1967 to 1970, Children of God Commune in Thurber, Texas

By Eva Hilburn

A young woman sits in a corner of a small cinderblock box, one of many clustered upon the rural Thurber, Texas commune surrounded by trees and hills far from immoral city influences. An armed sentry patrols from their towers, safeguarding the righteous from the infidels. God looks down upon the fledgling group and sighs.

“And the Lord said unto the Servant, Go out into the highways and hedges, and compel them to come in, that my house may be filled.” – Luke 14:23

On the cool concrete floor, a baby twitches in his sleep. Naked and covered in sweat, the sleeping baby is sick. He’s been sick for days. The baby needs water. The young woman needs water. She is drenched in sweat, her thin cloth gown sticking to her skin.

Get up, her mind screams.

She can hear someone talking just outside. She licks sweat from her upper lip.

GET UP!

She cannot move. Her knees tremble and her bladder releases onto the floor.

GET UP!!

The voices begin to fade until she can no longer hear them.

Inside her, another baby moves, flutters, stops. She’s allowed one gallon of water each day. The empty jug lies on the floor nearby. She looks at the window, the door, the cinderblocks, the floor, the bed. She dreams about the cool air outside, fresh water, a shower, food. No one has come in two days. What if no one ever comes? She looks at the baby again. What if he dies? Is that what God wants? She is tired. It’s too hot. The baby sleeps. She sleeps.

It’s night. The door to the cinderblock box opens wide and three people stand in its tiny doorway. Debra surveys the room. The young woman is sleeping slumped over next to her baby, her round belly protruding before her white legs and bare feet, a bible splayed open on her lap. She walks over and picks up the empty jug on the floor.

“Fill this,” she commands. The jug is taken to the spigot just outside the door and water rushes into its plastic form, wakening the young woman. She looks up, her eyes squinting in the dark. She does not speak. She only watches as Debra walks the length of the tiny room, inspecting its sparse furnishings.

“Empty the waste pot,” she says. “It smells unholy in here.” Again, a dutiful follower removes the pot of urine and feces, making no indication of its vile smell or the flies buzzing along its opening.

Debra notices the young woman watching her. “You’re awake. Good. Have you made right with God? Have you asked Him to forgive your sins?”

“Yes, Mother,” the young woman whispers.

“Have you asked Him to cleanse your soul?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And what did God say?”

“The baby is still sick, Mother.”

“The baby is not sick. The baby is suffering for your sins. God has not forgiven you. You have not admitted all your sins to Him. When you have, the baby will be fine.”

Clutching her pale cheeks, Debra looks into the drawn and sunken eyes of the young woman. Her fiery red hair falling all about her face and shoulders makes her white skin even paler, almost iridescent in the moonlit room.

“When are you going to learn, Hepzebah? God is here for you. You need only to reach out to him, take his hand and let him guide you to the truth. Your lack of faith is your own undoing.”

Tears roll from Hepzebah’s dark eyes. “Please, Debra. The baby is sick. He will die.”

“Murmuring is a sin, Hepzebah. Where is your faith when you need it?”

Debra turns away from the wilted beauty and her ailing baby. The entourage turns and exits, closing the door behind them but not locking it.

Hepzebah struggles to her feet and falls. The water jug is full and the baby needs water. Unable to stand, she scoots along the floor to the jug and pulls it with her to the baby. She dips her fingers into the water and places them between the parched lips of the baby. The baby stirs but does not wake. Again she dips her fingers into the jug. The baby begins swallowing, making a sucking motion with his lips. She cannot feed the baby. There is no milk. Her breasts are flat and her wretchedly thin body barely keeps alive the baby inside her.

The door opens once again and a cool blast of air fills the room. Goosebumps ripple the baby’s skin. His heavy breathing hitches and then settles. A box is pushed into the doorway.

“Nourishment,” the voice says. “Use your faith to ask God to turn this into meat and potatoes. Pray and ye shall receive.” The door closes

Hepzebah pitches back the jug and the heavenly liquid fills her mouth and throat. Water that has escaped she rubs into her face and neck. She looks at the box. Scooting across the floor, she grips the box and pulls it to her. She opens it to reveal rows and rows of round containers. Excitedly, she pulls one from the box and then she begins to gag.

“No … no … no … no … God … no,” she wails. “No, God. I don’t want to die. I don’t want the baby to die. What do you want from me? Why this, God? Why?”

It’s a case of chocolate Betty Crocker frosting. Hepzebah reaches for her Bible and turns to the scripture she seeks. “God give me the strength, the faith. Jesus, I beg you to guide me to your truth. Save me. Spare this baby. Do not punish this child for my sins. He is innocent. I am guilty,” she whispers.

Rocking to and fro upon her knees before the box of frosting, Hepzebah begins the chant that will provide meat and potatoes so that her body can nourish her babies. She must try harder. She must believe with every cell of her body, not just her mind and heart. Her soul must believe. And she cannot believe just to receive. She must truly believe if she is to survive.

*

1967. Susan had just graduated at the early age of 16 from her Orange County high school. One of the brightest in her class, she had studied diligently and faithfully with dreams of being a biologist, physicist, or chemist. Many of her teachers saw her potential and pushed her to attend college. But her father and stepmother would not sign the papers. Until she was 18, she was going nowhere.

Her strict upbringing forbade her from the activities other teens her age enjoyed. Her father was a Jew in hiding and her real mother a devout Irish-Catholic. She was raised on one premise: Do what you are told to do for that is what God wants.

After her mother died, her father remarried promptly to Mary, a woman who clerked at the courthouse. Mary was a stern and structured woman who made no effort to hide her disgust with the teenager who inhabited the home of her new husband. Susan and Mary rarely spoke and rarely acknowledged one another.

Aside from studying, Susan attended bible study and worked as a clerk at a Los Angeles bank. That’s when she met Debra; tall, beautiful brunette Debra. Her sparkling, smiling eyes enveloped and spoke to Susan with a warm, inviting trust. Her entire presence gave Susan a feeling of security and acceptance.

Taking Susan’s hand into her own, Debra spoke. “When you are ready, your family is waiting for you.” In Susan’s hand was a small slip of paper with an address and phone number written on it. She quickly puts it into her pocket.

Days go by and Susan contemplates the words of the mysterious woman. Debra Berg. So warm; so inviting. What was she talking about? My family is waiting for me?

Three days later the woman returns to the bank. She sees Susan and waits in line for her.

“I have not heard from you. What’s your name, Child?”

Susan, ashamed, looks down. “Susan,” she says softly.

“Susan, come to your family. They wait with love and open arms for you.”

At lunch, Susan goes to a pay phone and calls Debra.

“Hello?” A female voice answers.

“Debra?”

“Susan? Is that you, child?”

“Yes.”

“Susan, my child, your family, God’s family, has been waiting for you. Come to the Lighthouse this Saturday and I will show you God’s family … your family, Susan.”

“Ok. Well, I don’t have a car. I don’t know if my father will give me permission.”

“Leave that up to me. I will come and get you. Give me your address….”

On Saturday evening, a large brown sedan rolled and bounced slowly up Crescent Beach Avenue and turned right onto Marigold Circle. Susan’s heart leapt with relief when she saw the approaching car. She called to her father that Debra was here and she would be leaving.

“If you leave this house with that woman, don’t come back,” her father said from the kitchen doorway.

Saying nothing, Susan shut the front door and walked to the brown sedan. Debra was in the driver’s seat. Two teens, not much older than Susan, sat in the back. Greetings with hugs and kisses followed.

“Your brothers and sisters, Susan, God’s children. Your family welcomes you.”

Susan settles into the passenger’s seat as the sedan rolls slowly away from her Southern California suburban existence. She wonders if she will ever again see her father, her cat, her home. At the time, it didn’t seem likely that she would never come home. Susan closes her eyes and prays. This must be God’s plan for her; this must be what he wants.

The ride to the Lighthouse included an explanation of The Children of God, Father “Moses” Berg and their mission to enlighten God’s fallen children; to help those who cannot or will not help themselves; to save souls and enrich the world. Susan knew she belonged; she knew she was home.

*

Three years later, Susan lies huddled on a cement floor praying to God, to Jesus, to anyone who will listen, to make meat and potatoes from a case of chocolate Betty Crocker frosting. Her tears pool on the floor, wetting her bible. In the voice of Hepzebah, she prays and prays and prays.

Hours go by. Somewhere, far away, a baby is crying….

Eva Hilburn is a freelance writer with a degree in anthropology/sociology from Metropolitan State College of Denver. Her mother, Hepzebah, was pregnant with her when this story took place.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, March 12th, 2007 | Email This Post

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