I took out my wallet and paid her. “Thank you.” I carried my food over to one of the little tables. The burger and Pepsi were good. The okra I could pass on. I finished eating my burger, then said goodbye to Lori.
“What did you think of the okra?” she asked.
“I’m glad I tried it,” I said, finishing the thought in my head, so I know not to order it again.
“Glad you enjoyed it,” she said happily. “Can I refill your cup?”
“Actually, could you just put some ice and water in it?”
“Of course. You can just toss that, I’ll get you a new cup.” She returned a minute later with my water.
“Thank you,” I said. “Have a great day.”
“You too. Good luck on your walk.”
I shrugged on my pack and started off again.
Over the next several miles the landscape grew more rural, and homes and buildings became farther apart. An hour from Arnold, I reached Barnhart, the hometown of Lori at Bob’s Drive-In.
Two hours later the landscape changed to broad, green cornfields. It was already getting dark, and I began looking for a place to spend the night. In trying to prove to myself that I was fully recovered, I had done the opposite. My head was aching and I felt too exhausted to erect my tent, but the sky was threatening, so I started looking for a structure I could sleep under. After wandering a while I came to a church with a sign that read:
Connection Worship
Experience Pentecost
On the side of the church was an open, three-walled shed. I walked up a wide, gravel drive to the building and knocked on the door to the church. A minute later a corpulent, red-faced man, with curly, receding hair and a broad smile, welcomed me.
“Good evening. What can I do for you, my friend?”
“I’m just passing through town. I was wondering if I could sleep in your shed over there.”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be very comfortable. But you can sleep inside. We have an extra bedroom.”
“I really don’t want to be any trouble,” I said.
“I live for trouble,” the man said wryly. “Come in, come in.” He stepped back from the door and motioned me inside. “You can set your pack there on the floor. Can I get you a hot tea and some banana nut bread? One of our congregation brought some over this afternoon.”
“Really, I don’t want to be a burden.”
“What burden?” he said. “I was just about to make myself a cup of tea. I would enjoy the company.”
“I would love some,” I said.
He led me down a long, dark hall to a small, boxy kitchen with a glass-topped table for four. “Have a seat. I’ve got a fruits-of-the-forest blend herbal tea that’s quite nice. And there’s no caffeine to keep you up.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He turned a flame on beneath the kettle, then dropped four slices of banana nut bread into the toaster. He joined me at the table, putting out his hand. “I’m Pastor Tim.”
“Alan Christoffersen,” I said.
“Pleased to know you, Brother Christoffersen. Good name you have there.”
“How’s that?”
“Christ-offers-son. Not theologically correct, I suppose, but close enough. Could be ‘God offers Son,’ or ‘Christ, the offered Son,’ but any name with Christ in it is a blessing.” The toast popped up. “Would you like yours with butter?”
“Yes, please.”
He buttered the bread and returned to the table. Almost the instant he sat down, the kettle began whistling and he popped back up. He poured the steaming water into a teacup. “Honey or sugar?”
“Honey,” I said.
He brought the tea and honey over to the table. “Be careful, it’s a bit hot.”
I squeezed some honey into the cup, then tried a sip.
“I can get you some ice if it’s too hot,” he said.
“It’s fine,” I said. “It tastes good.”
“Good. Good.” He took a bite of bread. “Sister Balfe makes a mean banana bread loaf.”
I smiled at his choice of words. I took two Tylenol from my front pocket and took them with my tea.
“Headache?” he asked.
I nodded, then took another sip of tea. “Your sign out front says to experience Pentecost. What does that mean?”
“Are you familiar with the Bible?”
“Some.”
“In the New Testament we read that following the resurrection of Christ, the spirit was poured down upon the Apostles during the Feast of Pentecost. The celebration had brought large crowds of people to Jerusalem, and the Apostles were given the gift of tongues and taught the people about Christ in their native languages.
“The event was prophesied by the prophet Joel, ‘And it shall come to pass in the last days, saith God, I will pour out of my Spirit upon all flesh: and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.’ In the Pentecostal faith we welcome such gifts.”
“People really speak in foreign languages?”
“Yes, they do. The Bible tells us that God’s the same today as He was yesterday. Why would the gifts change?”
“I guess you don’t hear about them much.”
“No, you don’t. Gifts of the spirit require faith. People today don’t want the gifts. They don’t want the mystical, they want something they can quantify. They want science. If someone today saw a burning bush like Moses did, they’d douse it with a fire extinguisher.” He smiled. “The gifts of the Spirit are the fruit of the tree of faith. The gift of tongues, healings and miracles are the blessings of faith. We live in an age of unbelief, but I promise you, miracles still abound. Are you going to still be in town on Sunday?”
I shook my head. “No. Sorry.”
“Shame. I think you’d enjoy our meeting. If you ever find your way back here, I invite you to join us.”
“Thank you. I will.” I wasn’t just being polite. His explanation of spiritual gifts made me curious to see them.
When we’d finished our tea and bread, I retrieved my pack and the pastor took me to a bedroom near the front entrance, a small room painted eggshell white with a simple twin bed without a headboard.
“Sorry it’s not the Ritz, but it’s definitely a notch up from the shed you requested.”
“It’s great. Thank you.”
“The bathroom’s at the end of the hall. If you need anything, just holler. My wife’s in Fort Wayne visiting her sister, so you don’t have to worry about running into anyone.”
“Thank you for everything,” I said. “Good night.”
“Night, my friend.” He shut my door and I listened to his footsteps disappear down the hall.
I was still hungry, so I ate an apple, a Pop-Tart, nuts and some jerky. Then I turned down the bed, undressed and turned off the lights. As I lay in bed, I thought about what the pastor had said about miracles. Did they still happen today? Had they ever? I hadn’t seen miracles in my life, but perhaps it was my own fault. I certainly wasn’t looking or asking for them.
No, that’s not true. I had asked for miracles before. I had prayed as sincerely as a man could for McKale’s life to be spared.
I rolled over and went to sleep.
CHAPTER
Sixteen
Everyone has suffered more than you know.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The next morning I lay in bed taking stock of myself. My body was sore all over from my first full day back walking, but especially my feet, ankles and calves. In spite of my workouts in Pasadena, I felt as if I’d pushed too hard. Thankfully my headache was gone. My head itched a little along the line of my incision and I ran a finger down the scar. Even though my hair had grown long enough to partially conceal it, the skin around it was still raised and numb.
There was a light knock at my door.
“Come in,” I said.
The door opened just enough for the pastor to look in. “Sorry to wake you.”
“I was just lying here,” I said.
“I’m making breakfast. How do you like your eggs?”
“I’m not picky. However the spirit moves you.”
He laughed. “All right, divinely inspired eggs. I’m still making biscuits, so you’ve got twenty minutes or so. Help yourself to the shower.”
After he left, I took some clean clothes and a razor from my pack, then went into the bathroom. A hot shower was an unexpected treat, and I stood beneath the spray for at least ten minutes, shaving in there as well. Then I dressed and went into the kitchen. Pastor Tim already had breakfast on the table.
“Sorry I took so long,” I said.
“Not at all. I love a long hot shower.” He lifted the lid off a pan, exposing a mound of scrambled eggs and patty sausage. “Help yourself. The sausage has a little kick to it.”
I loaded up my plate, then took a couple biscuits. Pastor Tim did the same. As I lifted my fork to eat, he said, “Would you join me in prayer?”
I set down my fork. “Of course.”
He bowed his head. “Dear Lord, we are grateful for our many blessings. We are grateful for our meeting and ask a blessing to be upon Alan. Please keep him safe on his journey. We ask Thee to bless this food to our good and us to Thy service, Amen.”
“Amen,” I said.
“Here’s some Tabasco sauce for your eggs if you’re so inclined,” he said, pushing the bottle toward me. Then he tore open his biscuit, layering sausage and eggs inside. “I love a breakfast sandwich.” He looked at me. “After we parted last night, I realized that I hadn’t asked you where you’re going.”
“I’m walking to Key West,” I said.
“Ah, beautiful Key West. That’s quite a ways. Where did you begin your journey?”
“Seattle.”
“My, that is a journey. What’s in Key West?”
“It was the farthest distance I could walk from Seattle.”
His eyes narrowed with interest. “Then the real question is, what’s in Seattle?”
“Memories,” I said.
He nodded slowly. “Good ones or bad ones?”
“Both. My wife was killed in a horse-riding accident. I lost her, my home, and my job. I just had to get away.”
“I understand,” he said. “I lost my first wife. Not in an accident, though. She left me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Me too,” he replied. “Perhaps that’s why I felt so compelled to let you in. We’re kindred spirits.” He looked at me soulfully. “You know, I’ve wondered if it’s more painful to lose someone you love to death or to lose someone you love because she no longer loves you back.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“On the surface it seems an easy question. It should be much easier to lose someone who doesn’t love you, because why would you want to be with someone who doesn’t want you? But rejection’s not an easy road. A part of you always wonders what made you so unlovable.”
“She must have been crazy,” I said. “You’re one of the kindest people I’ve met on my walk.”
He smiled sadly. “You are being kind. But you’re not a woman, and the truth is I’m not much to look at. No one’s ever mistaken me for Ryan Goosling.”
“I think it’s Gosling,” I said. “But you’re being too hard on yourself.”
“No, I’m truthful. I just look at myself in the mirror each morning and remind myself that God looks on the heart.” He looked at me. “You’re a handsome guy. You probably have women chasing you through every town you walk through.”
I ignored his observation. “But you’re remarried now?”
He smiled. “Yes. Her name is Melba. Like the toast. We’re happy. A virtuous woman is more precious than rubies.
“So, Alan Christ-offers-son, what happens when you reach Key West?”
I shrugged. “Good question. When I left Seattle, I had so far to go that I didn’t think about it. I’m not sure that I really believed I would make it.”
“Think you’ll stay in Key West?”
I shook my head. “No. Maybe I’ll go back to Seattle and start my business up again.”
“Think you’ll ever remarry?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should. It’s not good for man to be alone.” A wry grin crossed his face. “We get into all kinds of mischief.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“Anyone in the wings?” he asked. “Prospects?”
“Actually, there are two women . . .”
“Ah, that’s troubled geometry. The infernal triangle.”
I smiled. “One of them used to work for me. The other I met on my walk. I was mugged and beaten and she took care of me.”
“A good Samaritan. You can’t go wrong with someone like that.” Suddenly his expression changed. For a moment he didn’t speak, then he said, “Is one of them dark-featured, with long black hair? Ample-chested? Maybe she’s Greek. Very pretty, like a model.”
I was stunned. “You just described Falene. How did you know that?”
He shook his head slowly. “It’s nothing.”
“No, it’s something,” I said. “You just described her. How did you know that?”
He just looked at me, hesitant to answer.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“I just had a vision of her.”
“You just had a vision? Right now?”
He nodded.
“What else did you see?”
“She was wearing a wedding dress.”
“A wedding dress? Was she with me?”
“She was alone.”
For a moment I wasn’t sure what to say. “Do you have visions often?”
“No. Occasionally. That’s how I knew my wife was cheating.” He shook his head. “She ran off with the choir director.”
I was quiet a moment, then said, “Never trust a musician.”
He looked at me, then burst out laughing. “I suppose you’re right.” He sighed. “I’m glad you stopped by, Alan.”
“Me too,” I said. When we’d finished eating, I said, “Let me help you clean up.”
“No, you’d better get on your way. You’ve got a long walk ahead of you.”
We stood up from the table. I retrieved my pack from the room, then met Pastor Tim at the front door.
“I have something for you,” he said. He held out a small pewter coin engraved with the word FAITH.
“Powerful thing, faith,” he said. “All journeys are an act of faith.”
I nodded. “My father said I needed faith.”
Pastor Tim smiled. “Then there you are.”
I took the coin from him and put it in my pocket. “Thanks.”
“And about the vision. Don’t think about it too much. Just have faith that God’s at the wheel.”
I wasn’t sure how to take that. I finally just said, “Thank you for everything.”
“My pleasure. God be with you on your journey, Brother Christoffersen.”
“And on yours,” I replied.
“Well said,” he replied. “Well said.”
I put on my hat and set out again, grateful for the man’s kindness.
Again, I had gotten a late start, but this time I was glad for it, as I felt rested. In spite of the pastor’s admonition, I couldn’t stop thinking about his vision. Falene in a wedding dress? This had to be a sign, didn’t it?
CHAPTER
Seventeen
People can become so blinded by their own perceived victimhood that they make victims of everyone around them.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The next town I walked through was called Pevely, where I came across a cultural relic of the American past—a drive-in theater. I couldn’t tell if it still functioned as a drive-in, but I doubted it. The screen was still there, but it looked a bit worn and tall weeds grew up from myriad cracks in the asphalt. The sign out front read:
Pevely Flea Market
I
’ve always had a special place in my heart for drive-in theaters. I have fond childhood memories of lying between my parents in the back of our green, wood-paneled Dodge station wagon watching a Disney movie. I once wrote an essay on drive-in theaters in a high school English class.
You probably don’t realize that someone actually holds a patent on the drive-in theater. The original drive-in was created by a Camden, New Jersey, man named Richard Hollingshead. His idea was to create a “family experience,” a solution to finding a babysitter. “Now it doesn’t matter how much the baby cries,” the first advertisement for his theater read. I suppose Hollingshead failed to realize that parents actually went out to get away from the crying baby. Not that it mattered. He still hit the bull’s-eye, just on a different target. The theater became a make-out haven for youth who knew they wouldn’t run into their parents.
Drive-in theaters always reminded me of what might be the most bizarre thing I did as a teenager. One midsummer afternoon McKale, one of her cousins and I were just sitting around the house bored when McKale said, “We should go see a drive-in movie tonight.”
The closest drive-in was a one-screen theater located in the nearby town of Monrovia. The movie playing that night was Braveheart, an Academy Award winning movie about Scottish rebel William Wallace, played by actor Mel Gibson.
That’s when a bizarre idea struck me. “I’ve got a better idea,” I said.
The three of us took some of my father’s old clothes, stuffed them with newspapers and rags, and then safety-pinned them together, making a life-sized dummy. We made its head out of a garbage sack stuffed with wadded-up newspaper. McKale dubbed our creation “Mr. Vertigo” in homage to the Hitchcock movie starring Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak.
Carrying our dummy and a ball of kite string, we walked along the wooden fence at the back of the theater until we found a hole someone had dug beneath it, and snuck inside. This is the crazy part. Slinging the dummy over my shoulder, I climbed up the back of the screen about a hundred feet to the very top.
The prank seemed like a much better idea from the ground, as shimmying seven stories up the rusted metal railing was terrifying—especially when I startled a flock of nesting starlings who weren’t pleased to encounter a human in their neighborhood.
A Step of Faith: A Novel Page 7
