fragment #12

Chapter Scene: The Grand Entrance

We never knew exactly when Stewart would appear. The meetings always began the same way—just us. Brothers and sisters arriving from different houses, sitting on milk crates or the floor, talking in low voices, trying to guess how long it would be this time. Sometimes he came out within minutes. Other times, he’d make us wait for hours, letting the tension rise, letting our nerves wind tighter and tighter.

It wasn’t just delay—it was design. A psychological warm-up for what was coming.

The longer we waited, the more unsettled we became. Conversations started light—small talk, laughter, catching up—but after a while, people began to fall quiet. The air thickened. Every creak of a door or echo of footsteps made heads turn.

And then, it would happen.

The doors opened, and Stewart entered, arm in arm with Gayle—his wife, twenty years younger, glowing with privilege and power. Together they moved down the aisle like royalty, every step calculated. Behind them came the “Gayle Helpers,” a group of women chosen to sit near the front—smiling, attentive, radiating the message that proximity to Stewart meant worth. Behind them trailed a few younger brothers, carrying milk crates overflowing with Bibles, papers, and notebooks—his tools, his props, the symbols of authority.

The moment they entered, the chatter stopped. The air itself seemed to shrink.

Stewart didn’t rush. He paused often, scanning the room as if memorizing faces, measuring who looked guilty, who avoided his eyes, who seemed too confident. Gayle stayed at his side, a silent emblem of his dominance, her presence reinforcing what we all already knew—his word was law, even in love.

When they finally reached the front, the Gayle Helpers took their seats in a neat row at his feet, the chosen ones. The brothers who had carried the crates set them down carefully, then faded back into the crowd. No one spoke.

And that’s when the silence began.

Hours could pass like this. Stewart sitting, scanning, sometimes whispering to Gayle or to one of his lieutenants but never to us directly. It was like being under a microscope. He studied us—how we moved, who glanced at whom, who dared to breathe too loudly.

Once he decided the silence had done its work, he would speak—or sometimes not at all. He might lean toward one of his lieutenants, murmur something, and let them deliver his message, as if the rest of us were unworthy to hear his voice directly. His power wasn’t in what he said—it was in what he withheld.

Each meeting was theater. We were the audience, but also the cast—trained to react, to doubt ourselves, to battle one another for approval. And every time, the show ended the same way: with Stewart rising, walking out arm in arm with Gayle, his entourage following behind. We were left sitting in the silence, the echo of our own confusion filling the room.

That’s how control looked in COBU—it wasn’t screaming or punishment. It was choreography. Silence. Entrances and exits timed like clockwork. Manipulation turned into ritual.

Chapter : The Gathering — Before the Silence

The meetings always began the same way—without Stewart.
Just us.

We came in from all over—brothers and sisters from the houses, from the vans, from long days working the shops or cleaning jobs. Some came tired, some hopeful, some nervous. The smell of sweat, soap, and coffee filled the room. Everyone carried their Bible and notebook, though few of us knew what we’d really write down that day.

We’d find our spots—milk crates, the floor, a few lucky ones on folding chairs near the front. People started chatting, catching up, laughing even. It was the only time we could talk freely before everything changed. Some whispered about the last meeting, about who had gotten corrected, or what Scripture Stewart might bring up this time. Others tried to guess when he’d show up.

Sometimes it was fifteen minutes. Sometimes it was two hours. Nobody knew.
But that waiting—that uncertainty—was part of the ritual.

The longer he delayed, the more the atmosphere shifted. At first it was friendly, like a family reunion. But then the laughter faded. The voices got quieter. People began to glance toward the entrance, wondering, is it time yet?

And then, suddenly, the door would open.

Stewart entered, arm in arm with Gayle. She was always dressed with care—her presence young and bright beside his tired, gray intensity. She never said much, but her being there told us everything: this was his stage, and she was his crown.

Behind them came the “Gayle Helpers,” a line of women chosen for reasons we never fully understood, except that it had something to do with favor. They smiled and took their seats in the front rows—each glance and posture measured, each movement rehearsed in its own silent hierarchy.

Then came the younger brothers, carrying the milk crates filled with Bibles, notebooks, and papers. They followed like servants bringing a king his tools of command. When they reached the front, they set the crates down quietly and melted back into the crowd.

The small talk was gone now. Nobody spoke. You could hear breathing, the shifting of feet, the scrape of a crate against the floor. Stewart didn’t need to say a word; the energy in the room changed just because he was there.

He would pause and look around, scanning the room with that calculating calm—eyes sharp, cold, and searching. He didn’t smile. He didn’t greet us. He simply looked, as if taking attendance not of bodies, but of hearts.

And that’s how the meeting really began—not with prayer, not with song, but with a silence that fell like a curtain.

We were all there together, yet completely alone in that moment.

Chapter : The Silence — Inside the Meeting

When Stewart finally sat down, Gayle took her place just beside him. The Gayle Helpers sat in a neat row at their feet, the chosen ones. The rest of us stayed where we were—cross-legged on the floor, perched on milk crates, or standing along the walls.

No one said a word.

It wasn’t the comfortable silence of worship or prayer. It was something else. Something calculated. You could almost feel it pressing down on your chest, making it hard to breathe. He didn’t need to speak to take control—the silence did that for him.

At first, you tried to pray, to stay calm, to keep your thoughts in order. But after ten, twenty, sixty minutes of nothing, the silence became a living thing. It moved through the crowd, coiling around each of us, whispering doubts we didn’t know we had.

Stewart would shift in his seat sometimes, or lean forward slightly. Every small motion sent a ripple through the room. Heads turned. Eyes darted. Some brothers bowed lower, as if bracing for impact.

Then, finally, someone would stand up. It always happened the same way—a burst of courage, or guilt, or desperation to please.
“Brother Stewart,” someone would say, “I think I see where we’ve been off lately…”

That was all it took.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He would glance sideways at one of his lieutenants—one of the older brothers who had earned his trust—and whisper something we couldn’t hear. The lieutenant would stand, repeating or expanding on Stewart’s words, turning the whole room toward that one speaker.

The rest of us would join in. Picking apart what had been said. Questioning motives. Trying to “get to the bottom of it.” It looked like correction, like spiritual growth—but it was division, controlled and amplified by silence.

The lieutenant became the voice of Stewart, but the real command still came from behind his quiet eyes. He watched, studying every movement, every emotion. We were his experiment.

Sometimes the silence lasted twelve hours. He’d sit there the whole time, motionless, barely blinking, letting us destroy one another with our own words. We were convinced that truth was hiding somewhere among us if only we argued long enough to find it.

He would rise occasionally, pace a few steps, and then sit back down—still silent. Gayle would whisper something to him; he’d nod. That small exchange alone made the Gayle Helpers sit up straighter, eager to catch some hint of approval.

By the time he finally spoke—if he spoke at all—we were exhausted. The silence had done its work. It stripped us of confidence, of individuality, of will. When he finally said a few words, they landed like thunder.

We weren’t listening for truth by then. We were listening for relief.