Rufus and I had a good time in eighth grade. He made me go out for football with him, and after the first day of practice I was so near dead, I figured Rufus must want me gone so he could finally have my bike.
But I didn’t quit. And even though I didn’t get to play much during the season, I could sit right out there on the bench and yell at Rufus to kill them, and pound him on the back during timeouts, and squirt some water down his throat before he ran off again—and for those times, getting beat up in practice was worth it. I’m even going to do it again this year.
Rufus and me, we had a good year. I also helped him pass English.
That summer of the Preacher Man just drew Rufus and me closer than ever before. And not because we were finally the same. Because we’re not.
Rufus, he’s still a hard-nosed atheist. He’s a good, honest person—somebody I figure anybody could respect—but he still won’t have any of that heaven talk.
And I won’t try to change him. I’m hoping that’s just something God will let slide.
Me, I still go to church sometimes. But it’s a real quiet thing for me now. Sort of like a nice swim in a lake.
One thing I see now that I couldn’t see last summer is that after the revival is over, the world is a place that isn’t anything like the inside of a church on a hot summer night. It’s a world where good guys like Rufus are happy atheists, and nice folks like my parents don’t care much about church, and spiritual people like me wander around on earth wishing it was heaven.
It’s a world where somebody like the Man can work so hard to save a million doomed sinners but come near killing the soul of one mixed-up kid. And never meaning to. I really believe that. He never meant to hurt me.
Is that what it’s taken me a year to understand?
I’ve still got Mother and Pop. And Rufus. I know each one of them would walk through fire for me.
And I wonder, a year later, what the Preacher has got.
Maybe he’d say he’s got the Lord. Maybe he’d say he doesn’t need anybody else but the Lord.
Well, I do. I need Mother and Pop and Rufus with me.
Is that what’s taken a year to understand?
But it still doesn’t end there. Because even though I don’t go to church as much—I’m still trying to figure church out—even though I don’t seem to need church as much, I know I need God.
I just don’t know how to get Him. And fit Him in with the other folks I need.
Maybe that’s why I couldn’t throw away these pieces of broken ceramic cross. The day I fished them out of my duffel, stuffed them in a paper bag, and put them in my drawer—that day, I thought it was the Preacher I was shoveling into the bag. Pieces of the Preacher. I wasn’t ready to let go of him yet.
But now the pieces aren’t him at all. They’re me. They’re me and God and all the powerful feelings I still have about Him. And I think now I can’t throw away these pieces because they’re a cross.
That’s what finally needs finishing. The Preacher Man is behind me. But God is still right there, in front.
And just yesterday, just yesterday Rufus and I were sitting at the firehouse when I said, “Rufus?”
He said, “Huh?”
“You think you’ll ever believe in God?”
“Doubt it.”
“Well, you think maybe?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, Pete,” Rufus answered, “I know.”
And, finally, I know, too. That throwing away this mess doesn’t mean I’m giving something up. Or losing something I can’t get back.
It’s that there are too many pieces and too much dust.