We’re All Going to Hell

I heard the news the way all serious public information traveled in my neighborhood: children yelling from house to house.

The missionaries had set up on the corner of my street.

That was all you needed to hear as a child growing up in a banana republic.

The word missionary meant free toys.

Oh, and yes, allegedly, the word of God.

My street had everything: the only school in the neighborhood, the only church, and the only techno dance house, which sat right next to the church.

This meant that whenever missionaries, suspicious vaccinations, or clinical trials appeared, the people on my street △ △ △ including me △ △ △ always got first dibs. Sometimes people did not even know what the vaccines were for. They just heard free and started running.

So when the missionaries came with toys, I ran too.

Usually, the process was simple.

The missionaries asked if you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior.

You said yes.

They gave you a toy.

By that point in my childhood, I must have accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior at least a hundred times.

Not because I was spiritually advanced.

Because I understood inventory.

But this time was different.

This time, salvation required supporting documentation.

They wanted to know if you had been reading the Bible.

They wanted evidence.

A psalm.

I got in line, performed my psalm, collected my toy, and immediately made the kind of financial decision children make when they are poor and morally flexible.

I got back in line.

Unfortunately, I only knew one psalm.

“Wait a minute,” the bouncer missionary said. “I remember this girl. She already got in line. She already got a toy. She already performed.”

Performed.

As if I had tap-danced through the Book of Psalms.

“She didn’t even want to get off the stage,” he said. “And she’s the only little blonde girl I see around here.”

The crowd turned toward me.

“Was that you?”

“No,” I said. “That was my twin sister.”

“Where is she?”

“She died.”

A silence fell over the missionary toy department.

“She died?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Just now.”

“Just now?”

“Yes. They took her away.”

“Who took her away?”

“The dead.”

“The dead?”

“Yes. Jesus said, let the dead bury the dead.”

The missionary stared at me.

“So… dead people took her?”

“Yes.”

“Dead people took your twin sister?”

“Yes. That is why she cannot come forward.”

I paused, because even I understood the situation had become serious.

“At this moment, I do not have any further information to share with the public.”

The missionary stared at me.

“But let us not allow the memory of my dead sister to distract us from praising God. At that age, death was not a medical event. It was a scheduling conflict.

Another missionary found forgiveness in his heart and convinced the bouncer missionary to let me perform.

I began my psalm.

“No,” the bouncer missionary said, narrowing his eyes. “We already heard that one from your dead twin sister.”

I panicked.

Then I leaned into the microphone and improvised the only theology I had left.

“God loves us all.”

I said this to remind him that even tiny sinners were loved by God, after all. The kingdom belonged to the children. It was in the scripture.

And if God’s real estate belonged to the children, then surely one additional small plastic toy could be released from inventory.

I can’t help thinking about how magical that street was.

I still remember when the biggest hurricane in history came through, and the street I grew up on was the only street spared from damage.

It didn’t rain on my street.

There wasn’t even wind.

The hurricane moved around us like Moses parting the Red Sea, except Moses was apparently standing on my street.

Naturally, I believed this had something to do with my supernatural powers.

As a child, I believed I could control the rain.

Other streets flooded. Trees fell. Roofs disappeared.

My street remained untouched.

The lack of hurricane activity gave credibility to the church on my street.

The hurricane had become the church’s first unpaid advertiser.

Unfortunately, my family believed we needed church for salvation.

But their interpretation of salvation worked more like a household subscription service: if one of us attended, the whole family was covered.

I was chosen as the representative. The spiritual intern. My mother watched me walk there from a distance, sending one small blonde child into the building to negotiate on behalf of the bloodline.

There I was, sitting in the front row so God could spot me easily. After all, the most devoted fans are always at the front.

Hell for skimpy clothing.
Hell for liking Coke.
Coca-Cola, he elaborated.
Hell for dancing.

At first, I thought I could survive the sermon.

Coca-Cola? Fine. I preferred grape Kool-Aid anyway.

Skimpy clothing? I only wore what my mother bought me. If my shirt showed my belly button, that was not seduction. That was a growth spurt.

But then the preacher said dancing gave strength to the devil.

I felt cold water pour over my soul.

“No dancing?” I whispered to the person next to me.

“Yes,” they said. “Dancing is evil.”

That was when the spirit of doubt entered me.

Because if dancing made the devil stronger, and God needed us to stop dancing in order to defeat him, then what exactly was happening here? Was God all-powerful, or was God training like Rocky? Was the devil surviving on Coca-Cola and techno? Had my tiny body unknowingly been funding the enemy through rhythm?

So God can do anything, I thought, except defeat the devil while people dance?

After church, I walked home and decided I would not return.

I had chosen the house of techno over God.

I walked home in my light-up shoes, two sizes too big because my mother believed children grew fast and money did not.

Every step squeaked.

Every step flashed.

So not only had I failed as the household representative to heaven, I was announcing my spiritual resignation to the entire street in blinking footwear.

A child is walking alone at night.
A child has chosen dancing.
A child is no longer available for salvation-related services.

I remember thinking, I guess my family and I are going to hell.

But at least we are all going together.