Jesus on the Street

Janet Rubin

Nick shifted his truck into low gear, every muscle tensed, as he attempted to ease down the icy hill. He squinted against the sharp morning sunlight that glinted off a zigzag crack in the windshield. His vision was already blurred after thirty-two hours battling Blizzard Max. Halfway down the slope, the truck lost traction and slid, first one way, then the other, as Nick swiveled the steering wheel in a fight to regain control. He drifted dangerously close to a telephone pole and spun halfway around, before coming to rest in the middle of an intersection. His heart pounded and his hands shook.

He scanned the desolate street, relieved that no other vehicles occupied it. The storm had been so severe that even the diehard grocery shoppers had given up the previous afternoon and gone home. With the exception of a few gas stations, all of the businesses had closed up. Only plow trucks, police cars, and the occasional taxicab, roamed about like ghosts in a deserted town.

Nick struggled to stay awake as the truck crawled along the slick roads. His head throbbed, while every joint in his body cried out for ibuprofen. Shoveling heavy, wet snow from steps, hoisting the snow blower in and out of the truck and driving for so long had taken their toll.

An icy chill seeped through the floorboards, numbing his toes through his worn work boots. The temperature must have dipped below zero. The only place colder than this was his bedroom at home. He grimaced at the thought. As cold and lonely as this night had been, it beat lying in bed beside a wife who no longer loved him—longing for her, but knowing his touch would revile her. No painkiller would help the ache in his heart.

Nick checked the clock on his dash. Quarter to seven. He’d better hustle if he wanted to get his two church jobs done before Sunday services began. He’d hit Oceanside Bible Chapel, and then circle around to clear out Saint Mary’s. Coffee would be nice, but with no donut shops open, it would have to wait.

He maneuvered onto Maple Avenue, entering a residential area, unmarred by the town trucks. The snow was deep, but at least there were no more hills between here and the church. Ribbons of white clung to the power lines and tree branches, looking like party decorations someone forgot to take down. Snowmen lined the street, leaning precariously and horribly disfigured after the night’s sleet storm. Monster-like, most were missing one or both of their stick arms, some decapitated by the storm. The ones that weren’t headless watched his passing through sagging faces.

It took fifteen minutes to make the mile long drive, but finally, the steeple came into view. He wondered for the millionth time why he had taken this job. It paid less than any of his others, barely enough to cover the cost of fuel. He’d done it for his sister, Tammy of course. “It’s for my church,” she had said. “The Lord will bless you.”

He wasn’t sure why the church couldn’t pay the going rate. He saw the kind of people who attended here—people with good jobs and nice homes. The men of Oceanside Bible Church drove sports cars, not dump trucks. And they wore suits and ties, not jeans and t-shirts. Not a place where he’d fit in, though his sister insisted that attending church was the answer to his marital problems.

A few cars already dotted the parking lot. Why on earth did these people have to show up so early in a blizzard? Now he’d have to go in and ask them to move. Great. Just great. Nick slammed the gearshift into “park,” and shoved against the ice-locked driver’s door, until it opened. He dragged his ice block feet up the walk that led to the offices and knocked. He stood shivering until a lady in a pink, wool suit opened the door.

He managed a weary smile. “Good morning.”

Her eyes fell immediately to his ice-encrusted boots. “Wait here. We just got new carpet.” She left him standing out in the frigid air, while she scurried around the corner. “Pastor! The plow guy is here.”

In a moment she returned, and without glancing Nick’s way, got back to straightening a display of pamphlets. He strained and read some bold red letters that asked, “Are you going to HELL?” He shifted from one foot to the other, searching the room’s interior until he found a wall clock. Seven-thirty. Come on buddy.

Finally, the pastor breezed in and extended a manicured hand. “Dan, how are you?”

Nick didn’t bother to correct him. “I need you to move the cars out front so I can plow.”

The pastor frowned. “How about if we give you our keys and you can park them out back?”

God forbid he gets his fancy shoes wet. “Fine.”

“Hey Dan, since you’re here, can you shovel the steps and put down some ice melt?”

He already plowed the lot for pennies and this guy wanted more for free?
“No, I really can’t. I’ve got to get over to St. Mary’s after this.”

The pastor picked up a Bible from an entry table and cradled it like a baby. “You know, we have a lot of elderly members. I don’t want them slipping.”

Heat crept up Nick’s neck but he reigned in his temper. His sister would never forgive him if he cussed out her pastor. He clenched his teeth, forcing a grin. “Pastor, I have extra shovels and ice melt if you’d like to use them.”

“No, we have our own,” came the curt reply. “I’ll get you those keys.” He tromped off.

Nick turned and gazed across the sparkling, white churchyard. Icicles hung from the eaves that topped the ancient white columns, looking like daggers ready to drop on anyone too sinful that dared try to enter the sanctuary. A roadside sign proclaimed, “Jesus Loves You and We Do Too.” Oh yeah, I can feel the love.

He climbed into his idling truck and slammed the door, sending a mini-avalanche of snow cascading down the windshield. Then, he shifted into drive, dropped the plow and started criss-crossing the parking lot like a tennis ball on a court. As he worked, more early church-goers arrived, most opting to park precisely where he was plowing and many giving him dirty looks as if he were in their way. He’d have to tell Tammy he couldn’t do this anymore. The aggravation simply wasn’t worth it for the money he was paid.

Two hours later, the lot and walkways were clear. Nick’s legs trembled and dizziness washed over him as he heaved the snow blower into the truck’s bed. He needed to rest before hitting St. Mary’s. He made his way to the police station, a popular stopping point where plow truck drivers caught naps between jobs, then parked beneath a streetlight, slumped in his seat and closed his eyes. Karen Carpenter’s voice sang from the radio, soothing his nerves and lulling him to sleep.

Just as his breathing started to slow, a tap on his window startled him. “What the…”

On the other side of the glass, a man’s face grinned at him from beneath a blue, knitted hat. The stranger held up a steaming cup and motioned towards Nick, who rolled down the window. Couldn’t he get fifteen minutes of undisturbed sleep?

“Want some coffee?”

Who was this guy? Nick eyed the large Styrofoam cup, could smell the tempting aroma. His stomach growled. “How much?”

“No, no, it’s free.” The man pointed at a group of people gathered around a table by the station. “We’re giving out coffee to police and plow truck drivers. We want to show our appreciation. You guys must be beat. This is one heck of a storm.”

Nick narrowed his eyes to examine the stranger, whose open coat revealed a sweatshirt that read, “Jesus Freak.” He should have known.

“Are you looking for someone to plow your church?”

The stranger laughed. “No sir. Our church is just a Bible study that meets in my apartment. We just decided we’d come out and serve you guys this morning instead of having our usual meeting. Actually, I wouldn’t have thought of it, but Benny, one of our guys who used to plow, suggested it. We all thought it was a great idea. Jesus said to love your neighbor. I’m Tim, by the way.”

Nick relaxed. This guy was harmless. He reached out to take the cup. “I’m Nick and I’ve been craving coffee for hours. Thank you.”

The warmth from the cup thawed Nick’s stiff fingers and he sucked the hot liquid down fast, ignoring the burn in his throat. Soon, the ex-plow guy, Benny, showed up with a refill.

“Benny, this is Nick,” Tim gestured towards the window, “Nick, Benny.”

Benny held up a thermos and nodded in greeting.

Nick put out his Styrofoam cup. “So, I hear you used to do this job?”

“Yeah, I did, for years. Can’t handle it anymore. My son does it now.”

“You remember the blizzard of Eighty-three?”

“Oh boy, do I!”

The three men got so caught up in exchanging snow stories, that Nick lost track of time.
When he checked the clock again, it was nine forty-five. Refreshed, Nick tossed the empty cup, adding it to his collection of fast food bags and wrappers on the floor. “I’ve got to get going guys. Don’t want the Catholics upset with me.”

Both men shook Nick’s hand and Benny offered him a card. “This has my address. If you ever want to come check out the Bible study, we’d love to have you. It’s every Sunday morning. ” He paused. “Just call first in case we’re out doing the coffee thing again.”

Nick tucked the card into the pocket of his flannel shirt and said thanks. Driving towards St. Mary’s, he thought about the strange coffee guys. He’d liked them. They said they were following Jesus’ advice to love their neighbors. They were certainly more loving than the folks at Oceanside. He chuckled. Maybe Jesus had taken to hanging out on the streets. Perhaps He didn’t feel like He fit in at the churches either.

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