Red Flag for Apocalyptic Bedtime Stories

A series on Purity, Patriarchy, and Reclaiming Goodness

Photo by Klim Sergeev on Unsplash

My grandma would visit us a few times a year from the beautiful coast of North Carolina. Her skin was tanned, soft, and smelled of Pond’s Peach Cold Cream. I would sit on her lap as she told me about her upbringing and sang Jesus songs while she bounced me on her knee. There, with my head nestled into her warm body, I would stroke her forearm in awe of the wrinkles that were soft as silk.

In the evening, after I turned off my light to sleep, my grandma would come in while my eyes were groggy, turn on the bedside lamp, and say, “Megan, I want to share something with you.” Kneeling at the edge of my bed, she would open her thick and worn leather bible to the Book of Revelations. 

I knew this strange book well since she had been doing these late-night readings and prayer sessions with me as early as six years old. With a theatrical voice and hand gestures, she shared stories of skies raining with fire, a beast with seven heads descending from the clouds, and an earthquake that would split the entire Earth in two and swallow you whole. Though they terrified me, there was a part that loved these stories, the wildness, the fantastic nature, and yet they made me tremble at the telling of them. 

Well into my late twenties, I slept with the light on and covers piled over my head for fear I would see the devil’s mark imprinted on my wall or a large angel apparition hovering over my bed warning me of something to come. There was so much layered imagery from my Grandma’s life and this book of Revelations that personalized the text from something dark and strange to something real and lived.

There, in my quaking, my dear Grandma would offer me a remedy to the fear. “Megan, do you want to be saved? Do you want to go to Heaven with me when the trumpet calls?” The trumpet call story always followed the horror ones. It goes something like this: At any given moment, a trumpet will ring from the sky, and those who follow Christ will be taken up, and those who do not will remain with the impending darkness. 

“You don’t want to be left behind when God calls and your family rises to meet him, do you?” My head would shake “no” wildly, eyes wide and desperate. There, she would hold my hands and pray with me to receive Christ into my heart. I would echo back words I couldn’t fully understand but offered me some resolve. I must have accepted Christ during these Apocalyptic bedtime stories dozens upon dozens of times growing up, always listening for the trumpet call and the subtle rattle of the earthquake. But this time, I was ready!

I stopped sleeping with the light on about 15 years ago. I had evolved past those stories my grandma told, though they shaped me at a young age, they did not define me in later life. I do sometimes sleep with the light on for other reasons now, but it’s not for the seven-headed beasts or fire and brimstone waiting in the distance. No, it is for a different kind of Apocalyptic horror story that exists here and now. Stories like starving children, bombings and raids, compromised political leaders, overturned Harvey Weinstein rape trials, climate collapse, and so much more.

These weren’t the stories my Grandma told me, but in some way, it feels like hers prepared me for a different kind of predatory fear. Only this time, relief doesn’t come from a salvation prayer or a baptism. It comes from taking action, speaking out, putting the body in a voting booth, and praying with a heart of empathy, compassion, and advocacy. 

Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate your open heart. Love, Megan

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