WAS I GOING TO BE BEATEN UP?

Dale said I could not read a room. But I could read Mr. Jennings that night! I'd notice people, but there'd be a 'group mood', one that Dale said I would often miss. That afternoon after church, Dale had called me at home - very unusual as we were very disciplined in not imposing on each other's free time, away from work. Dale had wanted to know who that family had been, The Jennings. "Dude, I don't think you'd noticed, but boy did Mr. Jennings ever glower at you! Who are they?"

And then, hours later, Philip Jennings was standing in my door, with a dark empty church echoing behind him, and no exit for me. (Dale later claimed that this was later in the month. His diaries and mine did not agree.) It was true, I could not read a room, but I could read this. Everything about him filled me with fear, and he'd not said anything yet. It was his glare. This reminded me of some of those times down in Ecuador, we'd be at a protest, and then some scuffling would break out. Then off to one side we'd see some commanding officer just glaring at us. With hate. Especially for us gringos, we'd not known the lay of that kind of land, the locals would have to explain it to us. It rarely ended well.

Then, with God as my witness, Mr. Jennings threatened me. Not so much in what he said, although he did say that I was to stay away from his daughter. He said it in the tone of voice reminiscent of a man confronting his wife's paramour. He accused me of stealing $600 from her. I offered to pay it back, as it had been a donation to our overseas projects. Naively, I told him that as a church, we could not turn her away, although I did recognize parental authority. But it was his continuing, menacing manner which made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I'll remember my own words until the day I die, "Are you really going to beat me up?" I actually don't know why I said that. They were really lame 'last words'. (I'd not written them in the diary.)

Going where fools fear, I observed out loud that the issue was not the money, but his anger. It may not have been wise to accuse an angry man of being angry. But it reminded me of the anger of a young El Salvadoran woman, exiled to Ecuador who'd killed multiple people back in her home. Soldiers. Bureaucrats who'd signed off on her own father's assassination. She'd had an anger born of moral injury to her sense of values - "I hate them for what they've made me become."

As scared as I was, I should have been more scared. I think I presented as calm to him, but internally I was anything but. A lot of that evening was humourous. I'd survived tense situations in Latin America, and here in sedate Alexandria, Virginia - I imagined I was going to get rubbed out by an irate father of a teenager. I further imagined that they'd never find my body. That was funny. I have no idea why my fears went there. It was all in his body language.

And then, later. Even weirder.

Later, the Jennings invited me and Alice over for a casual dinner. To their otherwise placid, middle-class home in nearby Falls Church. What could be more normal than parishioners inviting their pastor for a meal? Once there, there was even less remarkable about the family - nothing. Which is why the evening of March 7th had been even more remarkable. At dinner I felt a tad crazy; was **this** placid, meek and mild Philip Jennings the man who'd intimidated me so some nights' earlier? No, it couldn't be. The guy at dinner was an expert on BBQ maintenance, as well as group-coupon rates for travel. Mr and Mrs Jennings owned and operated Dupont Circle Travel Agency in D.C. It seemed to be doing well. Mrs. Jennings was a great cook, and by appearances a fabulous housekeeper, who also worked full-time outside of the home. Who smiled a well practised middle-class housewives' smile.

It was as if nothing had happened late that night on March 7th. Was I crazy?

JENNINGS FIND RELIGION

It was such a 'one-off'; so I pressed on, which is what I'll do with this narrative. Press on. Try not to telegraph too early just how enmeshed and intoxicated with the narrative I was to get.

It had been Zach's idea to bring the youth group to the next anti-nuclear rally we were busing to, at a military base in Pennsylvania. As part of the larger peace-group's planning, I had been nominated to be chained to the front-gate fence and be arrested. At the time I was the only one on the organizing committee without children. Dale would cover for me at Reed Street if my incarceration was extended.

Our peace group planned out all that stuff ahead of time, often handing our plan to the local police on our arrival. The police would respect our right to protest (usually) but things went easier when we then told them what we were going to do, and then actually did it. It made us seem respectful to them.

Often, they'd point to the place in our timeline when we'd be arrested. One sheriff said he knew how many officers to deploy based on it all, and that he'd always appreciated the 'heads up'. One sheriff had once asked us if we would consider cutting back on our numbers because he, himself, was short on officers. We countered with, "Yes, we'll cut back, but you have to give us an extra five minutes with the media." Which he did. On the drive back to the lock-up, he said, "I wish all demonstrators were like you."

But we also let the parents of our youth group know that in no way, shape, or form would the teenagers be allowed to be in harm's way. If any of the teens got too close, the good sheriffs would warn us and we could take corrective action to keep them safe.

And surprise, surprise, Paige Jennings was allowed to come along. During the trip Paige confided in me some of the strange and distressing behaviour on her parent's part - nothing that rose to the level of what came out later, but distressing nonetheless. I mean, if I'd felt crazy after just one encounter with her father, what was it like growing up in a home like that? She was one troubled young woman.

Her raw intelligence made it worse. Abandonment issues? She'd always had a roof above her head and had always done well in school. To be clear, I never once suspected either physical or sexual abuse in the Jennings' family. But….. whatever it was, 'worse' might not be the right word, but at the time I was stumped as to an alternate word to apply.

I'd experienced a bit of it. I was getting hooked by it. Intoxicated and obsessed. One minute her parents are bland suburban residents, smiling vacuous smiles - the next they appear in your doorway prepared to inflict serious damage. It would have been far more calculated than a simple crime of passion. Ack. It's driving me crazy just typing it here.

And then, they once again put you to sleep. Dale would rightly say that I had trouble reading both rooms and people, but looking back on it - 20/20 hindsight - that's what had happened. One day I was threatened by a man who had all the manner of a serial killer (am I being melodramatic?) who knew his business, and the next I saw him fumbling with invoices at his travel agency and being a pal to his next door neighbour, the FBI agent.

Yes, the FBI. Next door. More on that later. Just like what you'd expect at every Falls Church, backyard picnic. But I'm getting ahead. Sorry.

If that had been my hair-standing on my neck reaction, what was it like growing up in that home?

ELIZABETH JENNINGS

And Elizabeth Jennings. I may not have noticed before, but by November 1982 I started to see Mrs. Jennings accompanying Paige to some of the Saturday work-bees at the church. Most of the previous Sundays, Mrs. Jennings had been in the pew with Paige, smiling that smile that you see in every 40-something Falls Church housewife, one that telegraphed that the most complex thought she'd ever had was a muffin recipe. Although Elizabeth was as much a part of the travel agency as her husband.

Dale Woods be damned, what I was 'getting' from Mrs Jennings, was that behind that suburban-wife facade, was a laser focus. In what little she said, it was clear she was hyper-aware of her surroundings, while trying to feign a level of upbeat vacuousness that, once you got to know her, seemed…. well, feigned. I'd like to say I'd figured all that out at the time, but that would be an exaggeration. At the time, it was part of the unsettling and addicting mix that the Jennings had.

It would have been better if the Jennings had been part of Dale's work at Reed Street, not mine. I always distrusted myself on these things. And at my most conspiratorial, it was almost as if they actually played on that shortcoming of mine. Sheesh, Dale would have had this figured out with less keystrokes.

As I was to find out they, themselves, had a large load of travel burdening them. Burdening Paige and her brother. Burdening them as a family unit. As I got to know Paige, she'd spent many nights well past midnight into the morning alone at home with her younger brother, where she had no idea where her parents were. It both bothered her and yet it didn't. She'd not known any different. With her smarts, she'd long since rationalized it away. But with her smarts, she beat herself up not being able to figure it out. It made her crazy.

Paige had a memory of being 10, and for a whole week had got herself as well as Henry off to school - dressed, with a lunch and homework done. She'd not said anything to her teacher because she did not know this was abnormal. On their equally abrupt return, the parents had not said where they'd been. For those missing days, Paige had had no contact number, nothing. They were just gone. They returned just as suddenly as they had left, her mom was "short tempered" and seemed to be trying to hide a limp. Had a bruise on her face. Didn't even ask how the week had been for the 10 year old and her younger brother.

That one, Paige had told me about on the bus to the anti-nuke rally. On the bus she also said that her mom and dad supported one another above all else, but not either herself or Henry. She said, "They love each other, they really do. They protect one another. Just not me or Henry. Don't worry, Pastor Tim, I'm fine with that." I did not believe her.

Paige had eventually asked questions, esp. as she noticed that other girls at school had 'normal' parents. And each time she asked, she felt even more disoriented and crazy because of the answers - or evasions, as Paige would eventually call them. Lies. I knew all about that, and at the time I'd only known them for six months! It ended up with Paige doubting her own formidable senses & skills, highly keen for a teenager, but more than equally weighed down in traumatic doubt.

Then in early December, Paige stunned even me. She came into my office quite determined. In the church she'd finally found meaning. In Jesus she had finally found the antidote to suffering. Suffering would not be erased in Jesus, but it could be turned to the good. On that thought, Paige said, she'd been converted. To Jesus.

She wanted to be baptised.