She always felt closest to her father, she tells me. Unlike Aunt Madeline, I never hear him say much about the Family. He just focuses on the moment we are here with him.
Mom is so grateful that her family has welcomed us and is willing to help. She feels safe; no one here is going to manipulate her and try to split up her family or take away her kids.
Neither of her parents liked that she had joined the Family, but they knew that if they expressed their disapproval too loudly, they risked losing what little relationship they had with her. Truth be told, Mom admits to me, they prefer the way she is now compared to what she was doing before she joined the Family, when she was involved with drugs; at least she is physically safe preaching Jesus.
Here at Grandad’s, I see Mom relax for the first time since we left Macau.
She finds an old Monopoly set in the den, and I discover she is fiercely competitive. She gleefully wins every game while I’m still trying to learn the rules, until after a few games, I refuse to play with her. Board games, card games, solitaire—who is this woman who always told me playing card games was the Devil’s timewaster?
On Sunday, Barbara drags a reluctant Grandad, my mom, and three curious kids to her church, First Presbyterian of Indianapolis. I am excited to see this thing I’d only heard condemned in the Mo Letters all my life—a real church. Mom thinks it will be an interesting experience for us kids.
I stare in awe at the imposing stone archways and stained-glass windows of the cathedral-like building. We sit in carved, polished pews just like I heard about. The service begins with a choir that sounds old-fashioned compared to the rousing guitar-led inspirations Family Devotions start with. Hundreds of people sit silently in their pews, listening as the preacher begins his sermon. The kids are soon squirming, and I’m already distracted, sorting through all the pamphlets and envelopes and hymnbooks in the back of the pew.
“Shh,” Barbara says to warn us to sit still for the third time, when I hear the most amazing sound—snoring. I look in shock to see Grandad on the far side of Barbara, his chin on his chest, eyes closed. The sound of soft snores is magnified under the silent high ceilings. I cover my mouth to hold in snorts of laughter. I thought he might have been exaggerating when Grandpa talked about church in the Mo Letters, but my first church experience is a picture-perfect replica of his description—including the snoring parishioners.
When it comes time to get back in the camper, I’m not excited. Our couple of weeks in Indiana with Grandad have been unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Living in a System home is strange and unsettling, but I’m sad to leave. Plus, getting back on the road means a return to life in the claustrophobic, cramped camper.
For the next few months, Mom takes full advantage of her Gypsy freedom. We drive up and down the East Coast, staying at different Family Homes. We don’t need much money for this, as a Family Home will always put us up and feed us. She is reconnecting with Family people she hasn’t seen in years. I don’t think she has a single friend from before the Family.
But life on the road is hard. We never know where we will stay next.
I’m the navigator, handling the big AAA maps that Grandad got for us. I switch between telling her which exit to take and stopping fights between Jondy and Nina in the back. I like the wide road and new places. We visit some cool sites along the way: Mammoth Caves, the Kennedy Space Center at Cape Canaveral, even a Grateful Dead concert campground, where I’m given my first tie-dyed T-shirt.
As the weather turns cold, we need a house. We return to the Family Home in Atlanta and ask to park our camper on their property.
It’s here that I first see snow. Back in Macau, when I’d ask Mom what snow was like, she went to the freezer, scraped out some frosty ice, and said, “Like this . . . but different.” When the first flakes fall, I run into the driveway with Nina and Jondy on my heels. Mom laughs as we jump up to catch the little wet flakes. A half inch of snow falls, and I manage to scrape enough off the parked cars to make a tiny foot-tall snowman.
After the winter, the Atlanta Family Home tells us we can’t stay permanently, so we drive our camper back down to Florida, stopping off at numerous Family Homes along the way, looking for one willing to take us in as full-time Home members. Too late Mom realizes we made a huge mistake moving to America without first being accepted by a Home. When we’d left Thailand, her only thought was escape. She figured it would be easy to find a Home once we arrived. With all the Family’s talk of love and caring for each other, we are shocked to find no one will take in a single mother with three young children.
At this time, the Family issues a new rule: all active members are required to live in a Home with a minimum of twelve people. Homes or families who don’t meet the criteria by the deadline will be reclassified as TRF Supporters—a new designation for a person who believes in Grandpa’s teachings but does not live by all the rules, including living communally. What it really means is that you don’t have the dedication to be a full-time soldier of God. You are weak, unworthy.
Our life feels like a game of musical chairs. When the music stops, and there is no Home willing to put us on their Home roster, we are automatically reclassified as TRF Supporters by some nameless, faceless person in WS. We are second-class citizens and completely ostracized. We desperately need a Home, but now that we’re “TRF’d,” the situation is worse—no Home will even associate with us, let alone put us on their register and adopt us.
We’ve been accidentally kicked out of the Family.
How could this happen to us? We are completely dedicated to the Family. This is a horrible mistake! I am Moses David’s granddaughter!
I am afraid. The Family is God, God’s will, God’s army. Am I now outside of God’s will and His protection?
I can see that Mom is scared, too, though she is trying desperately to hold it together. She tries to get in touch with my father, but she still can’t reach him. It’s been almost a year since she last heard from him.
Mom’s punishment is complete.