The Cross Man

One evening I drove down the highway as a fine mist began playing on the windshield.  My thoughts were caught up in the trivia of the day when, in the blink of an eye, the image of a man dragging a cross along the side of the road grabbed me.  I did a double take and, sure enough, there he was, a large man with an even larger cross on some unknown pilgrimage.  My eyes followed him through the rearview mirror until he faded from sight, but the question remained.  What would push a man to such an act of devotion.  What did he hope to accomplish, if anything?  Had someone encouraged him or told him he was crazy?  Jerry is not that man, but they are kin.

A cool drizzle darkened the asphalt of Route 9.  Loose gravel littered the shoulder while tall grass lined the road on both sides.  He looked ahead and saw nothing but a long black strip and a weary yellow line.  Only a burned out barn to the right broke the monotony.  

A car whistled by, then nothing.

Nothing except the scrape, scrape, scrape of the cross.

Jerry stopped and scanned the road ahead.  Five more miles till town and longed-for rest.  He stood the cross up and wiped his brow with a large callussed hand covered in freckles.  Long red hair fell over his eyes and he blew it out of the way with practiced ease.  Five more miles.  For today.

He walked to show his love of the Lord.  He walked because Pastor said it would help him overcome his past.  He walked, Pastor said, to show the world that anyone, even Jerry, could redeem their life.  Fresh out of jail without a friend or penny to his name, Jerry had wandered into Pastor's mission and found salvation.  He owed everything to Pastor and didn't care how tired or uneasy he felt about this pilgrimage.  Jerry would keep walking until Pastor said it was enough.

Shouldering the cross, he sucked in air and started walking again.  Always walking, always shaking pebbles out of his sandles, always tired, always cold or hot or wet depending on the whim of Mother Nature.  No, depending on the whim of the Lord.

A car approached, then slowed to a crawl.  The occupants stared but kept their windows up.  Finally, they gave a noncommital honk that shot the vehicle forward out of sight.  Jerry waved with this left hand, certain they had not seen.  He wondered what they thought of him.

Sometimes he didn't have to wonder.  Earlier that day a car full of teenagers had slowed down too, only they rolled down their windows and showed him their middle fingers and shouted, "Freak!"  He kept walking.  Four miles to go.

I am one of those crazy folks I once mocked, he thought as the end of the cross scraped after him.  Making a public spectacle of themselves to witness for something nobody wants to hear about.  But no.  I'm not crazy.  Pastor says.

The drizzle grew into real rain, and Jerry stopped long enough to pull a rain poncho from his backpack.  He had to switch the cross from one shoulder to the other to get the pack off but would not lay it down.  In three months, he had never laid the cross on the ground.  It was too sacred, too precious.

With only two miles to go, lightning became a problem.  Electric fingers reached across the sky, longing to touch him, and only the Lord kept them at bay.  One hit a tree up ahead, and the explosion nearly made Jerry drop his cross.  He was shaking now.  "The Lord is my Shepherd," he recited.  "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…"

As quickly as the storm started, it stopped, but the dark sky still threatened.  Headlights up ahead neared him then zoomed by.  The car's spray hit him broadside.  "Dirty son of a --" he stopped short.  The days of that kind of language were behind him.  Pastor had shown him a new way.  No more drugs or violence, just the love of the Lord.  Definitely not crazy, thought Jerry.  I just owe Pastor so much.

One more mile.  No need to preach in the park tonight, he told himself.  I'm sure Pastor won't mind.  Nobody will be out anyway.  Tomorrow.  Tonight he would rest.

He planned his stops around the parks.  They had to be big enough to invite traffic but small enough to keep them moving.  Pastor said he wanted people to keep moving, hear the message then move on to make room for others.  Jerry preferred preaching in the evening because that's when couples and young families tended to stroll through the parks.  He felt too weak, too tired to deal with the punks who would come out later.  He knew them too well.

A sign emerged before him.  "Welcome to Gilgamesh" it read, "Home of the Giants."  Jerry approached and touched it.  He leaned the cross against the sign and knelt before the sign, resting his head against one of its posts.  "Thank you, Lord," he whispered, "for bringing me to yet another town.  But how many more?  When will Pastor let me stop?  I'm tired.  I'm cold and wet.  I'm not crazy but I don't know anymore."

Flashing lights played across the sign's face.  Jerry turned around to see the police cruiser.  He sighed as the officer stepped out of the vehicle.  

"Everything all right, sir?" asked the cop.

"Fine, officer, fine," said Jerry with forced cheerfulness.  "Just stopped for a quick prayer.  I'll be on my way now."  The officer's eyes danced from Jerry to the cross and back again.  Jerry had seen it before.

"I'm on a pilgrimage," he said.  "My pastor commended it to me.  I'll spend the night at Motel 6 and be on my way in the morning."  The officer considered him, then returned to the car with a friendly admonition to be careful.

"Don't you worry, officer, I will be.  I'm not crazy."  Jerry waved.  As the cruiser pulled away, leaving him in the dark, Jerry heaved the cross upon his shoulder and began walking.  Always walking, always tired, always uncertain.  

But there was the motel ahead, its asphalt parking lot empty but welcoming.  Tonight, he would rest.  Tomorrow, he would witness.  Tomorrow, he would save souls.  Tomorrow, he would walk again.