It is really good and pleasant for the Brethren to live together. I have many new sisters in Yeshua (the Hebrew name for Jesus) who are living like true Christian women should, humbly, quietly, modestly and submissively and with much love. I never knew communal living to work out so perfectly.
Never before have I met such God-fearing people, respectful men so gentle and who keep the camp orderly, and are good in the true sense of the word. They are just like the disciples of old.
It makes me bubble up with happiness and a much deeper love for Him when I see Him miraculously providing for all our needs. No one here works for money and earthly treasures. It makes me really thankful to Him. He has given me so many good things – two new pairs of shoes that fit perfectly, new skirts, shirts, a down sleeping bag, down jacket, a sewing kit. Oh Elohim (God) is so wonderful.
Never before have the scriptures made so much sense. I want you to have peace in your heart, Mom. My new friends are not cult members or deceivers, they ‘divide’ the Word correctly and have not been led to believe a lie.
I have to have fellowship now, and I hope you understand that. I just can’t make it on my own. I tried when travelling the States and found I just fell deeper into my old ways, went back to smoking cigarettes and dope, to foolish jesting and lusting of the flesh, just wallowing in the mud.
(Next day)
Yahveh works miracles for us every day. Very few people belong to this church because the way is so straight and narrow but, if it’s Yahveh’s will, I want to walk His way. I spend my days cooking, washing, sewing, reading, praying and witnessing.
This church teaches things no other church I have met before taught. About taming the tongue, of living humbly, no preaching prosperity, of submitting and waiting on Elohim, praying always, worshipping Him in the beauty of Holiness, bringing up children properly. Never before have I met such obedient children.
I love, love, love you. There was a lovely thunderstorm today. May peace be in you. Greet everyone for me and, if they question, please give them this letter to read. May you be able to receive this with grace.
With love, which comes from Him.
Lesley
While we were on the road, Brother Thomas told me I needed to be baptised. I had been baptised twice before. First in the baptisimal font in the Adventist Church in Westbourne Road, PE, when I was twelve, and five years later in the sea with my Stewart Love. But Thomas insisted it be done again, so I gave in and let him baptise me. We waded into the Eau Claire River in Wisconsin in our clothes and stood there for a few moments while he said a prayer. Then he clasped my hands with his right hand and, supporting my head with his left, lowered me into the flowing water, saying, ‘I baptise you in the name of Yeshua ha Mashiach.’
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON:
We ended up in Seattle after many days of travelling in the hot July sun. This time we went to a real camp. It was along the Interstate 5 on the outskirts of China Town. I was surprised to see that most of the sisters I had met in New York were there. There were many tents, discreetly hidden.
One had to jump over a puddle of water, climb a fence and then find the hidden path to the site. I understood now why so much of our clothing was green and brown. Good camouflage gear!
Brother Evangelist suddenly appeared on the path going up the hill. He seemed to emerge through the trees as if he came from nowhere. He had sparkly, intelligent eyes, dark hair and the biggest beard I’d ever seen. Aged somewhere between 45 and 50, he was the oldest man in the church. We often referred to him as ‘the Elder’.
Everyone seemed to treat him with respect. In fact, I think many of the sisters were secretly in love with him. Often it was whispered amongst us, ‘The Elder likes this’ or ‘The Elder doesn’t like that’ or ‘Be sober! Here he comes!’ We were all in awe of him.
Jim Roberts is thought to have been born in Paducah, a small town in Kentucky. The son of a Southern Baptist minister, he was one of six siblings. After finishing high school he served in the Marines. I suspect this strict military background may explain why he was so big on discipline. He was the one who was in charge of everything that went on in the ‘camps’, dictating who should move where.
Most of us told him dreams we deemed significant. The dreams were interpreted by him and he often used them to make decisions on our behalf. We were a nomadic, underground, subversive force. We were against the world. The scriptures speak of pilgrims and strangers. Well, we were that. Strange, travelling people, often being moved by dreams.
The task of directing the Church was enormous. Brother Evangelist took it very seriously. Throughout the ten years that I was to travel with the Church I came to know him as gracious and hospitable, kind and considerate. In the winter, he wore the thinnest of shirts. In an attempt to please him, sisters were always sewing him wonderful garments, but he would pass them on to the younger brothers and those in need. He has been accused of having a Swiss bank account, which he reportedly used to stash money away for himself, but I am sure this is not true. He was always the one going without, making certain everyone else’s needs were met first. He walked his talk and he walked tall.
Early on a snowy morning that funny noise outside would be the Elder shovelling a path to the gate in the icy cold. Through his example, he quietly taught me a lot about service. I developed a great respect for him and he took the place of dad in my life. My much-missed, adored father.
7
PORT ELIZABETH, SOUTH AFRICA:
I am Tom Smailes’s daughter. My mother, Pat, really wanted me. They laughed after making love, while she stood on her head, to keep me in. It took her nine months to work out my name, Les at the beginning, les at the end, and L.E.S. as my initials. Lesley Elizabeth Smailes. She is clever like that.
My father was the centre of my universe. I loved him like I have loved no other. I loved his shortness and his strong-calved legs. I loved him carrying me on his shoulders. I loved his kind, blue eyes, his beautiful, wistful smile, his gentleman voice. To this day I still find bald men attractive. My dad, mom, elder brother Allen and I moved to Port Elizabeth when I was a baby after my father was offered a post in the English department at the local university. He was a lecturer and worked his way up to associate professor, eventually becoming head of the department.
He was also a political activist and spoke out against forced removals and other injustices of apartheid. His open face and controversial quotes sometimes showed up in the local newspapers. For this reason, our phone was tapped for years.
The stress of all of this eventually took its toll. He had an inherited cholesterol problem and had four major heart attacks over an eight-year period.
To make matters worse, he began drinking. The cupboard in his study became his ‘wine cellar’. He would sit down there or in my folks’ en-suite bathroom, marking papers and drinking into the early hours of the morning, going to bed with his crystal goblet. The mix of wine, anxiety and heart medication eroded his gracious and gallant personality. My vital, vibrant, healthy dad became stooped, skinny and small. No more long Sunday hikes at Sardinia Bay, no more looking for fossils or antique bottles. No more mountain climbing. He sedately played chess with Bobs instead.
Later my dad began an affair with one of his master’s students. When my mother found out about it, I was sent off to boarding school while my parents tried to patch up their marriage without me knowing anything. I am still not sure why only I went, and not the boys. The school
