Rusty looks haggard. His hair is crumpled and unkept. He wobbles toward me, one misstep away from cracking asphalt. I grip him under his arm pit, trying to keep him upright and walking straight. His t-shirt feels damp and he smells like old beer. Rusty looks like he’s been on this bender for days, but still, I’m happy to see him again.
The last time I saw Rusty, he was living at the old camp, before everyone got evicted. I haven’t seen him since. No phone. No address. No way to stay in touch. I heard he’d been locked up. It’s been three months now.
“You know, I’ve been worried about you.”
“Have ya? Damn.”
“I’ve been praying for you.”
He starts to cry. “I’m surprised anybody gives a damn about me, man.”
“Well I do.”
On the other side of camp, I hear my friend Pat singing. His voice cuts through our conversation. He’s worshipping, singing “Your love. It never quits. It never stops.” It’s as if God is speaking… Read More
