Rapture Practice

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For Ann Maney,
whose faith helped me start.

For Nathan Hatch,
whose love helped me finish.

And for Alice Pope,
who helped with everything in between.

This book is a memoir. It reflects my present recollections of my experiences over a period of years. Dialogue and events have been re-created from my memory, and in some cases have been compressed to convey the substance of what was said or what occurred.

With the exception of my immediate family, the names and identifying characteristics of most people have been changed. Several characters are composites of different individuals, the conversations we had, and the kisses we shared. (Yes. Be warned: There is kissing.)

I hope reading this memoir will inspire you to tell your own story exactly as you remember it. We can never have too many stories—especially about high school.

Here’s mine.

Something you should know up front about my family:

We believe that Jesus is coming back.

We believe heaven is a real place with gates of pearl and streets of gold, just as hell is a real place of eternal fire and torment. From Adam and Eve to Jonah and the whale, from Jesus rising from the dead to the book of Revelation, we believe that every word of the Bible is true—every story, every miracle, every event happened exactly as it’s written.

So when I say we believe that Jesus is coming back, I don’t mean metaphorically, like someday in the distant future when the lion lies down with the lamb and there is peace on earth. I mean literally, like glance out the car window and, “Oh, hey, there’s Jesus in the sky.” There will be a trumpet blast, an archangel will shout, and Jesus Christ will appear in the clouds. We believe that people all over the world who have been born again by accepting Jesus as their personal savior from sin will float up into the air to meet him.

We call this event the Rapture. We believe that it could
happen at any moment and that only God the Father knows when that moment will be.

It could happen today.

It could happen tomorrow.

It could happen before you finish reading this sentence.

It’s only a matter of time.

I am four years old, and Dad is teaching me to play dead.

“Remember, when I pick you up, you have to stay limp like a rag doll,” he says. “If you swing your arms or kick your legs onstage, the audience will know you’re alive.”

Dad is directing a play at the Bible college where he teaches. He has cast me in the role of a little boy who gets struck and killed by a Roman chariot while running across the street to meet Jesus. The chariot wreck happens offstage. Dad explained it would cost too much money to have a horse gallop across the stage pulling a chariot, which was disappointing; however, I do get carried on dead, which I find very exciting. This excitement makes it challenging to keep still.

Tonight, we practiced my seventeen lines at the dining room table, then moved into the living room to work on being dead. I lie down on the couch, close my eyes, and feel Dad’s arms slide under me. Slowly, he lifts me into the air. I concentrate on letting my limbs dangle loosely while Dad walks around the living room.

“Great, Aaron!” he says. “You’re really getting it. Now, keep your eyes closed, but don’t frown.”

I’ve been thinking so hard about not kicking my legs I’ve scrunched up my forehead. When he mentions it, I can feel the tension between my eyes. Slowly, I let my face relax.

“That’s it!” Dad says. I can tell he’s pleased. It makes me want to smile, but I don’t move a muscle because
I’m dead
. Dad walks around the living room one more time, then gently lays me back down on the couch. When I open my eyes, he is grinning at me.

“Good job, son!”

Rehearsing for the play is the most fun Dad and I have ever had together. He is very encouraging and has a lot of great tips on how to look as authentically dead as possible.

In the weeks before opening night, Mom sews me two identical pale green linen tunics with dark green satin trim. She distresses one of them with scissors and a cheese grater, then smears it with dirt and red paint so it appears to have been worn by a small boy who met an untimely demise beneath pointy hooves and chariot wheels.

Finally, the big day arrives, and when I come offstage from my last scene before the chariot wreck, Mom and one of the other girls in the play cover me in dirt and wounds made of lipstick and greasepaint. Once they are done roughing me up, I stop to take a good look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are blackened, and blood appears to be seeping out of my
head, spilling from gashes on my arms and legs and dripping through the tattered tunic. The effect is startling.

I make a mental note against death by chariot.

The student who carries me on “dead” is very strong, and I can feel his biceps bulge under my shoulder blades when he picks me up. I remind myself not to smile, and completely relax in his arms.

My eyes are closed, but I feel the heat of the bright lights on my face when he steps through the curtain onto the stage, and I can hear people in the audience gasp. I love the sound of that gasp. It means what I am doing is working.

After the curtain call, Dad assures me I was very convincing as a little dead boy. Grandma confirms this by running up and clutching me wildly to her bosom.

“That was terrible!” she tells Dad. “I never want to see Aaron dead again.”

On the way home, I can smell the red greasepaint still caked in my hair as Dad tells me what a good job I did. “Aaron, your facial expressions and vocal inflections were excellent,” he says, beaming. “Jesus is coming back very soon, and there are so many people who need to be saved. Folks who won’t go to church will come to see a play. We are using quality biblical drama to reach lost souls for Christ.”

Acting is an amazing gift Dad has given me. It allows me to be close to him in a whole new way—like I’m his partner. It makes us a team. Even better, my acting pleases Jesus, too. What I am doing onstage is not only
good
, it’s
important
.