I prayed that no one got hurt. Long story short, I did.
By Mollie Benn
In the warehouse beside my grandmother’s church in Seminole, Oklahoma, sitting in a fold-out chair with a half-eaten chocolate cupcake, I raised my hand to be saved. The preacher brought me up to a small stage along with the other kids who had raised their hands. He prayed over us. My face was red and there was a giant pit in my stomach. I knew no one there. My Mima was at “grown-up church” in the building next door. I wanted to jump off the stage and hide back in my chair. But if I didn’t accept Jesus as my savior, ask him to forgive my sins, and become saved, I was going to Hell.
At the age of nine, I had already heard of all the sinister things the Devil was capable of. Every night, just before bed when I needed to go to the bathroom one last time, I would sprint to the toilet, just outside of my room, my bedroom lights already off. It was the perfect time for the Devil to pay me a visit. So, I’d hold my breath and do my business as quickly as possible.
When I raised my hand that day, choosing to be saved, that scene kept running through my mind. Technically, I had already been saved before—about half a dozen times—but I was always scared that it didn’t stick.
Even though I didn’t know exactly what it meant, only that I was rescued from being sent to Hell, I stood in front of those unfamiliar faces, telling them I was being saved. I felt their eyes warming my already flushed face. Sure, I loved Jesus, but I didn’t even know him, not really. Nor did I understand why declaring my love for him would make a difference for my path to Heaven. But being saved felt like an obligation.
I couldn’t let the preacher or my peers in the fold-out chairs know about my uncertainty, of course. Not unlike Jesus, they were strangers that I was obliged to please. I was simultaneously proud and embarrassed that I stood in front of them, being saved.
The last time I got saved came three years later.
I went to a summer church camp called Kanakuk, just outside of Branson, Missouri, for three summers in a row. This year was my third—but it was different from the previous two. It was the year I moved up to the teen camp alongside my best friend, Addie. Just as we had done before, we packed giant trunks and got on the bus. About seven hours later we rolled into camp and proceeded to our “teepee”—actually a cabin that also housed eight other girls for the week.
In the beginning, it was business just as it had been those last two years. On the first day of camp, we went tubing on the lake. Then Bible Talk. After that, a foam party where campers swarmed a few big bubble makers. The day ended in group prayer.
The next day, our teepee’s first activity was pool time on the blob, a giant inflatable we took turns jumping onto. Once someone jumped and landed, they’d crawl to the end and try to stay on while someone else jumped and inevitably launched them into the air. Before we started, someone needed to lead a group prayer. Whenever our leader asked for a volunteer, I always cowered behind the other girls in my group. But this time I didn’t hide well enough. Nervously, I gave the prayer. I prayed that no one got hurt.
To make a long story short, I did.
“You broke your arm really good.”
That’s what the doctor said while examining my X-ray at the hospital. He put me in a sling and sent me back on my way. Back at Kanakuk, my trunk was transferred from the teepee to the nurses’ cabin. For my last six days, that’s where I’d be.
I wondered what had gone so horribly wrong. Clearly, my prayer hadn’t worked. In fact, it shot back at me with killer aim. I guess I prayed wrong. Worse, God was punishing me for something. Which could only mean that I wasn’t really saved. Obviously, a person who was really and truly saved wouldn’t break their arm the second day of church camp to be left in loneliness in the nurses’ cabin for the rest of the week.
Still, I tried to make the best of a bad situation and began thinking about how I could get back in God’s good graces. I joined my group occasionally throughout the day, mostly for Bible services and meals and prayers. For the rest of the week, I was “the girl who broke her arm on the blob.” But I didn’t complain. While everyone rock-climbed or played kickball or zip-lined, I walked around the camp, watching. I was frequently approached by campers I hadn’t met. They stood in front of me with gaping faces while I told them what had happened. But at the end of the day, I prayed in my bed alone.
One night, the nurses urged me to go to the barn dance. There, the girls stood in a circle while the boys, on the outside, rotated. Do-si-do with your partner then switch. Every time a new boy would hop in front of me, he’d smile until looking down at my impairment. The rest of our time together was awkward. We could only swing one way. Do-…-do.
The final night was the most important of the week. Bonfire night. The nurse walked me over, and I found a spot. Everyone around me talked to the friends they had made throughout the week while they waited for the ceremony to begin. I watched the fire.
Ever since I’d been catapulted off that blob, I had been wondering if camp was really for me. I wasn’t sporty like the other kids. I wasn’t that outgoing. I wasn’t struck by any of the sermons the camp director gave. Unlike other kids there, I didn’t go to church every Sunday in my regular life, and I still didn’t understand why declaring my love for Jesus would absolve me of my sins and pave my way to Heaven. Sure, Hell was the worst thing imaginable. But was publicly declaring Jesus as my savior the only way out? I wasn’t sure. It hadn’t even kept my arm in one piece. But what other options were there?
Suddenly, the floodlights dimmed. It turned out that this wasn’t only a bonfire but a show. The camp director soon came out in front of the flames, draped in chains. A hoard of counselors surrounded him, each representing a different “sin.” One wielded a liquor bottle, another a plastic baggie of white powder. The counselors weighed down the director with their sins until he finally broke away and declared his love to the Lord. Then the show ended, and the director asked if anyone else wanted to be saved.
This was my last chance to find salvation. My week had to be worth something—so I stood up, right along with a dozen other campers. Immediately, I felt my face get hot. My stomach sank. Even as I went through with it for what would be the final time, I regretted standing. Or I regretted being there. Still, I was saved. I tried convincing myself that this time, it would actually stick.
Mollie Benn C’25 graduated in May. This essay won the grand prize in the Gazette’s 2025 Undergraduate Essay Contest.
