It was late one night, early one morning. Motor running, gear in D, brake lights bright. For an hour, we sat and talked. I never noticed my right foot get tired from holding down the brake.

The parking lot was full at four o’clock a.m. but that didn’t matter. I was simply dropping him off at his dorm after a stressful dinner where emotions ran high.

As always, it seemed, we discussed religion: his life fully with, and my lack thereof.

“Keith,” Mark said, “you may not like this, but you’ve made me more Christian since I’ve known you. All our talking about faith and religion that we’ve done has just made my faith stronger.”

I nodded my head, not surprised.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said; I answer of course. “Since you’ve known me, have I pushed you more towards atheism or more towards Christianity?”

Pause. I considered.

“Neither. I’m no more or less atheist now than when we met. However, you may not like this, but since I’ve known you, you have shown me time and time again why I long ago rejected faith as a means to finding Truth.”

“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. God bless Mama, Kristie, me, Granny & Granpa, Helen & Johnny…” [thinking] “…and all the animals and all the people in the world.”

By the time I was five, I picked up the habit of praying every night at bedtime before I picked up the habit about brushing your teeth. I still have problems with that one.

Before I ever made it to kindergarten, I had a girlfriend. Christina Butler was the preacher’s daughter…sort of. Looking back on it, the Salvation Army doesn’t call them preachers - they have “captains” and the like.

Captain Jack Butler was the preacher at the Salvation Army church on Chase Street when I was very young. I am told that when I was two years old I met his daughter. Yet my first life memories are of when I was three.

I’m sitting in a seat that is bigger than me. We’re driving down a street that I would later learn is called Dougherty. Buildings rush by and I’m thinking of G.I. Joe. I get out of the car and am led to the Presbyterian preschool. I fondly remember a slide built into the side of a hill (it seemed so tall) and chasing a curly-headed girl down its length, both of us laughing. Over the years, the playground was paved over and later restored with a new playground.

Once, the Gingerbread Man escaped and the teachers had us running all over the building looking for the pastry pest with the huge smile. After we found him, he was laid on a pan and tilted up so everyone could see him. The lights were turned out and we were instructed to watch him carefully or else he might get away again. I saw the Gingerbread Man twitch. His smile looked sorrowful.

Captain America came to visit us once, all red white and blue. I was so very frightened. I put my head down in my hands and wouldn’t even look at him. He handed me a small piece of paper with a line drawing of his patriotic shield. He said something to me but I wouldn’t even look up far enough to see his boots. I don’t remember what that god said that but when he left, I was in awe for I never saw him leave. He just…disappeared. My eyes had hidden behind my hands, but I believed he must have flown away. I wondered if Superman knew about him.

Christina called Captain Butler by a funny name: “Daddy.” She called him that so often that for a while, I called him “Daddy” too. I never noticed the sad smile on my mother’s face.

Alta Vista: a cemetery in Gainesville. Once, long ago, an ancestor of mine donated a majority of his land for Gainesville to be built on. We have proof. There are even street signs with the name “Tanner” on them. Ted Turner’s grandfather was the brother of my great-grandmother.

My mind returns to the word I’m staring at.

The name is emblazoned on the stone like God’s etching of the Ten Commandments. My father. Just a name on gray stone.

I look around me. Over there, my Granny & Granpa have a plot ready for them when they pass away. Over here, a see a fresh pile of dirt stacked up next to a geometric hole. To my right, my sister Kristie cries, hand to her mouth, eyes wrapped in pain. Her husband stares at the ground. I stare, too. LANKFORD.

The next time I visit, I’m a sophomore in college. My life-long friend John rides with me in my colossal, custom-made van that was bought from my grandparents when my old Mercedes classic died. The trip is spontaneous. School is closed for the first half of the day; snow had fallen the previous night and paralyzed Athens with its inchy depth.

We eat at Ryan’s then go to the stone. We stand there looking at it.

“Want me to give you some time alone?”

“If you want to, it doesn’t really matter.”

He sits in the van thirty seconds before I join him and start up the motor. We leave. John is more emotional than I am. My face reads like stone.

Once, when I was little, I remember seeing a rose growing where my father’s body lay buried. I wonder: was it real? was it figment?

Nevertheless, it was a beautiful rose.

I rose from the water, my sins washed away. I shivered as I looked down below me from the Jordan River recreation. The pews were filled with people, my family included. I was the last of three children baptized that night.

I changed clothes and met my family downstairs. We went through the drive-thru of Bojangles on Broad Street, where the Taco Bell is now. I got me a spicy chicken leg and some dirty rice. The best I ever tasted.

I believed. I had faith. I loved God. He loved me. For the Bible told me so.

Deep and wide. Deep and wide. My faith was strong, deep and wide.

During Ben Glosson’s sermon one Sunday morning at Central Baptist Church, I randomly opened up the Bible and began reading. I didn’t learn too much about God from those passages I read that morning, but I did learn how to treat slaves.

A couple of Christmases, I drove home from Atlanta after staying with my friend Alana for a couple days. On my way back, I decided to be spontaneous and go see a movie at the AMC Colonial 18 in Lawrenceville. I had seen A Bug’s Life the day before and was still in the mood for a cartoon. So I went to see Prince of Egypt.

I watched as the Angel of Death came to Egypt and killed all the first-born. The white, misty Death follows a male child of perhaps 6 years into a doorway. We hear the bowl he was carrying fall to the floor; his arm stretches through the doorway where he fell.

I hear a child’s voice behind me: “Why did God kill the little boy?”

I’m not sure whether I should laugh or cry. I don’t hear the parents answer but I wish I were there to see how they would convey themselves. I wonder what the kid must think of the juxtaposition: an innocent child is killed soon followed by a song that boasts “Miracles can happen when you believe.”

I ask Mark what he would have said to the child. He answers: “Read the Bible.”

When I was young, I never questioned what I was taught. I asked questions but I never questioned. Understand? Jesus says to the doubting Thomas “Blessed are those who have not seen yet believe.” I was blessed. “My Lord and my God!”

Third grade. It’s Christmas Eve and the lights are turned out in my room. The lights down the hall in my parents’ room are aglow. My new stepfather comes in. “Don’t be looking through your door now,” he says. “Face that way.”

Confused, I do as I’m told. Why can’t I look out my bedroom door? I don’t like to have my door closed at night; when I’m fourteen, I change my mind.

I hear metal rustling, tools being shuffled. The Ghost of Christmas Past (benevolent spirit!) comes to me and reminds me of years gone by:

One Christmas Eve, I leave out milk and cookies for Santa Claus. A badly written note is left for him, telling him it’s okay for him to eat; it won’t be stealing. My faith in Santa grows strong the next morning when crumbs are left, a dirty glass sits still. A miracle!

A year or two later, I go to Kristie’s room to sleep on Christmas Eve night. I don’t want to be alone. She sleeps in her bed while I lay on the huge, felt beanbag Mama made for her a long time before.

I lay awake, not being able to go to sleep. Around midnight, a strange thing occurs. I hear a sound on the roof: a scraping, as if something being dragged across the shingles. The sleigh! The Sleigh!

“He knows when you are sleeping…” Oh no! I shut my eyes really hard and I hope I can fool him into thinking I’m asleep. “…he knows when you’re awake…”

It must have worked because the next morning I find toys set out in front of the tree…

Third grade again. The Ghost leaves me and I am still befuddled by what is going on. Silently, I get out of bed and tiptoe down the hall to the bathroom. I pause at the bathroom door, then continue down the hall to the living room. There, I see toys and the like sitting out on the floor, arranged just so. Has Santa come already? It’s not even midnight. I notice my mother with her back to me, a camera held to her eye.

Flash! and my faith is shattered.

The Ghost of Christmas Past (malevolent specter!) visits again and reminds me of a time when I received a Care Bears coloring book in my stocking: a gift from Santa. A K-mart price tag is stuck to its cover. Doesn’t Santa’s elves make all the gifts? I rationalize that Santa has a secret deal with stores to take what he needs so that he doesn’t have to make all the gifts for the world’s children; after all, that would be so much work! I’m satisfied with my explanation and begin coloring.

I later got quite good at rationalizing. Rationalization became my religion.