having moved out a few years earlier)—on the same page, united, working toward common goals. The couches were hunter green with tiny flowers printed on them, and they were arranged in one big rectangle, an invitation and a signal that each of us should be participating in these discussions.
My parents were sitting at their end of the rectangle, and when everyone was in place, Mom began with the passage she had quoted earlier from First John. “They went out from us, but they were not of us; for if they had been of us, they would no doubt have continued with us: but they went out, that they might be made manifest that they were not all of us. Don’t you see, children? Josh was here, but he was never of us. We have a promise right here—that if he were of us, he would have continued here with us. ‘No doubt’! But he did not. He’s come to years, and he’s decided that he is not going to serve God in truth. Flip over to Hebrews 10.”
The older ones of us opened our Bibles to the book of Hebrews. We’d memorized chapter ten during a recent summer, including a particularly terrifying meditation on the fate of those who leave the faith. It was full of the promised vengeance of God, of judgment and fiery indignation, and a grave warning: It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God. The chapter ends thusly:
But we are not of them who draw back unto perdition; but of them that believe to the saving of the soul.
We are not of them. Long ago, I had dedicated my life to serving God and His people, and I would not be like Josh and draw back. I would not follow him to destruction.
They are not of us. I comforted myself with these words, searching for every distinction I could find, for any shred of evidence that would distinguish me from my Judas of a brother. Josh was wicked, a coward. He wanted the praise of the world, he’d said so himself. He had denied Jesus, trodden underfoot the son of God. No, I was not like Josh. My heart was fixed.
I will never leave this place.
* * *
A steady stream of visitors poured into our house throughout the day, church members coming to affirm our righteousness and my brother’s wickedness. Their bitter demonization of him began almost instantly, so quickly that I had to fight hard against my instinct to defend him. On the picket line that afternoon, I listened as my cousins referred to Josh as a “punk” and a “little bitch” and a dozen other insulting names. We were planted on the sidewalk in front of the Kansas Expocentre, picketing my graduation ceremony before I headed inside to get my diploma—and though it was still a little strange when my two separate worlds collided, the context of the protest barely registered. My brother was gone, and it was disquieting to think of how my loved ones would have spoken of him just the day before, the same tender, loving words they were now using to describe those of us who remained. I furrowed my brow and stayed quiet. I trusted their judgment far more than my own.
The following day, our family vacation to Colorado went on in Josh’s absence. The nine-hour drive would be filled with tears both going and coming—even from my dad, the only time I can ever remember seeing him cry. But from the moment we returned to Topeka one week later, our tears were no longer acceptable. “We’re gonna make the Lord mad at us if we keep this up,” my mother warned sharply when she came upon me in tears the day after we got home. “This is from the Lord. We must be thankful and praise Him for all things, not just what seems good to us. We have to be in charge of our spirits. You hear me?”
My mother’s words were shades of a sign that would come many years later—GOD HATES YOUR FEELINGS—and correlated perfectly with a passage she called upon often: Casting down imaginations … and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ. We were to bring every thought into control and obedience to God, and our mom was going to help us get there.
With great effort I stifled my tears for Josh, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him. For years, Josh and I had