has jumped into the air. Her arm spikes the ball into the opposite side; impossible to retrieve. A sharp, short whistle; our game begins. Sneaker squeaks and victory shouts echo in the high-ceilinged gymnasium. We rotate positions. Cynthia is up to serve. All elbows and knees, she tosses the ball, misses connecting with it. Finally, she thwacks it feebly; it drops into our section instead of into the opponent’s side. Miss Grossman motions for me to serve. Red-faced, Cynthia hurries to her new position. I toss the ball and palm it forward in the air; it skims across the net and the opponents rally. Bonnie makes an upward pass with her forearms, Melanie sets it up. A deft spike by another girl sends it into our court. We block it, send it back their way.

After volleyball we cross the stream back to our cinder block high school building, boots sucking at the mud of dead grass and dirty snow patches. I’m humming Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘Cecilia.’ After a minute Cynthia sings, reedy and off key:

“I got up to wash my face,

when I come back to bed someone’s taken my place.”

I join her:

“Cecilia you’re breaking my heart,

You’re shaking my confidence daily

Cecilia, I’m down on my knees

I’m begging you please to come home…”

We’re like chalk and cheese. Me: acceptably-proportioned, attractive even, versed in acting “sure”. Cynthia: awkward, private and shy. Me, healthy while she catches every cold that passes by. Me, on the debate team, her, shirking public performance. We know each other’s habits. She sneezes nine times, always nine, before she gropes for a tissue. She’s blind until she puts on her spectacles. She’s experimenting with hard contact lenses, blinking and squinting through morning classes. By lunch time, eyes streaming, she takes them out and puts on her wireframes.

We are about to enter English class when Janine, passing by in the hall, taps my arm. “Come to the prayer meeting at my house Wednesday, you two, everyone’s invited.”

“Thank you. We hadn’t planned on it,” I say.

Janine smiles. “It’s far out.” Her voice is low and mellifluous. “You learn about loving yourself. And we sing.”  

“Thank you. I – we’ll think about it.” I’m impressed; we never get invited anywhere, especially not Cynthia. Now we’ve been summoned. Despite this, I don’t want to go.

On the way to our lockers Cynthia asks. “Why not go? You live in South Post, near Janine.”

        I twirl my locker combination. I do live near Janine in the foreigners’ compound near the Han River. Most all Seoul’s expat families live in this residential zone, surrounded by chicken wire fencing, barbed at the top, and manned by a sentry guard at the entrance. Why this protection against a country we’re supposed to be protecting? Our cloned, cinder block bungalows have three bedrooms and a front and back lawn. Cynthia lives in the downtown compound where diplomats enjoy unique, colonial-style villas, some with swimming pools and chauffeurs. All expats have live-in servants and houseboys. This is as much exposure as we teens have to Koreans. Mainly we turn up our noses when natives kimchi-squat to defecate at the roadside on the periphery of town. We’re from a civilized country far away, happy to stay in our expat bubble.

    “Why go?” I swing open my locker door. “We’re not religious.” I take my biology book off the metal shelf and put my English book in its place. I glance at her. “Both our families went to Unitarian services when we were stateside.” I pause. “Besides, Jesus Freaks are weird.”

“Janine isn’t. She showed us yoga poses in gym class once.”

“Everything’s ‘groovy’ or ‘far out’ for her. She’s from some spacey planet. Probably on drugs.”

Cynthia shuts her locker door hard. “She’s vegetarian, her family is Buddhist – remember her lunches? She’s natural. I don’t think she’d pollute her body with drugs.” She purses her lips. “I’m curious. I’d go if I could. You say you’re open-minded. Doesn’t sound like it.” She shrugs and walks off down the hall.

I go to Mr. Roger’s biology class. I sit near the front on the left so I can watch the little white mice with red eyes as they nose around, trapped in their smelly glass terrarium. At the end of the day, I tell Cynthia I’ll see her tomorrow. Moved by a sudden “Christian-spiritedness” I suggest: “come spend the night Wednesday. We can walk over to Janine’s.”

Cynthia’s eyes are bright. “So, you’re a little curious too.” She smiles.

No, I’m just living up to my reputation as open-minded, I tell her.

       After an early supper at my house Cynthia and I walk to Janine’s. Above, a grey mantle covers the sky; around us a persistent wind refrigerates the air. At least Janine’s living room is warm. And crowded with school friends and acquaintances: John, Melanie, Linda, Kevin, Sandy, Janine and her earring. Some twenty-five students are seated in small groups on the carpet, in armchairs, on the sofa: everyone talking. We’re the only sophomores, younger than everyone, Cynthia whispers. Before we find seats Peter bursts into the room. “Got it! For tonight!” His deep voice booms as he looks at Janine. Conversation stops. “It’s ours,” Peter continues.” We can try it out for a retreat. We’d have the whole place. Look!” Keys clink as he shakes them. “The Old Mission’s only a half-hour away – I just drove it. I have the minivan; some of you seniors have cars.”

“If we can find a ride for everyone, why not?” Janine is nodding. She looks at us expectantly, “Who’s got wheels?”

John and several other seniors raise hands and then everyone is standing, putting on jackets. Cynthia and I climb into John’s Datsun along with Sandy and two others. With four in the back, it’s squishy. From John’s rearview mirror a large peace sign spins. He wears a black armband to protest the Vietnam War.

 “We’re going to The Old Mission–” he turns the corner to approach the compound gates and continues: “– in the mountains south of the city.” Tires crunch when John pulls up beside Peter’s minivan a half-hour later. Car doors open, students spill out. It’s twilight and the ground is brittle and frozen.

“Colder up here,” I murmur as Cynthia and I walk forward with the others. On the hill in front of us rises the austere limestone and granite building, surrounded by thick masonry walls. Pine trees dusted with icy snow stand like soldiers in front of the walls.

Peter has unlocked a wide, wrought-iron gate which a few students are pushing open on both sides. We take a cobbled path to the Old Mission’s massive wooden door, centuries old, belted with thick wrought-iron, pricked with black metal studs. The door yawns into blackness; wind blows us inside. A dim light is switched on revealing a cavernous entryway. Janine and Peter pull apart double doors opposite from where we stand. We troop into a long room, footfalls echoing on the stone floor. Three thick oak tables flanked by long benches crouch in a line down the room’s center. From the vaulted ceiling miles above our heads hang giant iron rings studded with candles. Janine hands a student a long pole and bids him lower it while she lights the end. Holding it aloft he lights the candles; soon the room is illuminated. At the front Peter squats before a cavernous stone fireplace where kindling and logs are piled high in a huge grate. A small yellow flame licks the air, then another and another. Red-orange points prance and crackle on the dark logs; I let out the breath I am holding.

A whining overhead makes me look up. Grey sky slants through slits in the barrel-vaulted plaster ceiling. Wind must be funneling through; every now and then I feel its cold fingers. I scrunch my shoulders high, wishing I had a scarf. My teeth chatter.

“We’re in the refectory,” Peter says. He speaks loudly to compete with jabber of voices that has sprung up all around us. “This monastery was once home to over 200 monks.” Students are placing flat, round meditation cushions in front of the fireplace. Here comes Janine, holding one end of a long bench and there is Cynthia, carrying the other end. Benches are arranged to face the fireplace in a large semi-circle behind the cushions. Janine and Cynthia perch on one of them and bend their heads in conversation. I’m offered water or wine. I sip frigid water from a paper cup.

Sandy has seated himself on one of two stools left of the hearth. He turns pegs and bends to tune his guitar. Janine is at the front of the room, calling for our attention. We are to take seats around the fire. Everyone drifts over, plonks down on cushions and benches. I sit on a cushion on the floor. I look over at Cynthia who’s fixed on her bench beside a few others. Janine is on the other stool now next to Sandy. By the time everyone is seated, the fire has filled the room with warmth and golden light. Janine nods at Sandy; their mouths move in song. Chit-chat stops.

“I am the Resurrection (beat) and the Light (beat);

He who believes in Me will never die.”

Others take up the words; they seem to know them. I hum the tune. Now everyone is singing, a few, reading from song sheets. Someone thrusts a packet of lyrics into my hands. When the chorus repeats, I begin to sing along.

‘Know the Lord; Live in His Love’ is a second offering.  As with the first song, the tune is catchy with a syncopated rhythm. Pauses are filled with finger snaps and someone beats two sticks together. Sandy and Janine launch into ‘They Will Know We Are Christians by Our Love’. Harmony in the vocals, arpeggios on the guitar. Good tunes, community spirit. It’s not half bad.

Peter is standing now and announces in his euphonious voice: “God blesses and uses those who will be pliable in His Hands.” He and a student I don’t know talk about devotion to Christ, His compassion, His forgiveness, His acceptance, whoever you are, wherever you come from. “Let us pray. Let us give thanks for this space, for our health, for the Love of Christ, our Lord.”  Peter bows his head. I bow mine. Sparks fly up the chimney. The back wall of the refectory disappears into gloom as does the high ceiling.  “Would anyone like to share?” Peter asks.

John stands. “As long as they live in the world, Christians encounter the way of the Serpent and the way of the Cross. I’ve been fleeing the Serpent all my life. Sex, booze, drugs. I wanted to find meaning, to feel something. Nothing filled me the way the Spirit of the Lord fills me now.” He nods, sits down. I look at my lap. Is this “too-cool-for-school” John?  A girl stands.  She was nothing, had no confidence before “Jesus came into my life”. Now she is “saved, filled with His Light”. She can do whatever she needs to do: “He will walk with me.” She sits, smiling serenely.

Sandy salutes us as he stands next to the fire. “People become ‘enthused’ with God, says the New Testament. They’re made whole, their trespasses forgiven. That’s how Jesus came into my life. I had this tremendous feeling; I was forgiven for my sins. Before, I was damned and doomed. Then the good people laid hands on me. It was a rush, a high – the best I ever had.” A few chuckles.  He grins. “I don’t need to smoke or snort or shoot up. Jesus lifts me.”

I shift on my cushion. Getting religion is more appealing than drugs, yes. But I’ve never felt damned. I’m human and flawed, but not a sinner. I haven’t needed to fill a void. Somehow, it’s now cool to be sinner. I’ve never felt a need to be “cool” either.

“I know there are others here whose lives have been touched by the Holy Spirit.” Peter steps forward as Sandy takes his seat. “We want to offer newcomers the miracle of Christ’s love.”  He scans the room. “Kevin, you said you might want to pray with us.” Kevin, a small wiry guy in my geometry class, looks nervous and afraid. “Yeah?” Is he asking if he’d really said that?

“Want to come up here with me?” Peter speaks gently but I’m worried. What if Kevin doesn’t want to? The small boy walks unsteadily to the front. Peter nods to a few others. They step forward and make a circle around Kevin. Janine is with them. A chord sounds; Sandy is strumming his guitar. He says: “And God declared: ‘I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh and your sons and daughters shall prophesy and your young men shall see visions.’” A hand appears on top of Kevin’s head, another on his shoulder. The group closes in on him. Now I can’t see him even though I stretch my neck. The circle sways slightly, begins murmuring. “The Spirit is here, is with you. His Love is here.” I hear some of the words but I can’t see what is happening. I only feel. What I feel is fear. Like in a horror film where a victim is hypnotized, and even if he tries to run away, it’s too late; he cannot. He will obey their commands.

It’s probably only a few minutes later but feels like forever before the group parts and Kevin is rising from what must have been his knees. He’s mouthing “thank you”, looking pale. “Thank you, Lord”, “Praise Jesus,” comes from the group, registering the new convert. Sandy strums chords. When I think she sees me across the room, I roll my eyes at Cynthia. But she has turned from my gaze. Janine is approaching her, taking her hand, leading her forward to the blazing hearth. My eyes widen. I check the impulse to run over; this is wrong, not what Cynthia wants. In front of the fire, the group makes room for her. Her head pokes out from the top. I creep forward, trembling.

“Join the Children of God,” someone says.

“Receive His Soul into your heart.”

“Cast out the thoughts the Devil puts into you,” says another.

“Feel the Holy Spirit.”

Chests are slapped: one-two, one-two. Hands are placed on Cynthia’s fuzzy curls, on her shoulders. She bows her head then sinks into their midst. Has she fainted? Fear chunnels through me. What are they doing to her? I want to force my way in, rescue her. They’re singing to Sandy’s chords now:

“Once I lived in darkness
I’d chosen not to see
Then Jesus came: the Way, the Life,
The Truth to set me free.
But in my fear I tried to hide
My Lord called me to His side
I threw away my foolish pride
And now I know why Jesus died.”

Cynthia’s head reappears above the circle, hair disheveled. Tears streaming, eyes wildly searching the room, she pushes through the band of converts. I step close, call her name. Her glasses are clutched in a fist. She puts her arms around me, trembling, babbling: “Scared – s-s-something happened” – she gasps – “I-I’m not sure I w-w-w-ant this.” Her shoulders convulse. I hug her tightly, whisper in her ear: “I won’t let them take you away. It’s OK, we’re together.”

The group has come over to where we stand. Janine, Peter and the others are patting Cynthia’s back, putting hands on her shoulders. They murmur: “It’s alright, nothing bad is going to happen.” Janine says: “Let Jesus in. He is here for you. He will guide you and show you the way.”

“Leave her alone,” I snarl, but my words are tiny and wobbly and tears spill. “She doesn’t want to be saved,” I cry, my breath shuddering. I am hugging Cynthia’s head into my shoulder, crushing her to me. “Ignore them,” I whisper into her hair.

Sandy has embarked on a new song and voices are joining in the chorus:

“He’s the Maker, the Giver and the Taker
He’s everything we see or say or do
He’s the ultimate conception within the Master plan
He’s the Man.”

Cynthia’s sobs lessen. She moves from my embrace to wipe her eyes with a tissue someone gives her. She blows her nose. “W-W-What happened? I feel strange.”

“They scared you,” I whisper but Peter’s voice is strong and Cynthia is looking at him. “You felt the Holy Spirit,” he says.

“It’s the Devil making you doubt,” says another.

        “A miracle has happened.” Janine’s voice.

        “I felt something.” Cynthia is looking at Peter. He is nodding. I am shaking my head but it’s a small gesture, one that I am afraid to emphasize. I’m fine with Christianity and their warm inclusivity. I like the music. It’s the proselytizing that freezes me, as if there were no other truth, no possibility of dissenting.

At the hearth two students are putting more logs on the fire. The circle and the onlookers are joining Sandy’s song now:

“We’re just a little grain of sand in His hand
And the four winds blow just to let us know:
He’s the Man.”

Fingers snap. More clapping, chest slapping. I tug at Cynthia’s hand and lead her to cushions on the floor some distance from the burning fire. It will be OK, she’s coming home with me, we’ll talk about this, I tell her.

Then Janine is kneeling on the floor beside us. She takes Cynthia’s hand in both of hers. “I was scared, too.” Her low voice is vibrant. “Something bigger than I was began to grow in me. I let go, gave myself up to Him; He will help you if you let Him. I’m glad you’re feeling better now…”

As she speaks of her conversion, her giving over, her love for mankind, a hard knot forms inside me. My shallow breath stutters in, stutters out.

“Now, the best part of the evening. Come close to the fire.” Peter is standing, extending hands to the assembly. Cynthia is on her feet, clutching Janine’s hand. I start to rise. But I don’t. Let Cynthia go where she wants to go.

Peter has shut his eyes. When Sandy’s music fades away, the only sound is the hiss and snap of fire logs devouring the air in the large stone hearth. Peter has begun to sing, a cappella. No, he is chanting, in bass tones. His head is thrown back and his Adam’s apple vibrates in his long neck Strings of syllables come from his mouth. Slow, repeated sounds: “bak bak, lulle lulle”. An African dialect? I shudder and would go nearer to the fire but for the show that takes place there. Cynthia sits on a bench next to Janine, profile to me. She gapes at Peter, mesmerized.

Peter’s charismatic ululations are faster and louder now. There is a drone-like sound. Is Sandy humming? Are others? A whistle as wind pours in above: candles gutter and half of them snuff out, bringing the sooty blackness close. Suddenly a huge log catches the fire’s fury. It pops and spews red-orange tongues that lick the top edge of the mantel. The light is intense, bright as a sun. Will it expand out of the dark maw into the refectory, roar toward us in thick, jagged leaps? Will we be burned? Consumed? Janine stands, Cynthia too, and now everyone is getting up, making dark silhouettes against the blaze. The droning intensifies. Sandy plays one chord, another, and students are humming in harmony, faces passionate, eyes tearing. Bodies rock side to side, arms rest on the shoulders of neighbors. They are all bound up in one.

I am on my feet, fists at my side, body tense, breaths short and sharp. I need to get to her, to save Cynthia. I weave through the swaying crowd until I see her. Then I stand still, legs paralyzed. Her head is pressed into Janine’s long dark hair, she is hugging Janine, her shoulders shaking. I lunge forward, grab her wrist, begin to pull. Hands seize me.  Voices say: “Calm yourself”, “Chill out”, “Don’t interfere with the Lord’s work.” They are forming a circle around me. Christ will heal my soul. Trust the Lord. A sob escapes and tears come. Behind closed eyes I see the little white mice from biology class. I stop struggling, curl into myself. I am a tight ball; their words flow around me and over my head but they can’t go in. I press my teeth together.

 Above the confusion floats an eerie sound, high and thin. The murmuring is diminishing. I look. The circle around me has widened as students turn. Janine stands next to the guitarist. Her head is arched back, her throat working, her mouth, open. Sweet, sustained vowel sounds accompany Sandy’s chords, dipping below, rising above: “ooo, aaaaaeeeeeyyy, aaammmm”.  

I swipe at my nose, hold the back of my hand to wet cheeks. My breaths deepen and slow.

John puts a hand on my shoulder; I start. His low voice is in my ear: “… praying for Cynthia. Inviting in the Holy Spirit.”

Inside me is hard iron. I am desperate to shake his hand away but I know not to move. I must be careful; it’s not safe. I nod, each head wag, a lie.

 When I look at her next, Cynthia is radiant, a beatific smile on her face; eyes closed, she shifts from side to side, arms around the others’ shoulders. After a time, Janine’s chanting softens, fades. Sandy’s arpeggios cease. The fire’s roar is subsiding, its light, shrinking. Trembling, I shove icy fingers into the pockets of my jacket.

Peter puts his hands up. “Thank you Lord for your Light and Love, for coming into our hearts, for sending Your Grace.” He gazes at us. “We will make our way home now. A special evening: thank you for sharing, for being here. Come again. Come join us.”

Everyone collects cushions and puts them in the shelving against the wall. They lift benches, stow them under the long oak tables. “Peace be with you”: we exchange greetings. I mouth the words.

As we walk to John’s car Cynthia puts a hand on my arm. “Did you see her halo? Rivers all around.

“Halo? Who?”

“Janine. When she was singing in tongues.”

Sandy and his guitar sit in the passenger seat up front. I am with Cynthia and two others, crammed in the back. We are bumping down a road when John slows. “Missed the turn.”  Our headlights sweep over two Korean women standing at the entrance to gas station lay-by. I inhale sharply: false lashes, cartoon-style balloon breasts, a dash of skirt over leggings, stiletto boots.

“Moose.” Sandy mutters.

“My dad says the US Army’s cleaning up their camp towns,” John says.

“Good luck. They make too much money for the economy to put a stop to it.” Sandy shoots back.

         I swallow. This is my first sighting of the Korean prostitutes who “comfort” GIs. John drops us at my house. As she waves goodbye to him, Cynthia says to me: “I’m glad I came. I know the Spirit is in me. Jesus loves me. He loves you too. You’ll see.” As we walk toward the front door, she stumbles into me. I jolt sideways as if stabbed: my best friend is gone. We take turns in the bathroom. When I enter the bedroom, Cynthia is in her bed, back to me, shoulder rising and falling. On the bus to school the next morning, she sits next to me but she may as well be on a spaceship to Mars. The world I know is gone, too. I see what I once ignored: the desperate needs that drugs and moose sex and Jesus seem to fill. I get to classes late so I can find a seat away from Cynthia. She catches up with me after English, begs me to come to the next prayer meeting at Janine’s. And to a retreat which will take place at Easter time in The Old Mission. My voice is hollow, my heart hardened when I tell her “no”. The sister of my heart, who loved me and shaped my world, is gone. Slicky boys have snatched her soul.