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The college my daughter went to was so terribly different from our humble Georgia town.  The values were different, I always knew, what with their liberal antics Gracie always spoke of.
         I begged Grace not to attend, and to enroll in our town's community college instead—but no.  She would hear none of it.  She wanted to be a writer.  When Sarah Lawrence accepted her, she was overjoyed.
         I loved to see my baby happy, which is why I didn't outright forbid her from going.  She was always such a sweet little girl, hand-making all my Mother's Day gifts, completing her chores soon as she returned home from school, and kissing me on the cheek each morning when she came down for breakfast.
         Sweet as she was, though, she was not always sensible.  I had to be responsible for her.
         She tried to be pious, of course, the sweet child, but it wasn't in her soul to be a saint.  Her daddy and I took her to church every Wednesday and Sunday.  She'd clap her little hands to the music, and press them together in a mockery of prayer.  She tried, but never quite understood.  It didn't matter, though. Her mama was looking after her soul all along.
         Anyway, I suppose talk of Sarah Lawrence first surfaced one Sunday afternoon.  We'd just returned from church, of course, and were setting down to a chicken dinner.  Paul always said grace before anyone touched a morsel.  I can still hear that prayer so clear in my head after all this time.
         "Dear Father," he'd say, his slight Louisiana twang never entirely receding from his voice, even after years in Georgia,  "we are eternally grateful for the food we are about to receive.  Please bless the food and the bodies it will nourish.  In Jesus Christ's name we pray."
         "Amen," we'd say in hearty unison.  Grace's declaration was always the loudest of all—it was to make up for her lack of understanding of God and His ways, I knew, but I never said anything to embarrass her.
         Anyway, this dinner was much like any other, with my fried chicken, mashed potatoes, greens, and a pitcher of iced tea on the table.  Gracie was a senior in high school at the time.
         After we'd dug into supper, she said, "I think I know what college I'd like to apply for."
         "Why even bother?" jeered my younger son, Thomas.  Normally I'd scold him for teasing precious Grace, but tonight I let it go, too interested in what she had to say.
         "What college might that be?" asked her father.
         "Sarah Lawrence College, in New York."
         "New York?" boomed Paul.  "Is my daughter turning into a Yankee?"  He said it with a smile on his face, but we'd been married long enough for me to know he was partly serious.
         Grace snatched a glance at my face before answering her father.  "Of course not, Daddy.  I'll always be a Southern girl at heart.  But Sarah Lawrence…it has a great writing program, and I think I could get at least a partial scholarship."
         I think I paled then, because my family turned to me with concern.
         I could picture it clearly: my little girl, my Gracie, heading off to New York, getting caught up in the college life, not getting enough sleep, forgetting to put the Lord first.  The list of atrocities kept mounting.  It made me slightly ill to think of my girl leading a godless life.  Without me there to guide her, I knew that's what would happen.
         I don't have to worry about that anymore.  You can't have any idea how comforting it is to know my baby is at peace with the Lord forever now.
         Gracie asked me if I was alright.  I cleared my throat and dramatically took a gulp of iced tea before replying, "Gracie, I don't know if I like the idea of you being so far away…I'd miss my girl."  Such lines usually persuaded her, but this time, her expression did not change.
         "Wouldn't you rather go to the junior college here," I pressed, "so you could stay close to your family?"
         "Well, Mama," she began in that careful, Gracie way of hers that I knew meant she was trying not to hurt my feelings.  "I love y'all, and it'll sure be hard to separate from my family and home, but I'm an adult now, almost…I need to start my life."
         "You're right, baby girl," said Paul, and I shot him a scandalized glance.  "Well, she is.  Your baby's grown up now, Myra.  She needs to go off in the world."
         "Well, I'll tell you what," I said after a moment of silence.  "You go on ahead and apply to that college, but apply to the community college, too.  We'll see what happens from there."
         Gracie's face split into that fourteen-karat grin that was like hidden treasure to me: always present, just waiting to be sought out.
         "Oh, thank you, Mama!" she gushed.  "I just know I'll make you happy!"

So you can see just how my Gracie was—so eager to please, she was quite nearly a pushover, which is why I knew, from the very start, that if some liberal, pagan sap would ask her to join in their satanic rituals, she wouldn't have the gumption to say no.
         I wanted her to stay with me.  In Georgia, there is no evil, no new-age mumbo-jumbo.  In Georgia, there's nothing but good, God-fearing Christians, mostly Baptists, like me.  If Gracie had stayed in Georgia, she'd have had nothing but the Lord to believe in, not falsehoods or devil worship, and if some evil had come to tempt her, I'd have been right there to ward it off.
         Gracie's safe now, of course, but at the time, I was real worried.
         Gracie didn't stay in Georgia.  Sure enough, she applied to the New York college.  Sure enough, they accepted her.  Sure enough, she got a generous scholarship, and sure enough, come September, off she went.
         How could I ever forget that day?  Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and mine too.  Paul and Tommy were stiff and stoic, meaning they wanted to cry, but were too manly and strong.
         Anyway, Paul and me had scraped some extra money together to buy Gracie a real nice, leather-bound and engraved Bible as a going-away present.  When I gave it to her, she clutched it to her chest as if it held her very heart.
         "Thank you, Mama," she said between sobs.  She never was one to hold back emotions.  I gave her one last hug and set her off in the taxicab to take her to the airport.  So while she was in the cab, I guess, she read the dedication page.  I still remember it, word-for-word: "To our Grace Christine: good luck in college.  Always keep the Lord in your heart and mind.  Love, Mama and Daddy."
         Pretty name, isn't it?  Grace Christine.  I picked both out real carefully, since she was my first baby.  Grace means "the love of God";  Christine, "follower of Christ."  With a name like that, you'd think she'd be bound to follow Jesus Christ no matter what, but I guess a name just isn't enough.  You need someone to prod you in the right direction.

Life was different after Gracie left.  I was the only woman in the house, of course, and not having Grace there to help me out was a bit taxing at times, but that's the obligation of being a lady.
         Sometimes, when I had a moment to myself, I'd write Gracie a letter with my fine fountain pen and heavy, expensive stationary with the golden cross embossed in the corner.  I figured this might send her a little bit of comfort from home.  You see, I'd had that stationary for as long as my babies could remember—heck, just about as long as I could remember, too.  All through my married life, it was on that stationary that I'd write my kids' absence excuses, thank you letters, lunch box notes—you name it.  My family knew that stationary well, and knew it was uniquely mine. 
         Gracie phoned home each week, too. Paul and I always looked forward to her calls, however boring they really were at first.  There wasn't much cause for alarm until she'd been at Sarah Lawrence about three months.
         "Now is there a good church near the campus?" I'd asked when she'd finished telling me about some new friend she was making.
         "Not a Baptist church, no," she said in that careful, Gracie way.  "But, Mama, don't worry.  I've still been going every Sunday."
         "Going where, if there's no Baptist church close by?" asked Paul evenly, by way of the extension upstairs.
         "A Catholic church, actually," Grace replied, seeming relieved by her father's calm tone.
         "Catholic?  Honey, you know what they believe…They worship that Pope of theirs…" I began, feeling incensed and betrayed.  Already the Devil was pulling her from the Lord, and me.
         "Now, Myra," said Paul, "be reasonable.  Gracie's going to church every week.  She's only going there because there ain't a Baptist congregation around."
         The conversation veered off onto less controversial topics, but my heart and mind were still focused on Gracie's spiritual welfare even after we'd all said goodbye and hung up.
         I remember the conversation between my husband and I.
         As he brushed his teeth in the bathroom, I said from the bed, "Paul, it doesn't bother you at all that Gracie isn't getting a proper Baptist sermon every week?"
         He tossed me a sideways glance, as if to say, "You still stuck on that, woman?"  But he spoke with his usual diplomacy, especially since he knew Gracie's religion was so important to me.  Paul was always the peacemaker.
         "Honey, you know I'd rather have her going to a Baptist church, but it's for simplicity's sake.  I'm not going to tell the poor girl to drive an hour off campus each week.  It would take time from her studies."
         I hated when Paul and I disagreed.  It wasn't right for a woman to disagree with her husband, so I could never tell Paul outright how I felt about things.  When we did disagree, it was like a ravenous, flaming monster was dwelling in my chest, just itching to burst out and reveal my true feelings.  I managed to keep her contained, though, the sinful thing.  I guess that was just the evil inside me, that's within all women.
         I said in that sweet wife tone that pleased the Lord, "But Paul, dear, don't you think you could at least request that of her?  I mean, Sunday's supposed to be a day of rest and the Lord, anyway!"
         He turned to me completely.  "Myra," he said seriously, and I already knew I had lost.  "There are better ways to use up gas.  As long as she goes to some Christian church, I'm fine.  End of discussion."
         Between us, anyway.

After that I began to call Gracie on my own, while Paul was at work.  She seemed happy at first, that I was lavishing extra attention on her, but when I began to nag about the church situation, she didn't seem so eager to pick up the phone.
         "Sorry, Mama," I'd be greeted with, instead of the usual warm hello.  "I'm in the middle of studying; I can't talk long…"
         I kept her on just long enough to hint at my feelings of displeasure.  After many gentle nudges, though, I was forced to come down on her point-blank, as I'd oftentimes had to in her childhood.  Sometimes, she was too ignorant to take a hint.
         "Now, Grace, I know you been going to that Catholic church for convenience's sake, but baby, that ain't the true word of God."
         "Mama—"
         "Now, just listen a minute.  I know you're busy now, what with your studies and new friends, but I'm imploring you, as your mother who loves you, to take that extra hour to go to the Baptist church."
         "But—"
         "Grace, it's a sin to disobey your mother.  And it'll make God much happier if you do as you're told.  That extra hour will go to Him, Gracie!  Think how much He'll love you then."
         "Alright, Mama," she acquiesced tiredly.

Looking back on what I just wrote about my baby, I guess I came down a bit hard.  Gracie wasn't thick, so much, just a bit wicked, as all people, especially women, are.
         Now, I'm just as much a woman as she was, but you see, I'm a pious woman, a God-fearing, hard-working woman who's dedicated her humble life to the Lord.  I made many sacrifices for Him, just as a mother should.  I put my family before myself, spent hours in the kitchen making their meals just right; stayed in on warm, beautiful days to clean while the rest of them frolicked outside; and of course, the ultimate womanly duty: birthed two beautiful babies in complete natural agony, as the Lord commanded it to be.
         Now then, for all my offerings, I did receive something in return: wisdom from the Lord our God.  Now, this wasn't the type of wisdom that is just showing-off, or unnecessary, earthly intelligence, but moral wisdom: I've always known just what is right and what is wrong.  I try always to act rightly, and Jesus has blessed me with a healthy family and prosperous life.
         Anyway, you could say Gracie was lucky to have a mother such as me, especially since she had such a weak-moral fiber.  It wasn't her fault, or mine, just the way she was born.  Couldn't overcome it, either.  Not strong-willed enough.  I overcame it for her.  I was her guardian angel of sorts, if I can say so humbly.  I kept her on the path of righteousness, even when it would seem she was out of my reach.  And now, thanks to me, she rests with our Lord, safe from final damnation.

I discovered Gracie was lying to me by accident.  One day when she called, I was just stepping into the shower, so Paul talked to her alone.
         After I was finished, I asked Paul how she was.
         "Oh, she's alright," he replied easily.  "She thinks she did alright on the test she just took; church has been going fine."
         "See, what I tell you?" I said happily.          
         "What do you mean?"
         "I mean, I told you she should be going to a Baptist church."
         Paul looked puzzled, and my face fell.
         "She didn't mention anything about a Baptist church," he said, as if I didn't already know.
         So that's how I knew.  I was angry, of course, but most of all, I was scared.  Scared because I knew I really had lost her.  Going to a non-Baptist church was one thing, but lying about it, to your own mother?  I knew she was slipping into Satan's evil clutches, and I had little time to save her.

Gracie came home for Thanksgiving.  Tommy was, against what he'd vowed, happy to see her home again where she belonged.
         It was just the four of us that Thanksgiving.  Gracie even helped me prepare the stuffing and the mashed potatoes.
         "I've missed doing a woman's work," she trilled happily, mostly for my benefit, I'm sure.
         "What sort of work have you been doing, then?" I asked somewhat darkly.  She still didn't know I knew of her transgressions.
         "Well…" she seem flustered.  "A student's work, I suppose you could call it.  Studying, taking tests, working on assignments…that sort of thing.  There ain't any cleaning involved, really, or cooking."  Here, insert a silly smile.  "I've missed your cooking, Mama.  I've been mostly living off Ramen noodles."
         "Well, student work is fine," I said seriously, ignoring the safe vein of conversation she'd attempted to follow, "but what about the Lord's work?"
         "You mean missionary work?" she asked, pausing in her peeling of the potatoes.
         "I do."
         "Well, Mama, you know I've thought about it," she carefully lied in her Gracie way, "but I'm far too busy with school just now."
         "Too busy for the Lord?" I asked simply.          
         She looked pained.  "Well, of course not…but Mama, I can't just up and leave."
         "No, you're right," I said evenly.  "But what if you finished out the year, then left?  We've only paid one year's tuition, and I could sign you up.  The mission is set for June."
         I committed a sin here.  I was lying.  There was no mission our church was planning, not in June, anyway, and I had no intention of signing Grace up.  To tear a leaf from the Good Book, I was testing my daughter, much like the Lord tested Job, and Satan tested Christ.  I was testing my daughter's devotion to the Lord: if she agreed to leave school and go on this supposed mission, I'd know her heart belonged to the Father, and me.  If not, well…
         "Mama, I…I…" She seemed greatly torn.  "I can't do that," she said finally, with a firmness and finality that nearly knocked me flat with surprise.
         "Why ever not?"
         "I have plans, Ma," she said, turning to me and grasping my hands in hers, suddenly ardent.  "I'm going to be a writer.  I love college!  I need to stay here and train for what I want to do with my life.  Maybe later on, I'll do the Lord's work…but now, I need to focus on me."
         The truth of her nature came out then, and the truth was ugly.
         I tore my hands from hers.
         "What makes you say this!" I cried, and she backed away, wounded.  "What has made you turn away from the Lord and I?  Is it that college, that Yankee state?  The people you're meeting?  What is it?  Tell me, Grace, so I can remove you from its evil presence immediately!"
         Tears were now rolling down her cheeks, but I felt no pang of guilt or tenderness as I normally would have.
         Go on, whispered the Lord.  Beat her down.  Set her right.  Make her cry.
         I opened my mouth to say more, but then Paul popped his head into the kitchen.  Grace instinctively wiped at her tears.
         "Ladies, time's a-wastin'," he said cautiously, eyeing us both before closing the door.  In his typical fashion, he did not even mention my shouting, or Gracie's swollen, red eyes.  He always did his best to avoid direct conflict.  Dear Paul, how I miss him now.
         Grace and I finished the rest of the dinner in silence.
         At the table, Tommy chattered anxiously to Gracie, wanting to know what college was like and all.
         She answered with great caution, casting a sidelong glance at me as she spoke.  I didn't say anything.  There was nothing more to say.  I had to save her from slipping into eternal wickedness, and from that point onward, I knew just what I had to do.  It was my job.

I'm weary now.  The food here isn't home-cooked or hardy: everything is either reconstituted, frozen, or canned.  There is no privacy and no one ever comes to visit me.  Worst of all, there's nothing to read, not even the Bible.  The Lord, who I am here for, has not even provided me with His Good News.  But that's okay.  I know I'm heaven-bound no matter what.  I saved my daughter's immortal soul from Satan, and the Father prepares a special place for His warriors.

         It was Tommy's frightened shouts that woke me up the morning after Thanksgiving.  I'll never forget his little white face, so full of fear and confusion, eyes brimming with tears.
         Paul sprang from the bed and slipped on his thick terry cloth bathrobe; I followed after slowly putting on my house shoes and my own robe.
         I followed that hallway I'd walked so many times, to the room three doors down, to the left of the bathroom: Gracie's room.          
         The walls were still painted pink, and I remember that struck me funny as we went in.  As Paul began to shout and tremble with despair, I recalled that Gracie's favorite color was green, not pink, last time she'd mentioned it. She'd never asked to repaint her room.  She was too eager to please, I guessed, and to be happy with what she had, all to please me.  What a sweet girl.
         When I saw her on the bed, she looked beautiful: calm and peaceful, just like the times I'd peaked in on her during her childhood, only a bit older, and more still.
         There were no signs of a struggle, only that there was no pillow beneath her head.  The soft old pillow she'd insisted to take on every vacation and to each slumber party rested carelessly on the floor.
         I think I said I'd call the police, and left the room.          
         Not just the police, but the paramedics and fire department came.  A whole brigade for my modest, shy Gracie; she would have been so embarrassed.
         It was a policeman that noticed the note, tucked oh-so-carefully between the flannel sleeve of her nightgown and her lily-white wrist.  There was a gold crucifix embossed in the upper-right hand corner of the thick, cream-colored paper: a special piece of stationary for a special message.
         "She is saved," the man read aloud.
         Paul took the note, and all he had to do was glance at the stationary.

I can still see his face at that moment, the perfect picture of shock and anguish as he looked at me: even now, after fifteen years have passed.
         I lost my family that day, but it didn't matter.  My daughter—my sweet, ignorant daughter, was saved.  Her guardian angel came through for her, after all.

Fin