I’d like to start off by saying that I’m not religious anymore. Not really. I spent too much of my life afraid of Hell and God and feeling guilty about every human flaw I possess. Not to mention all of the hypocrisy I saw from the people who were supposed to be moral authorities in the community.

My family was Pentecostal. For those who spent their life outside of the bible belt, it’s like a soft-core Christian cult. It’s not like Jonestown or anything and it’s an official denomination but the behaviors of the people in the church are very familiar to a lot of readings I’ve done about cults in the US.

Women and girls are required to keep their hair long, wear long denim skirts. We’re not allowed to wear make-up, jewelry, band t-shirts, or anything that could be considered “of the flesh” that would distract us or others from the presence of God. All that was required of boys was that they keep their hair neat and wear proper church clothes.

There were a lot of weird rules too that just didn’t belong in the 21st century. For one, men and women weren’t allowed to swim in the same pool together. Women had to tie their hair up if they were singing on the stage. Hannah Montana was a big no no at my church specifically for some reason. Our pastor was also very anti- TV. Most families threw theirs out to keep the evil of the world from infecting their households.

We once held a bonfire night where everyone brought items from their home that had the spirit of the flesh in them and we would toss them into the fire to cleanse ourselves. A woman I knew, Sister Sharon, took a few polaroid pictures that night and went around the following Sunday to show everyone the “demons'' she caught in the flames.

I’m saying all this to essentially set the stage. Growing up in this environment as a kid, you don’t question any of it. If you did, an adult would be there with a scripture to steer you back on course. So none of the stuff I described above was ever weird to me. In fact, I was obsessed with gaining approval from Sunday school teachers and youth leaders. I’d beg my public school friends to come to church with me so that I could save their souls from fiery damnation. It wasn’t weird to me. It was just the way things were.

I believe I was around 10 years old at the time. Maybe 11. So it would've been the summer of 2005. After a solid school year of A’s on my report card, my parents rewarded me with a trip to church camp. It was a week-long experience on a rural Pentecostal campground with kids from all over the surrounding counties. For a kid who never got to go anywhere without her parents, who was rarely ever invited to sleepovers, this week was a breath of freedom. I got to sleep in a bunk room with other girls, who would giggle and play secret games early into the morning. I got to wander around the campground, free to do any activity I wanted without any adults holding my hand. I had an allowance to buy snacks at the canteen, any snacks I could want.

It was a nice change to feel independent.

At orientation day, we were given a pamphlet listing all the activities scheduled for the week throughout the campground. Lots of classic camp games- tug of war, kickball, frisbee golf. There was also an arts & craft room. That’s where I spent most of my time.

Despite my confidence interacting with adults, I was very nervous to interact with other kids. I’m introverted by nature and to be surrounded by so many kids at once, wanting to make new friends and not knowing how, it was a lot on my nerves.

The crafts room was run by two teenage girls who were very nice. It was quiet and air conditioned. They would give daily projects, accompanied by a lesson on faith or whatever, but afterwards you were free to just hang out and create what you wanted.

That’s where I met Morgan.

It took me an hour to work up the courage to even say hello to her. She was my age, pretty, and had long strawberry blond hair tied up in a giant hello kitty scrunchy. She sat across from me, humming as she meticulously added patterns of glitter to a coloring sheet of the 12 apostles. We worked in a comfortable silence for the first portion of the session but after an hour of sneaking glances, I forced myself to speak.

We talked about anything relevant to two 10 year old girls at church camp. Our favorite bible characters, why we liked art, our favorite thing about Jesus.

The conversation eventually morphed into our favorite books, tv shows, music. Things we weren’t allowed to like that we liked anyway. She showed me some drawings she’d tucked away. They were fantasy creatures, mermaids mostly, but it was an unspoken understanding as to why she had to hide them. We talked until we had to vacate the room to go to lunch. It was so natural how we fell into being friends without ever actually saying the words. We were attached at the hip for the rest of the week and even convinced the girl she bunked with to swap with me.

It was Wednesday when she finally showed me the Box. She confessed that she’d been thinking about showing me something but wasn’t sure if she should.

We wandered off into a secluded section of the campground- an old walking trail that cut through a small patch of wood and over a large creek bed. I could tell that whatever she was going to show me, it was important.

Morgan looked around, satisfied with the privacy, and from her little pink handbag she pulled out a small box.

It was the size of a cigarette pack, wrapped in blue craft paper. On the top were two blobs of golden glitter, which I could make out were supposed to be angels. I studied it a few moments before I asked.

“What is it?”

She smiled, eyes knowing.

“God lives in it.”

I blinked. Confused. That didn’t sound right. I couldn’t help but object. I’d always been told God was all around us and that He was everywhere. Morgan shook her head, confident.

“The Israelites carried him in a box. The ark of the covenant. We learned that in Sunday school.”

I did remember hearing that. But how did she know He lived in this box?

I asked.

“He talks to me.” She admitted, giggling. Like she was happy to finally have someone to share this secret with.

“What does He say?” I studied the little box in her hand, still hesitant.

“That He loves me. He really, really loves us. And He answers questions, too. Watch.”

She flipped the box in her palm and thumbed a flap on its side, opening a small square piece on its lip. It was too dark to see anything inside, and before I could look, she pulled it to her mouth. She whispered something into the box, so quiet that even where I stood I couldn’t hear. She then pressed her ear to the opening.

A long moment passed.

Then she laughed.

“He says your favorite color is purple.”

A chill ran up my spine. My favorite color was purple.

I must have looked as shocked as I felt because she started to giggle. After a moment, I started to laugh too.

The rest of that afternoon was spent asking God questions.

Morgan was our proxy, obviously. I would think of questions to ask, she would whisper and listen, and together we would interpret what we were told. I can’t remember everything we asked (as it was 17 years ago) but here are some highlights:

How did the dinosaurs really die?

What’s at the bottom of the ocean?

Are aliens real?

What’s your favorite animal?

What was Jesus like as a kid?

Obviously, the answers were either straight forward or vague as fuck. In hindsight, a lot of God’s favorite animals or colors aligned conveniently similar to Morgan’s favorites. But at the time, having a direct line to someone we’d only ever read about was exciting.

We stayed there, chatting and giggling until dusk, before heading back to attend evening service. We were still buzzing with energy in the pews and I couldn’t help but take out my Lisa Frank notepad to write down questions so I wouldn’t forget them.

After lights out, we asked more questions. They were hushed, whispered, afraid to draw attention to us from the other girls in the cabin. Sure, it was a church camp but we were the only ones He talked to. We weren’t eager to share Him.

“Can I ask Him something now?” I crossed my legs, leaning closer.

“Sure!” Morgan smiled. “What else?”

“No. I mean. I want to talk to Him.”

Morgan hesitated, her shoulders going stiff and she glanced down to the little box.

“Mmmm I dunno.” She said, clearly mulling it over.

“Pleeease? Just one?” I begged. “You got to ask Him stuff all day.”

A long moment passed and she picked up the box to once more whisper into it. Another long moment as she listened for a response. She nodded her head, solemn.

“He said that it’s okay.” She confirmed, and reluctantly passed the box into my awaiting palm.

A thrill shot through me. It was so different to hold it in my hand, knowing that He was inside. That he would answer me, really answer me. I tried to suppress my excitement. There was only one thing I wanted to ask. I pulled it close and whispered softly;

“Will I ever have a little brother or a little sister?”

I quickly pressed it against my ear, as if I was being timed.

Several long moments passed. Silence.

My excitement flickered. Was I not good enough? Was it only Morgan who was worthy?

Then I heard it- the sound of breathing. It was soft, hushed. Then the voice of a man whispered into my ear;

“Neither.”

My heart dropped into my stomach. It wasn’t fear I felt. It was a dull, unpleasant surprise. Like walking up a set of stairs in the dark and you think there’s one more step than there actually is.

I knew in my heart that He would answer me. But I expected it to be an inside voice, something I was familiar with while praying. An inner thought that felt like someone else. That’s what I was taught to listen for.

But His voice had come so clearly. I felt the heat of it tickle my ear and ghost down my neck. It hadn’t sounded heavenly or ethereal. It sounded like… a man. A stranger. The closest I can describe it was once a man I didn’t recognize called my house asking to talk to my dad about a truck he was selling. Even now, writing this, I break out into a full body chill remembering the sound of Him.

I was too shocked at first to register His actual answer. A few seconds after gathering myself, I whispered another question, this one more probing.

“What does that mean?”

I was more hesitant to listen that time, slower to bring the box to my ear. More moments passed. Morgan watched, her face curious.

There again. Breathing.

“I love you. I love you.” He whispered.

For some reason, it made me sick to my stomach. But devoted as I was, I told Him I loved him, too.

“I told you he loves us.” Morgan beamed as I handed the box back to her.

I nodded and tried to smile in turn. I was much quieter after that, letting Morgan chatter and giggle away until the beam of a flashlight flooded the doorway. All of the girls scurried back to their bunks as a camp counselor rounded the corner, chastising us for staying up so late. I was happy for the quiet. To think.

I remember laying there wide awake, confused and queasy. I felt fear… and then guilt. I had called on Him and then felt afraid. What kind of child of God would do that? He said He loved me and this was how I repaid him? I was horrible.

I turned over in bed, suddenly all too aware of the number of craft paper angels fluttering in the beams above my head.

The next morning at breakfast, Morgan gave me her orange slices. I hadn’t done the best job hiding my distress and had hardly touched my food.

“He said it’s okay.” She told me, her voice gentle.

I said nothing but gave her my full attention.

“He said that it’s okay to be afraid of Him.” She reassured me.

It caught me off guard and I felt a flood of relief course through me. Of course. Of course He would understand. Of course He would. I remember nodding my head and holding back tears. I remember Morgan pulling me into a hug, telling me once again that He loved me.

I was less afraid after that but let Morgan carry the burden of listening to Him.

Eventually, camp came to an end. Morgan and I exchanged phone numbers. As it turned out, we only lived 25 minutes from one another- just separate school districts and churches. My parents were delighted to hear I’d made a new friend, a new Christian friend. I told them every detail of camp I could think of- every detail except for one.

Morgan and I both knew trying to explain to our parents that God lived in our box would be a losing battle. We agreed that He would be our special secret. I would occasionally write down questions to read to Morgan over the phone. She would tell me His answers.

Because we spoke over the phone so frequently, my mom reached out to invite her and her parents to a church fish fry. It was also a way to vet her family, to see if future sleepovers would be appropriate.

We nearly knocked each other out when we collided into a hug in the gravel parking lot. It’d been over a month since camp and we couldn’t stop rambling excitedly. We left our parents to their introductions as we ran off to the swing sets.

“Do you think they’ll let us do sleep overs?” I asked, watching our dads chat under the patio.

“I don’t know.” Morgan hummed, spinning the swing in a leisurely circle. “But He might.”

“You brought Him?”

She pulled the box from her skirt pocket.“I bring Him everywhere.” She grinned, opening the lip.

She hesitated. Then held the box out to me.

“You ask.”

A rush of anxiety.

“Why?” I stammered.

She looked thoughtful.

“I think He wants to talk to you. He’s asked about you a lot.”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. I held my palm open, trying to calm my heart rate as Morgan passed the box to me. My hands felt cold as I leaned down to speak.

“Hello?”

I let a moment pass before pressing the box to my ear.

Unlike before, no time passed before the familiar voice spoke.

As an adult now, I can't for the life of me recall everything that the voice whispered to me that day. But it was hurried, rushed, as if at any moment it would be snatched away from my hand and the message would be lost forever. I recently opened up my grandpa’s bible to do some skimming and came across something familiar to that memory.

The Verse itself is in Psalm. Psalm 139: 15.

>My frame was not hidden from You
>
>when I was made in secret,
>
>when I was woven together
>
>in the depths of the earth.

I believe He actually quoted the entire chapter to me, but with how fast He spoke and the fact that I was 10 years old, it’s hard to say for sure. I just remember being scared. Scared to interrupt, scared of how frenzied He spoke to me. I sat there, petrified, as He whispered frantically into my ear. It must have been several minutes and then He went quiet.

My heart pounded against my ribs. I let out a shaky breath and tried to remember that He was someone I could trust. Out of everyone, He was the only one I could have faith in.

“I’m sorry... I don’t understand.” I confessed into the box.

Morgan and I waited for several minutes. I heard Him breathing, steady and haunting, like the crashing of waves on a shore. Then…

“I love you. I love you.”

Once again, hearing that made me sick to my stomach. But once again, I told Him I loved Him, too.

After that day, we were officially allowed to sleep over at one another’s houses.

We spoke to the box less and less as time went by. It made me uneasy to speak to Him and I suspected that it was taking a toll on Morgan as well. She still carried it with her, but as summer turned to autumn, our friendship became more and more founded on our shared interests.

Usually the box sat on her night stand while I slept over and at my house it was nestled on my window sill. We confided in each other a lot, especially late into the night. Just talking about life with someone your age, about things that confused you… it’s a unique and nostalgic feeling. During these talks, we felt compelled to place the box under a pillow or blanket. It’s silly, thinking that it would make a difference. But it helped to feel some sense of privacy from the all knowing.

Before I even realized, two weeks had passed before either of us had even thought up a question to ask.

Then my mom got pregnant.

I remember her and dad sitting me down and telling me. They were so excited but all I felt was confusion. God’s answer echoed in my ears. How was she pregnant? God told me I wouldn’t have any siblings at all. I couldn’t help it. I felt like they needed to know. So I told them what He’d told me.

They didn’t believe me. In fact, they sat me in the living room for what felt like hours going through every part of the bible that contained a miracle pregnancy. They told me that anything was possible through God’s grace and love. We needed to have faith in Him.

But I did have faith in Him. And that’s what filled me with dread.

I called Morgan that night.

“Ask Him if my mom will have a boy baby or a girl baby?” I instructed, voice firm.

A pause on the line. Whispering. A longer pause.

“He… says neither.” Morgan answered, hesitant.

Just like before. My heart beat thrummed in my ears. I cleared my throat.

“Ask Him… if she’ll have a baby at all.” I whispered, fearful that I would be overheard.

I could feel Morgan’s discomfort over the crackle of the call. I could tell she didn’t want to. But she was my friend. So she did.

“...”

“Morgan?”

Her voice came through, choked. I knew she was crying.

“He says… it’ll die. In her stomach. He says… they’ll name it after your grandpa… He…”

A very, very long pause.

I heard her let out a terrible, shaking breath.

“I don’t want to tell her that.” She whispered, her voice far away from the receiver.

A cold terror settled into my chest. I called her name, desperate to hear what God had told her.

“I have to go.” She whimpered.

A click!

Dial tone.

I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. All that I felt was a dark cloud, an impending doom. I was latched to my mother at all hours she was accessible to me. She enjoyed the attention, happy to brush my hair and watch Disney movies with me as she flipped through baby magazines. I didn’t let her out of my sight at home. I’d never hated going to school more in my life than during this time.

I finally convinced Morgan to sleep over. We needed to talk and I didn’t want to leave my mom alone for a weekend.

We picked her up. It was a quiet car ride to my house.

Once in my room, I rounded on her.

“Ask Him if my mom is going to die.” I cut to the quick of it. I couldn’t take even one more day not knowing if my mother was in danger.

Morgan seemed to shrink into herself. She wouldn’t look at me.

“I don’t want to.” She shook her head, eyes welling up with tears. “You ask Him.”

Dread washed over me. But I had to be brave. For my mom. I reached into Morgan’s purse and felt the familiar shape of it. I opened the lip of the box. It took several minutes to build up the courage to form the words.

“Please… tell me my mom won’t die. Please.” I whimpered, hands trembling as I held the box close. I was shaking all over, my entire body wracked with nerves. At that moment, I would’ve rather someone pressed my face to a stove burner than bring that box to my ear.

Excruciating silence.

Then…

“Everything dies.”

A sob escaped me. The room began to spin. Morgan started crying. I don’t remember sitting down but I ended up on the floor, shaking and sobbing into my arm. Desperate, I brought the box to my mouth once more.

“Why? Why why why why?!” I wept, snot dribbling down my nose. I scrunched my eyes shut and listened for the answer.

I heard Him breathing. Calm. Empty.

“I love you. I love you. There is no fear in love. I love you.”

“No you don’t. You don’t!” I shrieked and Morgan started weeping, her face buried in her hands as she shook her head. Through the other side of the door I heard my mother’s voice, her footsteps. The door knob was already turning when I had enough sense to toss the box under my bed. There was no hiding our grief. We both rushed to be held, totally incoherent when asked what in the world had happened.

We never told her. We made up a story. That we’d gotten into a fight. I’m not sure she believed us. But she helped us clean up, comforting us both as she wiped our faces with a wet cloth. We all curled up on the couch together, putting a movie on. She petted my hair. I didn’t let go of her until I fell asleep.

The next morning, Morgan wanted to go home. I crawled under my bed to give her the box back but she shook her head. She didn’t want it. Back then, I was so angry with her. For showing me the box in the first place, for everything it told us, for leaving it with me. But I know now she was a scared little girl just like I was.

I didn’t know what to do with it.

I held it in my hands, studying it for an hour and thinking about how I was supposed to get rid of it. I didn’t want to destroy it. That felt… wrong. Blasphemous.

I read my bible. The Israelites treated the Ark of the Covenant with great reverence. It was the throne of God, the place his spirit would descend to the earth and speak with his chosen people. It was only ever to be touched by those who were clean. Those who were unclean would die simply touching or looking at it. Even entering the tent it was housed in accidentally was enough to earn his wrath and the offender would fall over dead.

I sat up late into the night and wondered if he would ever do such a thing to me, too.

After days of searching for an answer, I finally settled on placing it in an old shoebox at the top of my closet. Out of sight. Out of mind.

The further my mother grew along in her pregnancy, the worse I felt. She sensed it. Even though she didn’t know what was troubling me, she did her best to comfort me.

“I just love you so much.” I told her one night when she placed my hand over her stomach. “I don't want you to die…”

She held me close.

“I will someday.” She confessed. “But everyone does someday. Mama will be alright until then.”

Despite her efforts, the words did not comfort me. I simply held onto her for as long as I could.

She was 4 months along when she miscarried. I don’t remember much from the several days we spent in the hospital. It was a lot of waiting. A lot of doctors taking my dad aside to talk to him. Both sets of my grandparents were there. Aunts, uncles, pastors, church members, Morgan’s parents- a revolving door of prayer warriors, everyone telling me that everything was going to be alright. Praying.

But I knew the truth before anyone told me.

I didn’t cry at my mother’s funeral. It sounds strange but I wanted to be strong for my dad. He’d lost his wife and unborn son within the span of one horrible week and he was struggling the hardest. I held his calloused hand in my own as he quaked. I knew he was trying to be strong for me, too.

I saved all my crying for that night, alone in my room. I cried and cried and cried. To this day I don't think anything else has ever compared to that pain. After all the crying, I was too tired to sleep. I could only lay there, a hollow feeling in my chest.

A few hours like that, I couldn't help it. I needed to know why. I had to know why my mom? I pulled the shoebox from the top of the closet. The gold of the angels’ faces shimmered under the moonlight as I held the box in my hands. I sighed, exhausted.

“Why did you take her?” I whispered. “Why did it have to be her? I need her. I want my mom back.”

Nothing. At first.

Then…

“Wretched, beautiful, imperfect creature…” He spoke, voice even and hollow. “Suffering is your birthright.”

I was too tired to be afraid then. But now. Thinking about it. I feel the fear anew.

“I don’t understand.” I said, my head resting against the closet door-frame.

Breathing against my ear, the hair on the nape of my neck flickered like spider legs against my skin.

“You never will.” He said.

We sat together for a moment.

“Can I say something to my mom?” I tried, “Please?”

…

“Speak.”

I held it close, like a baby bird, and whispered.

“I love you, mommy. I miss you.”

I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted so badly to know that she was somewhere better. That she knew I loved her.

I was met with only silence.

Silence and the soft breathing in my ear.

A few days later, when my dad was outside mowing the lawn, I pulled down the attic stairs in the hallway. I had always been too afraid to go up there myself. But I needed to feel alone. And I couldn’t so long as I could reach the box. I crawled up into the warm air of the attic, careful to mind the support beams and the insulation. Eventually, I found what I was looking for.

A divot in the fluffy, aged pink insulation. Using the yard stick I’d brought from the kitchen, I flipped over a panel of plywood. My dad had used it before to access some wiring in the walls. I stared at the dark, empty space, yawning like a great beast before me.

I pulled out the box. Even knowing what I needed to do, it was so small in my hand. I felt… guilt. For the last time, I brought it to my mouth.

“I’m sorry… I love you.”

I didn’t listen for an answer. Instead, I dropped it into the darkness below.

I’m in a weird place mentally after writing all of this. It’s an experience I can’t forget but I’m mostly at peace with it. Like I said, I don't practice religion anymore. Any religion.

My family worries about me and my soul and yada yada. But at 27 years old, I’m okay. Gotta say the hardest part about telling this story to anyone is seeing how it lands. Everyone I've told has had a different interpretation of what the voice in the box was, whether or not I imagined it. Whether or not I made up the whole thing for clout.

A lot of my college friends think it was a demon. My therapist almost convinced me that it was an imagined coping mechanism. My step sister suggested a fae creature of some kind.

Those are comforting thoughts.

I think He was exactly who Morgan introduced me to in that creek bed 17 years ago. I don't know how or why He chose to speak with two little girls. I don’t know what He wanted me to learn from any of it.

Maybe learning wasn't the point. Maybe there was never any lesson to learn at all.

I don't know.

And I never will.

But I’m okay with that.