A Step of Faith (10 page)

I ordered the same meal I had the night I dined at Ruth’s Chris with McKale: sweet potato casserole with pecans, asparagus with Hollandaise sauce, and the Cowboy Ribeye steak. In keeping with my celebration, I complemented my meal with a small glass of red wine, and, alone, made a symbolic toast to the journey. “To Key West,” I said. I sounded pathetic. There were better things to toast. I raised my glass again. “To McKale.”

I didn’t rush, giving myself time to digest both my food and the significance of the moment. When I’d finished eating, I ordered a decaf coffee to go, then went back up to my room. Again, I was surprisingly exhausted.

Outside my window, the arch was lit by spotlights.
I ran my bath and lay back in it, closing my eyes and letting my body soak. I wondered when I’d have that luxury again. Not soon, I wagered. I told myself it was just as well. I was getting soft, and it was time to get back to the road.

CHAPTER

Fifteen

I have been taken in by a Pentecostal pastor who speaks openly of miracles and the “fruits of the spirit.” I don’t know if there are fewer miracles today or if, in times past, all unexplained phenomena was just ascribed to divine providence. It seems today that we see less spiritual fruit than religious nuts.

Alan Christoffersen’s diary

I forgot to request a wake-up call and woke after ten, which upset me, as I had planned on getting an early start. I quickly dressed, then, taking my pack, went downstairs for breakfast. For the sake of time I opted for the buffet, which was quite good, and checked out of the hotel. Then, without ceremony, I resumed my walk.

I don’t think the Gateway Arch can be fully appreciated until one stands at its base and looks up. In spite of my late start, I walked across the street to the monument. I was tempted to take the tour, but it really wasn’t an option. There was a security checkpoint at the monument’s entrance, and I had my backpack, which they wouldn’t allow inside—especially since I was still carrying the gun my father had given me after I was mugged outside of Spokane.

There was no easy way out of the city and, after an hour of trying to navigate a labyrinth of roads and highways, passing through industrial areas of questionable safety, I finally just hailed a cab, which I took twelve miles to the Lindbergh Boulevard freeway exit. I got out near a HoneyBaked Ham store and began walking toward Highway 61.

I was in a suburban part of St. Louis County and the
landscape was green and pretty. I crossed the Meramec River before reaching the town of Arnold, introduced by a sign that read:

ARNOLD

“A Small Town with a Big Heart”

It could just as well have read,
Another small town with an unoriginal slogan
, as I had seen the exact claim at least a dozen times before on my walk. The town was unremarkable in appearance as well, consisting of weather-worn aluminum-sided buildings housing used car dealerships, thrift stores, and hardware shops—the kind of commerce that springs up naturally in small towns, the way willows grow near slow-moving streams.

Around two o’clock, just shy of ten miles into the day’s walk, I reached Bob’s Drive-In, which boasted the “Best Burger in Town.” The claim was probably more than hyperbole, as I hadn’t seen another hamburger place since I entered Arnold. Of course, claiming the title by default would also make them the “Worst Burger in Town,” but it rarely pays to advertise our faults. Sometimes, but rarely.

Bob’s was a true takeout—there was no inside dining—and I stood in front of the boxy diner studying Bob’s sizable menu, which was hand-painted on a board hanging over three sliding-glass windows. I walked up to the middle window and rang a bell for service. A brunette woman in her mid-thirties slid open the window.

“What can I get you?”

I took a step forward. “I’ll have a Pepsi and your Arnold Burger.” I looked back up at the sign. “What’s fried okra?”

“It’s just okra. Fried.”

I smiled at her description. “What’s okra?”

She looked at me in disbelief. “It’s a vegetable. Some people call it gumbo.”

“Like shrimp gumbo?”

“Shrimp gumbo has okra in it,” she said. “It’s good. You’ve really never had fried okra?”

“It’s new to me.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“I’m from the northwest.”

“That explains things. What brings you to Arnold?”

“I’m just passing through. I’m walking across America.”

Her eyes widened. “Shut the door! What city did you start in?”

“Seattle.”

“Seattle! Wow. That is so cool. Tell you what, that Pepsi’s on me. Are you gonna try the okra?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Great. I’ll put your order in.” She walked away from the window and I heard her calling out my order to someone in back. A moment later she returned with my drink.

“Here’s your Pepsi.”

“Thank you.”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Alan,” I said.

“Nice to meet you, Alan,” she said. “I’m Lori.”

“Pleasure,” I said. “You’re from Arnold?”

“No. I live four miles south of here in Barnhart. I’m telling you, you coming through here is the most exciting thing that’s happened in Arnold this month.”

Hearing this made me a little sad for the people of Arnold.

A bell rang and Lori said, “There’s your order. I’ll be right back.” She returned with a tray holding a hamburger
wrapped in yellow waxed paper and a paper sack with my okra, which was lightly fried, the interior a greenish-yellow pod. She rang up my bill. “That’ll be six forty-nine.”

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.