Kyle Green

essays: praise :

Jeromy Boyd hoist the 12-foot cross and heads down Memorial Avenue, his sneakers slapping the pavement. He prays quietly along the way. A small wheel stops the miles from grinding way the base of his wooden cross. “For most Christians I’ve seen, it’s all about the talk and no walk,” he says. God told him to stop in Roanoke, after drugs, after homelessness, after three years as a street minister. His 100-pound cross is heavy, especially after trading the dusty flatlands of Texas for the humid hills of Virginia. His hips and back ache. His knees throb. After being challenged about his purpose by a passerby, Jeromy replies, “I’m not Jesus. I’m just trying to spread his message.”
Jeromy Boyd hoist the 12-foot cross and heads down Memorial Avenue, his sneakers slapping the pavement. He prays quietly along the way. A small wheel stops the miles from grinding way the base of his wooden cross. “For most Christians I’ve seen, it’s all about the talk and no walk,” he says. God told him to stop in Roanoke, after drugs, after homelessness, after three years as a street minister. His 100-pound cross is heavy, especially after trading the dusty flatlands of Texas for the humid hills of Virginia. His hips and back ache. His knees throb. After being challenged about his purpose by a passerby, Jeromy replies, “I’m not Jesus. I’m just trying to spread his message.”