Horse Camp Read Free Page A

had a lot of horses, and we’d probably be riding around every day like regular cowboys. My mom also tried to make the farm sound more appealing by telling me it was an organic farm, and that I’d be learning a lot about self-sustainability and going green. I’ve been to Bible camp and Jesus camp and the Little Saviors Camp and youth ministries camp, where they always had a point or a message. There’s no point to us being at Horse Camp. What’s more, the horses are very dysfunctional, and I, for one, would never ride them, for the simple fact that they are both clearly safety hazards. As far as the organic farm goes, it’s much dirtier than I imagined it would be, and I have a hard time dealing with things like manure.
    So far, I just keep myself busy by cleaning up the house. One thing about me is that I’m very, very neat and clean. You can’t be too careful about germs, which are everywhere! Bleach and rubbing alcohol and hand sanitizer are very important to me. I also think personal hygiene is very important. I’ve seen how little parasites and germs and diseases can make a person really sick and even kill him or her.
    Percy takes a shower only once or twice a week, which nearly drives me crazy. But since he’s my age, I can’t really do anything about it other than tell him he smells like rancid chicken soup and show him photos of awful skin diseases to scare him. I’m sure he’ll get an infection from that cut on his chin that Stretch just duct-taped together.
    One good thing about being here and being perpetually B-O-R-E-D is that I have plenty of time to reflect and pray. I’ve been praying for a long time for the gift of tongues or the gift of healing like Dad has, but so far, it’s not happening. I don’t know why the Lord won’t give me a sign that I’m in His grace! It’s very frustrating. I love Jesus so much, and I try to be grateful for the gifts He’s given me, one of which is a very good memory. I remember everything and can tell you exactly how Mom ruined our family. A couple of days before we kids were sent here, I overheard Mom and Dad fighting.
    Mom: Allen, cut the bull! (Can you imagine saying that to a minister?!) You may fool the parishioners, but I’m not buying the Holy-Rolling act anymore. I’m through!
    Dad: Danielle, without me you cannot survive financially or spiritually. You are an empty woman.
    Mom: Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m taking the kids, and I’m getting out of this crazy life.
    Dad: Neither the children, nor you are going anywhere.
    Mom: What’s that supposed to mean?
    Dad: No court will give the children to an unstable criminal like yourself. If you want your children, you’ll stay right where you are and take your proper place in the front pew and at my side when I need you. You’re the one on trial. Remember? You need me.
    Mom: I can’t, Allen! I don’t believe the things you say. I don’t like what you stand for. You’re a poser, a faker, and I’m not going along with it anymore. You’re taking money from people who’ve worked hard to earn it.
    Dad: The money is donated for the church.
    Mom: (Interrupting, again .) But you are the church!
    The church’s success is your success. The money is for you, for your ego. The bigger the church, the bigger the man.
    Dad: Well, you’ve not complained one bit about the life we’ve lived.
    Mom: Well, I’m complaining now. Consider this an official complaint.
    And on and on it went. Mom told Dad that she questioned his very belief in his own religion. She called him a money-hungry poser about a hundred and four times. She said he just watches televangelists and then copies basically everything they do, particularly their faith-healing techniques. Then she started shaking and raising her arms and mocking him in a low, rumbly voice like Dad uses: Do you believe? Do you believe you