She was crossing a bridge over a rocky stream in Georgia
when an old blue ford pick-up rattled up behind her. She pressed against the railings to let it
pass. It didn’t. The driver stopped and rolled down the passenger-side
window. “Need a lift?”
Peeking into the cab, she saw a man in his late thirties,
short blonde hair, brown eyes, a wide nose and full lips in his handsome face,
and a winning grin. “Nope. Thank you.
Just out for a stroll.” She
continued walking.
“You’re a might far off the beaten path.” The truck slowly kept up with her.
“Never cared much for beaten paths,” she increased her step.
The truck kept pace.
“I’m not trying to pick you up, Sister.”
She hunched her shoulders and strode forward.
“It’s just, I know you’re not from around here and – and
– you look half-starved and a might wind-swept.”
She was nearing the end of the bridge.
“I just can’t stand the idea of one of God’s servants
being cold and hungry. And it’s going to
snow.”
Gwen stopped and looked at the man. “It’s the first of May.”
“Well, it’s gonna snow sometimes.” He grinned.
“My name’s Atticus. I’m pastor at
Morning Creek; it’s just up the road.”
Gwen grinned and began walking again.
The truck crept forward.
“We’re a huge church. We had nigh
twenty-five people last Sunday. And
dinner on the grounds. So the refrig in
the fellowship hall is stocked with fried chicken and apple pie.”
Gwen
didn’t stop, but she peered at Pastor Atticus again as her stomach growled.
“Well look, our insurance agent says we have to keep the
church and hall locked when not in use, but if someone were to look behind the
stone angel by the double doors, they’d find a key. And if that person were to take what they
need and return the key later, wouldn’t nobody mind.”
Gwen stopped and stared open-mouthed at this total
stranger.
He smiled. “I
gotta go serve communion to the shut-ins.
God bless you, Sister.”
He drove away. She
numbly raised her hand and saw him smiling at her through the side mirror.
She
ate cold chicken standing at the counter and surveyed the room Pastor Atticus
had called a fellowship hall. The
setting sun sparkled through the jalousie windows, illuminating the dust specs
she’d stirred up as she walked across the linoleum floor. She refilled the water bottles and stored
them in a raggedy backpack she’d been given in Utah. She wiped the counter and looked back at the
full refrigerator longingly.
A door led from the hall to the sanctuary. The church had a dozen nine-foot wide pews on
each side of a central aisle. It smelled
of cedar planks and bees wax. The altar
shone with lemon oil. The evening light
fell gently through the nine stained glass windows: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John on the left; Grace,
Joy, Hope, and Charity on the right; and Jesus on the cross behind the
pulpit. An upright piano guarded the
presbytery and a drum set flanked the pastor’s pulpit. A massive carved mahogany table served as the
altar. It held a Protestant cross, a
chalice and a paten resting on its charger, and an ancient Bible opened to Luke. There was a brass strip underlining Luke
24:49. ''And behold, I am sending forth the
promise of My Father upon you; but you are to stay in the city until you are
clothed with power from on high." The two brass candlesticks
held half-burnt white candles.
Her
vision blurred with unshed tears, her chest expanded, trying to gather in the
essence of the air. The happiest times
of her life had been in churches.
Singing in the choir, praying, teaching Sunday school. Her feet led her forward and she sank onto
the front pew. A tiny puff of dust
escaped the thin cushion. She bent her
head and began to sob.
She
woke with the surety that someone was watching her. A man was kneeling next to her, his right
hand stretching toward her. Before he
could register that she was awake, she grabbed his wrist with her left hand and
his throat with her right. Pushing him
backwards, she landed on top of him.
“Whom
do you serve?” her voice echoed in the tiny church.
“God the Father Almighty,” the man spoke calmly. “And Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord.”
It took her a second to realize where she was and another
second to relax her grip. It took a
third second to roll off the pastor’s chest.
He sat up and asked in a humorous tone, “Whom do you serve?”
She put her right hand over her heart, “I serve the
Light, the Bringers of light, and the Light Eternal.”
Atticus got to his feet and held out his hand, “Sounds
like we’re on the same team.”
She took his hand and stood up. “I’m sorry.
I fell asleep praying. You just
startled me.”
“You got a strong grip,” he gently rocked her hand in
his.
She eyed the side door that led back into the fellowship
hall.
“Do you have a name?”
She gently but firmly pulled out of his grasp. “Thank you for the chicken.” She took a step away.
“There’s plenty more.”
Light from the full moon through the stained glass of Jesus cast a hallo
around the pastor’s head and shoulders.
“I tucked three pieces in my pack. For the road.” She took another step and bent down to catch
the pack’s straps, keeping her eyes on his face.
“You running away?”
He stepped toward her.
“I’m just traveling.”
She hoisted the pack over her shoulder.
“Well, maybe you’ve traveled as far as you need to.” He kept his voice soft. The colored lights seemed to follow him as he
stepped closer.
“That would be nice,” she heard herself whisper.
“So stay.”
She looked up into his face and tried not to cry
again. “No. No, I have to keep – I’m just
traveling.” She spun and marched quickly
into the fellowship hall.
“He told me you were coming,” his voice echoed from the
sanctuary and she froze.
Excerpt from
Comes
the Warrior
© Evelyn Rainey
Available for publication.
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