Faking Faith by Josie Bloss Page B

had been the wrong thing to say.
    “Daddy preaches that’s what’s wrong with feminists. They confuse women by suggesting that there’s something more they should want. Something more than following Christ’s path. So they try and have a career, and then it’s impossible for them to juggle having a husband and babies as well, and they just end up miserable and unfulfilled in all aspects of life. God and family should always be the priority. That’s the way to true contentment.”
    “Right,” I said, thinking of my mom. She didn’t seem all that miserable. In fact, she was obsessed with her job and she was apparently damn good at it.
    But there was also the fact that I barely saw her …
    “Do you … disagree?” Abigail asked, looking concerned.
    “No, not at all,” I said hurriedly, and she smiled.
    “Honestly, don’t you just feel sorry for all those girls out in the world?” she asked. “Can you imagine not having a strong father to lead your family and a mother who takes care of the home? To flounder and have to figure it all out for yourself? To not have a peaceful, happy place to live and grow?”
    I shrugged. I guess I should feel sorry for myself. “When you put it that way, it does sound kind of awful.”
    We went back to weeding and were silent for a few minutes. I tried to pretend that I really was Faith, that I really did agree that women belonged at home with a dozen babies and shouldn’t want anything more than that. That all I needed to be fulfilled in life was to become a homemaker and a mother and a support to men.
    But all it did was make me feel sick to my stomach.
    “And don’t you think there is something lovely about having your path laid out for you?” Abigail said, continuing as if we hadn’t paused. “We don’t need to worry about what we should do with our lives, the way that boys do, because we already know what we have to do. It’s the most spiritually fulfilling and Christ-centered role a girl could possibly have. And it was given to us!”
    “Of course,” I said with a little laugh, like it was unfathomable I would ever disagree with her.
    “I thank God everyday that he put me where I am and gave me the life he did,” she said, sticking her trowel hard into the dirt for emphasis. “It’s awesome.”
    I glanced over at Abigail. She had a smudge of dirt across her cheek, her clothes were unstylish and dowdy, and her hair was unfashionably long. She didn’t know anything about current music or celebrities or how to apply eyeliner. She’d never kissed a boy or seen an R-rated movie. She would never get drunk at a party with her friends or dance around the living room of her own apartment.
    Part of me wished nothing more than that I’d been born like her and had never known anything different.
    Part of me wondered why it sounded like she was trying to convince herself that her path was so perfect.
    . . .
    Later that night, after we’d settled into bed, she said my name.
    “Hmm?” I replied sleepily, only half-conscious.
    “I was thinking about our conversation in the garden. Don’t tell anyone this, but I’ve sometimes thought … ” Abigail trailed off. And then, as if she’d found courage, she continued. “I’ve secretly always thought it would be really amazing to go out in the world and help other people.”
    I opened my eyes, trying to figure out what she was saying.
    “Help them how?”
    “Like … poor people. I mean, Daddy and Mama give money to families in our church who need it, or we make meals for a family if the mother is sick or just had a baby. But there are so many people out there, in cities and other countries. Who, you know, need help. So many children who are unloved and defenseless. And who haven’t heard the Word of God. And who are hungry. Not just for Jesus but for actual food.”
    “That’s true,” I said, surprised she’d even considered this.
    She sighed. “Sometimes I wonder who is supposed to help all the souls already