Brothers Judd Blog

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Tishomingo Burn Ban (Paul Rankin, Southlands)

Guided by those stars, I was working up to a story about how difficult it had been for me at that age—how alone I’d felt and how I was here for him—when the stranger’s headlights appeared, blinding me and making shipwreck of whatever I might have said. He might as well have parked his truck between us.

As he climbed out, I called a greeting.

Twitchy, the man kept glancing over but said nothing, only lowered the tailgate and rolled out a sleeping bag in the bed.

The light was poor and my eyes were dazzled with spots from the headlights, but I could see he was clean-cut, mid-thirties, sporting a lime-green polo tucked into chinos.

I asked Fish if he wanted another s’more. More hot chocolate? But he was preoccupied now, too, watching the man.

After he’d inflated an air mattress, the stranger approached and began to make stilted small talk. Some weather we’ve been having, right? You believe how hot and dry it’s been? We could sure use the rain. Even factoring for the dim lighting, his face had a hard-to-see quality. A vagueness about the eyes and mouth. I couldn’t quite bring him into focus but noted he was older than I’d thought, hard-worn with deep crow’s feet, hollow eyes, and some rough, puckered scarring along his jaw, as if someone had gone at him with a cheese grater.

“Nice night, anyway,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. A low crescent moon. A billion stars with a skein of clouds gathering. “Beautiful.”

The man grimaced, then turned to Fisher. “This your father?” he asked.

Fish looked at me, nodded yes.

“Good-looking kid,” he said, keeping his eyes on the boy like we were discussing a horse he’d considered buying.

“Cocoa?” I said, wishing more than ever for that fire. A focal point, a gathering place to swap stories about where we’d come from and where we might be going. “Or tea?”

“Pass.”

I killed the gas flame and asked where he was from, but he didn’t answer.

He stood clenching and unclenching his fists, as if he’d come to deliver some shattering news and couldn’t quite find the words. Then, in a rush, he asked: had we been washed in the precious blood of the Lamb?

I balked. The simplest answer was yes, but the question felt as intrusive as his arrival. As I hesitated to give it to him straight, he began to rephrase the question in various ways: Had we invited the Lord into our hearts? Had we been born again? If we died tonight, would we spend eternity in heaven with Jesus or in the fiery torments of hell with Satan and all his minions?

I considered asking how this was his business—or maybe teasing him a little. Saying something about our friend Jesús and how he’d been tutoring us in Spanish. But in the end, not wanting to provoke him or prolong the exchange, I only said, yes. Yes, we did know the Lord. Fairly well, as a matter of fact. I was, at the time of this encounter, ordained as a Ruling Elder in a Presbyterian Church, where I’d also taught Bible classes, written liturgies, and developed curricula for small groups.

I thought that would be the end of it, but the stranger appeared dubious, even a little distressed. “Presbyterian?” He scowled. “Where’s the church?”

“Jackson,” I said.

His perplexed frown stretched taut, as if I’d said we hailed from Gomorrah.

I almost felt bad for him then. Here he’d come prepared to save our souls, and I’d gone and ignored the script.

The more I affirmed my faith, the more suspicious the man became, as if he hadn’t come to share the good news but to catch us in a damnable lie. As the interrogation persisted, I couldn’t help thinking of how Flannery O’Connor once described the South as a Christ-haunted place. I love Jesus, but, good Lord, his ostensible followers can be irksome and even sinister at times. Clearly unconvinced by my profession of faith but out of ideas—or maybe just weary with the effort—the stranger finally walked the three steps back to his camp site.