I was recently, in a conversation with Georgia, referring to the snake in the Garden of Eden, and she looked perplexed, so I clarified, "Remember, when Adam and Eve lived in the Garden of Eden?"
Georgia rolled her eyes. "Becca, I don't have any idea what you're talking about."
I started laughing out of sheer astonishment. It's true that the family doesn't attend church down here in Montezuma and the last time they attended regularly she was quite small. I just can't help but wonder what Mama and Big Jim would have thought had they been able to foresee this, their youngest's ignorance in the matters of God and the Bible, back when George was born eight years ago. Wow, eight years ago we were still living in Columbus with Big Jim's parents, twelve people in impossibly small quarters, with no visible end in sight after having lived in those conditions for six years. I can't believe how many dreams have come true since then, but, oh, at what a steep price they have come!
Eight years ago the family spent an hour in the morning together, reading Psalms and praying and learning our hymn and verse of the week and then at least that much time in the evenings in Bible studies led by Big Jim - who, let me assure you, was NOT gifted in the area of teaching. He would drone on and on and follow rabbit trail after trail. One night a week was designated Testimony Night, another Prayer Night, and then we also "home churched" on Sunday mornings if we happened to be between churches - which was often. When I look back on those years, I feel like I spent most of my time back in Mama and Big Jim's room, that unfinished dark room with one mere tiny window set high in one wall, prison-like. Mama would be in her rocking chair, we kids lined up on the couch or sprawling on the bed or floor. At least I didn't sleep back there as well, like the boys and Georgia did. Not that they knew anything else - Clay was three when we moved down there and Josiah just one. They had no idea, those poor tow-headed boys, that there was anything unusual or unhealthy about our lifestyle.
I often think what a hey-day the Department of Family Services would have had had they stumbled upon that shoe box of a house on Ventura Drive. We of course, as a homeschool family, had grown up on the horror stories, the destruction the Department had wrought on other such innocent families, but in this case I wouldn't blame Family Services for being concerned about our situation. We were stacked in where ever there was room. I shared a tiny room with Melody and Jewell. Jim had his own room by virtue of being insane, but the poor three younger boys had to live in the same room as the parents and the baby. Big Jim had become inventive in the sleeping arrangements when the couch and floor and crib were occupied and designed a nifty little pallet on chains that swung down from the wall at night for Sam.
The reason we supposedly were living with Mama Jean and Daddy Al was for Big Jim to minister to his father, who had had a stroke and was wheelchair bound. Big Jim always violently denied accusations of mooching, but since he never held a single job that whole time and his mother supported all of us, one could be forgiven for suspecting as much. Big Jim’s line was that his mother was only reimbursing him for the job of taking care of his father. I always wondered why he was so enthusiastic about doing the right thing by his father when his first responsibility was to his wife and eight kids.
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