Even though Davidito is the heir to the throne, I’m reminded daily by my parents that my siblings and I still have the responsibility of being members of the original Royal Family. Our history is not our own—it belongs to everyone—as do our daily lives. The Kidz True Komics illustrate our family line back four generations. Even our first steps were recorded in international newsletters, and every landmark since has been chronicled, photographed, and mailed around in Family News: “Faithy, 7, introduces you to Rachel, our cow,” “Faithy with the pretty marigold flowers she and the other children planted on the path,” “Little Faithy loving up a beautiful Chinese waitress in the hotel’s restaurant!”
The Family is our destiny, and carrying on the Family legacy—saving the world—is our purpose. Everyone looks to us to set an example, and nothing brings my mother more happiness than sharing a note from Grandpa that she received in response to one of her newsletters, which reads, “You good grandkids make me a very happy Grandpa.”
Every day we’re told that we need to set an example because we’re Grandpa’s grandchildren. But then we’re told, just as often, “You’re not special just because you are Grandpa’s grandchildren. You’re just the same as everyone else.” We’re told to be exceptional, and then we’re punished doubly so that we know we’re not.
9
Farm Life
At 4:30 a.m. the birds are beginning to chirp in the darkness. I pop out the plastic mesh screen on the window of the Cottage, crawl through the frame, and silently slip inside Patrick’s room. We take turns waking each other, depending on who gets up first. Sometimes we meet in the middle, at the window, with one heading in and the other heading out. We wouldn’t dream of starting the long day without each other or leaving the other to oversleep and get yelled at or spanked.
I seem to do most of the waking these days. When it’s Patrick’s turn, he’ll shake my shoulder, then jump back out of reach. A couple of times he’s been too scared to wake me, and we were nearly late. He tells me I throw punches or kick him in my sleep. What’s a few punches among friends? I say. I’m not doing it consciously.
I shake Patrick, but he’s in a deep sleep. I drag him by his arms until he sits up, eyes closed, bobbing like a kite. I threaten to pour water on him, but there’s no response. We must get going or we’ll be late, and if we’re late, we’ll get yelled at. As I head to the bathroom for some water, he grunts and climbs out of bed. It takes only a minute for him to pull on a worn singlet and red shorts, and then we’re out the way I came in, through the window.
It’s still dark when we enter the dining room for breakfast. My older brothers look like the living dead. But life returns when Uncle Michael carries in a tray of soggy French toast. They say he used to be a chef before he joined the Family, but I don’t see much sign of it. I join hands with Patrick, and a chorus of wavery voices starts singing grace to a fast tune. It’s really a medley with two songs squashed together, the first tune a little slower, then the second tune speeding up faster and faster.
“Thank the Lord for the food, thank the Lord for the Family, thank the Lord for another day of life. Yeehaw!” I always “yeehaw!” with gusto. It’s my favorite part.
Halleluuuuia, Haaalleluia, Halleluia praise the Lord. Praise the Looroord.
moves smoothly into
Thank You, Jesus, for this food and for our home so fair.
Help us, Lord, to do some good and keep us in Thy care,
and bless our loved ones ehhhveerywhere,
in Jeeeeeesus naaame, weeee pray.
AMEN!”
I wouldn’t dream of not saying grace; it’s a magic wand that will kill worms and germs.
But I much prefer singing grace to listening to the adults say a long boring prayer. Sometimes they insist on doing both, which I privately think is overkill. God heard you the first time. Being smarter, we kids have crafted our own prayer that suits all eating occasions, particularly when we’re so hungry we start gobbling before remembering to pray:
Dear God, thank You for what I already ate,
and thank You for what is still on my plate. Amen!
After breakfast, Patrick and I dash down to the Farm to start our chores before 6:00 a.m. Now that the summer is here, we have about three hours before it’s too hot to work outside. Our flip-flops slap against the cool tiles as we whir past Mary, who is doing dishes in a red plastic bucket. She’s given up trying to fit in with the boys and prefers house chores rather than farm chores with us. I yank open the heavy wooden door that leads to the outside and step into the light gray of early morning.
Uncle Michael walks slowly down with the key to unlock the padlock on the big chain link gate to the farmyard. It is a double gate, eight feet high, made with metal pipes welded together as the frame and wide-hole chain link mesh as panels. The holes in the chain link are about two inches in diameter—perfect to wiggle a few toes into to clamber up and over the gate if Uncle Michael is too slow.
Shebina is not much of a guard dog, but she is always the first to greet us, stub tail wagging. I pet her as she bumps my stomach gently with her head. Rex likes rougher play, and the boys play tug-o-war with him carefully to avoid his long teeth.
We have been steadily adopting more and more animals, recreating my father’s idea of a Texas ranch. Most Family Homes wouldn’t dream of putting so much effort into raising animals as a hobby, but when our father has an idea, he bulldozes forward, and most people are too intimidated to say anything. My father’s vision is justified by the hundreds of people who visit our informal petting zoo each month and leave with posters and Jesus in their hearts. “Now we don’t have to go out to witness; the Sheep come to us!” he boasts.
To the left of the Farm gate is a vegetable patch—Uncle Michael’s pride and joy. He planted it not long after he arrived in Hac Sa, and it’s been providing us with greens, tomatoes, cucumbers, and hot peppers. It’s fenced off on all sides, with a roof to keep the pesky goats and birds from devouring the bok choy and tomatoes. It is only ten feet by four, so give a few goats ten minutes in there and nothing is left but stumps poking out of the furrowed soil—as we learn from personal experience, many times.
Once inside the gate we grab our rubber farm boots from the tack shed, a structure we built from concrete cinder blocks, that sits to the right of the gate.
Patrick is a year younger than me, but at seven years old, he’s strong enough and a good partner to work with. Our first stop is the goat pen: a roof made of corrugated metal siding, a concrete floor with a drain, and a chain link fence surrounding our herd of brown, black, and white splotchy goats. After the great goose tragedy, my father trucked twenty live goats from across the border in mainland China. He told the adults we’d get fresh goats’ milk from them, not realizing it takes a special breed of goat to produce enough milk to collect. We never got to make goat cheese, but we did get an occasional goat barbecue. I learned from my pet goose to never get attached to an animal that might end up on the dinner table.