The Power of Testimony

RUINED
our fingers in order to keep going. Sometimes we had to do goofy
things like balance a sheet of paper on our knuckles to keep us from
peeking at the keys we were pressing. Marty sputtered and steamed
and cursed. I delighted in her invectives, since they were no longer
aimed at me. My dings outpaced hers.
The reason I was in the class was because my mother believed a
girl should be able to earn her own living. “The world always needs
a good secretary,” she’d say. “What’s good for the gander is good for
the goose.” I repeated my mother’s words to Marty. We laughed at
the funny phrase but analyzed it as our fingers raced beneath the
fluttering edges of notebook paper. We agreed that we should be
able to support ourselves. But should women be content to simply
type words that were written by men? We both wanted more.
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While Marty was gone, I gave up on Psalm 23 and switched to the
Lord’s Prayer, which was easier to keep straight. Our Father which
art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.
I was always dutiful. Diligent. I did what was expected of me.
In this situation, facedown on the floor, I knew praying was the
expected thing, so I kept it up. I could do that for Marty. I could
do that for all of us.
Before long the leader brought Marty back, then took Teresa.
The prayer is working. Just Cheryl now, right? Then they’ll have
everyone’s stuff. They’ll leave.
But Teresa didn’t come back as quickly. My prayer loop began to
fray. Still, I kept going. I began to count the repetitions on my fingers.
When I got to ten, I began tracking by tens. I was counting to
stay focused. At least that’s what I thought I was doing. I realize now
that I was doing something more complicated on that dining room
floor. I was acting out a certain theology: God loves good girls, so be
good. Even now. Especially now. Be good, and you will be rewarded.
Eventually the other intruder—​the one who had asked me for
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