"Acts 1989" by Shana Naugle

1989 youth group

The two children’s leaders Dana and Stan spoke in animated voices about Acts, a book of the Bible depicting the “gifts of the holy spirit”. In this Bible story, tongues of fire appeared above the early Christian’s heads. Stan’s energy was magnetic as he explained the passion of the early church members.

“But this gift,” he paused.

“This gift is available to us. Right now! Jesus is among us and the spirit of the Lord dwells within us. Now, shee ta ma ho ka na sa sew meetra ka. The spirit can speak through us. We call this speaking in tongues ho spaa qua twa ma na ba pa.”

“Now I want all of you, just connect with that spirit inside. Jesus and the father and the holy spirit. That’s it. Now you try it.”

The room stared at him.

The magnetic tension had transitioned to awkward silence.

Dana spoke up from the side, her bright blue eye shadow up to her brows, “You are a chosen generation. You all, mey ska na pa, you all are called to manifest the coming kingdom of the lord! She ma qua sa. Now try it!”

We looked at each other, sitting on the stackable chairs in the window lit room. Then we looked at the short, gray-colored carpet.

Stan was more animated than ever. His face was red.

“Try it now! pwe fa pa Lord come, Jesus in your name, ra ta ma pa na,”

The room began to murmur. But only a few children or teens were willing to make the sounds.

“Dana, what is with these children of god, they aren’t willing to accept his presence here today! ke ka ma pa. Now listen! Every one of you must speak in tongues or you’re not leaving this room today!”

At that the small murmurs grew and group members began to utter syllables loudly, some with their eyes closed, some with their eyes rolled to the ceiling in disgust.

I did not speak these syllables, and my stomach felt sour. I believed in the holy spirit. I had seen my grandfather manifest this spirit, walking around the room and touching people in prayer, praying for healing, or peace, or children.

We would gather in his living room, which was the upstairs section of the church. He would speak in tongues over a church member around the brass tables with glass tops, and velvet couches with huge flowers.

My dad and his brother were drafted to catch those being prayed for. After some prayer, the church member would fall to the ground. Sometimes his legs would give out, or sometimes she would collapse sideways.

The fallen would lay there for a half an hour or more, and the room became filled with bodies woven in between furniture. If someone took a while to fall, my Grandpa would use his hand and firmly pat their shoulder with a chopping motion, and the parishioner would go down. My Grandma would come around the room with dinner napkins to place on the laps of women whose dresses needed extra help maintaining their modesty.

But I knew that threatening someone would not make god’s presence more likely to come. I wasn’t willing to comply with Stan’s request unless I actually felt called to speak in tongues.

“Come lord Jesus she qua na sa pa la,” said Stan.

“Bless these children in the name of Jesus te na ma sha ka la da,” said Dana.

A few more minutes of this went by, and we were dismissed. I looked at my feet, praying silently to god, my stomach clenching.

Jesus, help me understand.

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