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Soteriological Implications of Personal Pain as it Relates to the Cross

Cecil Pickler — Mon, 13 Jan 2025 20:16:23 -0500

Soteriological Implications of Personal Pain

As It Relates To The Cross

Note: This paper was written two months after the passing of my wife, Ezelle, from cancer. My good friend from Seminary, Reverend Frankie Tanner, suggested I write this paper to help me through my grief. I did not want to write this, but my pain was so great I had to try something. Writing this paper helped me and enabled me to move forward with my life and take on the role of being a single parent. This paper was written almost 35 years ago. I was fortunate to find Debbie, and we have built a powerful life together. Debbie is my soulmate, and she has been my strongest partner. Just goes to show we should never give up in life.

The cross, originally crafted from coarse wood and used in gruesome crucifixion rituals, has become the universal symbol of Christendom as it aligns nations with nations, families to families, and faiths to other faiths. As a symbol of pain and degradation, the cross became the universal picture of Christendom when it was used as the instrument of death for Jesus Christ, the Son of God. Though entirely humiliating and painful, the cross was used in His crucifixion because it was necessary for the fulfillment of prophecy. His crucifixion provided a means for our salvation, for it was required that he die a public death so there would be many witnesses that His death was confirmed. Today, it is natural to equate suffering with salvation, for it is within the suffering of Christ on the cross that we obtain salvation.

Pain has been with us since man first recognized he was a sinful creature. The scriptures tell us in the book of Genesis that Adam and Eve ran and hid from God when they realized their sinful state. Today, our pains come to us in many forms and affect us in various ways. Along with these pains of life comes the doubt that God exists and He is there for us. We ask, "Why," but receive no verbal response. The intensity of our pain causes us to search for answers, but usually, we grow more and more despondent. Groping in darkness, we wonder how it is possible to believe in a God of love and mercy and constantly endure pain.

If Jesus's painful death has salvific ramifications for us, is it possible that our pain is a direct link to salvation? Can our pain be more meaningful with a complete understanding of God’s presence in our most difficult times? Examining pain on a personal level is necessary to answer these questions.

Since I am currently grieving from the death of my wife, and since I, too, have wondered about the existence of God, I will use my pain for the process. I hope that as this topic is written, God will become more visible, and my pain will have a measure of validity. It must first be understood that my pain is current. My wife, of seventeen years, has been dead for less than two months. I am bitter and feel rejected by God and man. I have two small children to raise, and the times are difficult for us. I am willing to put my pain upfront because I am desperate to find answers to the many questions that plague my being. A wonderful woman, wife, and mother is dead at the young age of thirty-seven. As a result of such loss, I harbor some intense anger at God because I thought He should have spared her. My pain seems unbearable.

Ezelle and I were a normal Christian couple. Yes, we had our ups and downs, but we were very close. We have two children: Derek, aged nine, and Megan, aged five. Ezelle and I enjoyed each other’s company and loved our children. We were the couple down the street from you, and our children played with your children. As I write this, the pain floods my heart, and I am more than ever reminded of the severity of the loss. Though the pain is intense, I know I must go on for the benefit of healing that I believe will be found only in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

My pain began when the physician told me that Ezelle had terminal cancer. This surgeon met with us shortly after surgery and gave us the shock of our lives. As he spoke, I kept thinking that Ezelle was still under anesthesia and was unaware of the things being said about her and her life. Perhaps she was even having a pleasant dream. I couldn't believe it. The surgeon must have missed something. His words could not apply to the wonderful woman I had kissed before surgery. Ezelle had always lived a clean and healthy life. She was a model of decency. How could this be true? It seemed like we were talking about someone else. My heart was exploding in the agony of this news.

The doctor told us that with aggressive treatment, Ezelle could live for eight months to a year. Believing (as most folks would) that she would live the year, it came as a shock when she died just two months later. I can still see the tears on her cheek as she was settled into her bed at the hospital the last time. She was going into a coma and was unable to speak, yet the tears served to tell me she knew. I think she was surprised at such an early end, too. The tears were the only method of communication she had. There was no time for that last goodbye or our final embrace—such painful remembrance.

Amid the worst agony I've ever felt, I wondered where God was. Was He on vacation? Was He taking a nap? Was He even in the world? I wondered why the many prayers that had been prayed for her had not been answered. Why didn't He do something? I was despondent because I couldn't do anything, and God didn't seem interested.

My life had been completely rearranged. Nothing seemed sane, and I felt a close kinship to Job. Job, as you will recall, lost everything. A wealthy man, his loss was no more than mine. His life was filled with pain, and he, too, asked where God was. In the book of Job, we read, "Does it please You to oppress me to spurn the work of Your hands, While You smile on the schemes of the wicked?" (Job 10:3) Perhaps it is significant that we had called upon God at all. If there had been any doubt about God's existence, this would have been a perfect time to jump ship. Even in our dark pain, we called upon His name and sought His face. As I walked alone on the night Ezelle died, I looked at the stars and gave God credit for a marvelous creation, then I said aloud, "But You sure engineered a mess down here." I was uncomfortable that I had spoken with Him at all. I returned to the house and was reminded of a Sunday before Ezelle's death. I had gone out and mowed the front yard. When I came back inside, Ezelle asked about the noise. I told her I had mowed the yard, and she replied, "On Sunday?" I said, "It's okay; I don't think He noticed."

I had endured the hardships of war while serving as a Marine in Vietnam, yet I had never experienced a pain as intense as this. My foundation was shaken, and I was lonely. My anger was as fierce as my pain, yet I still knew within my heart that this was part of a Divine plan. I wished God would come down and explain things while I was alone and desperate for comfort; I knew only He could provide.

During the period when everyone was coming around to help, I became very uncomfortable with the cliques that said little and even caused me more pain. "God won't give you more than you can bear" was one statement that said, in effect, that God had designed the pain of losing my wife specifically for me. "This is God's will" meant God had been busy confusing and hurting folks when He should have been more of a comfort. I understood very soon that if I were going to come through this struggle with my sanity and a fresh knowledge of His presence, I would have to do it myself. I am still working on it, but I have found some light to spread over the darkness, and the soteriological question is beginning to make sense.

As much as Job suffered, Jesus suffered more. He suffered the personal abuse of the religious rulers as well as rejection from the common man. Rocks had been hurled at him, and He was condemned when he allowed his friends to eat corn on Sunday. I believe Jesus understands my night-time tears because He wept over the death of His friend Lazarus. He weeps when Megan comes to me with tears, saying, "I miss Mommie." It comforts me that He grieves with us over the loss of Ezelle.

It should be noted here that Lazarus' sister Martha was angry at Jesus for not being there when Lazarus was sick. She believed that if Jesus had been there, Lazarus would not have died but would have been healed. She was so angry that she went out and met Him when she found out He was near. She told Him in plain language of her pain. "If you had been here, he wouldn't be dead," is how she got her point across. I am not the only person who has recognized an anger directed at God.

Given a critical examination, it appears pain does have a direct relationship to salvation. Indeed, the cross was a painful experience for Jesus. No one would doubt it, but the pain is relative to the experience. Perhaps His death had to be under such circumstances for a proper historical reference. Possibly, His most significant pain was in the humiliation of seeing those who had come to witness the event. Could we bear the statements and actions that accompanied His struggle in death? He was publicly mocked, and soldiers gambled for his clothes. He, too, had prayed for another way, but there would be no deviation from the grand plan. Crucified between two thieves, a board above His head, "Jesus, King of the Jews."

While Jesus was dying on the cross, He spoke of Paradise. The reference was personal and directed to one of the thieves who hung beside Him. Because he believes in Jesus as the Son of God, Jesus said the thief would be with Him that day in Paradise. In pain and sorrow, they had met, and salvation was promised. I have often wondered if this man sits on the right hand of Jesus instead of one of the disciples who had argued over that position. Even the centurion, who was there to validate the proceedings, noticed a difference in this particular occasion of death. Salvation came to him due to his profession of Jesus as the Son of God.

During the last two months of her life, Ezelle sought God's face in a spiritual sense. She prayed with vigor and praised Him for every sign of hope. When others came to minister to her, she ministered to them instead. She never gave up the battle or the belief that God would cure her. She prayed for me and the children, too.

I remember one night when her pain was too brutal for her to bear. She had prayed constantly for relief from the pain that so restricted her. When the pain continued, she asked me why the pain needed to be so intense.

She wondered if she was praying correctly. As I looked at her and touched her hand, I was reminded of the book The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boon. In this book, Corrie Ten Boon thanked God for allowing the barracks they lived in to be so miserable. She did this because, as a result of the awfulness of the conditions, the guards did not come in, which left the sisters free to mingle among the group and witness the love of Jesus. I told Ezelle that perhaps we, too, should thank God for the pain. When she asked why, I replied, "If you're feeling pain, then you know the forces inside you are still active, fighting for your life." I further said that her pain was an indication that she could still reason and feel, which was not the case with so many people who had cancer. She and I then prayed together, and I gave thanks for the pain and then asked that God would relieve her of at least some pain so she could sleep. The prayer was sincere, and Ezelle felt better immediately. She slept for several hours.

Today, I view the cross as empty and lonely. I am uncomfortable placing myself in the area around it. Only when my mind focuses on truth do I move slowly toward the cross to see and hear more clearly? I am only there as an observer, not a participant. As I approach the cross, the ground begins to shake, and the sky darkens. I become frightened. I feel lonely, yet an incredible presence prevents me from running away. I do not speak for fear of an audible answer. I know this is Holy ground, and He is here. It is here that I feel the most acquainted with grief. Here, I think the closest to Ezelle and to the God we worshiped together. The journey to this place was His way of telling me that all is in His plan and that Ezelle is with Him. It is here that I know for a certainty that God does exist and is here for us. I believe in time; I will come through my grief with a better vision of God and a complete understanding of His presence in our times of pain. Someday, Ezelle and I will walk the streets of gold together.

Perhaps the most straightforward answer to the soteriological question is in Megan's actions as a grieving daughter. Megan has not forgotten her mother, and she also seeks to identify Ezelle's death with something positive. To that end, Megan has written two letters to her mother instead of dictating. She also sings songs about her mother, who she makes up. In both forms of communication, Megan is not directed by anyone, and she acknowledges Ezelle's presence in Heaven. "Someday," she says, "I'll be in heaven with you." Megan may not know all of the theological arguments, but she has heart, and in her grief, she too sees the cross as salvation. Megan finds comfort in Knowing her mother is in Heaven.

There are substantial soteriological implications for personal pain. Perhaps the pain itself causes us to seek the answers told on the cross by Jesus. It could be found in the biblical approach to the struggles of others. I now realize I wanted to blame God for Ezelle's death. In so doing, I built a wall between me and God, which God began tearing down as I drew closer to Him. The unrelenting force of the pain caused me to seek His face with renewed vigor. I am confident of my salvation and His purpose for me and my children.

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Hospital Chaplain

Cecil Pickler — Mon, 13 Jan 2025 17:38:58 -0500

Hospital Chaplain

In 1984, while serving as an adjunct chaplain at a local hospital, I met a man of rare quality. I was working the Saturday rotation and received a call to go to the emergency room. As I made my way to the Emergency Room, I prayed that God would remove me from the site and yet use my voice for His purpose. When I arrived at the nurses’ station, I asked about the need.

“We have a man who was brought in here drunk. He has a blood alcohol level of 32%, which is very high. The police brought him in and said they found him sitting in the middle of the road. He isn’t injured, but we can’t let him leave until we can determine his blood alcohol level is dropping instead of continuing to rise. We are swamped tonight and can’t use a treatment room for him. The problem is that he is bothering the people in the waiting room, the nurse said emphatically, as if to show her disgust with the situation.

“What is his name, and does he have family?” I asked.

“His name is John, and he has a niece named Kathy,” the nurse replied. We have tried to call her but haven’t received an answer. "

“How will I recognize him from the others in the waiting room?” I asked.

“He is in a wheelchair and only has one leg,” the nurse replied as she turned to attend to the needs of other patients.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked the nurse, who had already turned away.

“Whatever you want to, just keep him out of our hair and away from the other folks in the waiting room!” she said disgustedly.

A hospital chaplain must minister to the spiritual needs of the patients and their families to help them along with their life’s journey. We are also on duty to help the hospital staff as they deal with issues of death and dying daily. This was an unusual request, but somehow, I knew this request was going to be very different.

“Are you John?” I asked the only man sitting in a wheelchair. Even at first glance, I knew this man was feeling no pain.

“Do you know me?” the man replied, looking up at me with eyes that began to reach inside me.

“Have you heard from Kathy?” I asked, not answering his question but trying to show him I knew his name and other things. I was having a little fun with him because he was drunk and because I was having to babysit him.

“You do know me!” he exclaimed. You do know me!” he said again with a smile that seemed to reach from ear to ear.

“Do you see what is written on my coat?” I said as I pointed to the word Chaplain.

“You’re the Chaplain,” he replied.

“Yes, I am the Chaplain, and I would like to talk to you if you don’t mind,” I said with as much interest as possible.

“Do you mind if I roll you to another location where we can talk in private?” I asked John.

“No, I don’t mind at all,” replied John, who now had someone to talk to and perhaps someone who would help him find enough money for cab fare back home.

I rolled John to the doctor’s lounge, a small room with a couch and a television. Doctors had the use of the room but seldom ever used it. This room had served me well in the past with other patients who awaited bitter news. In this room, we could talk without disturbing the crowd in the waiting room. I informed the nursing staff of our new location and received a curt smile for my thoughtfulness.

“John, how long have you been drunk?” I asked after getting him settled into the lounge.

“Well, I guess about three years,” he replied without waiting for a better answer to come to his mind.

“That’s a long time,” I said while thinking it must have been a much longer time than that.

John had the appearance of a man who lived in the bottle, who did not work for a living but instead spent his time in the throes of drunkenness. I had seen his kind many times before. Unshaven, unclean, and uncaring, John was an outcast in society. That is why no one wanted to talk to him in the waiting room, and that was why the nursing staff just wanted to be rid of him. I had made my quick assessment, but I was to learn that my judgment was in error.

“I am going to quit drinking,” said John. “I have some at home, and when I get home, I am going to pour it all out,” he said as if he thought I was preparing to preach a sermon to him on the evils of drinking.

I knew he was not ready to make such a commitment. His statement was typical of things a drunk might say. He was probably praying that I would not preach to him like some preachers do and condemn him for his actions. While John presented a typical view of a classical drunk, there was something different about him. Intrigued, I wanted to know more.

“How did you lose that leg?” I asked.

This time, John looked into my eyes and was silent. Tears began falling from his eyes, and I watched him and waited for his reply. His head and body shook as his tears fell onto his shoes.

“It happened in Nam. We were going through a vile, and I saw this baby lying on the ground crying. Man, I always hated to see a baby cry, so I picked it up, hoping to make it stop crying. Man, the baby was booby-trapped! Those Goddamned Gooks killed that baby! I don’t know what kind of people would do something like that just to kill an American. The mine took my leg and nearly got the other one, too! I keep seeing that baby lying on the ground. That baby is in all of my dreams, and I hate sleeping because that baby is always there! If Doc hadn’t tied me off and helped me right then, I wouldn’t have the dreams I have been having. I wish to God Doc would have left me alone that day.

I had a new and profound understanding of John. I placed my hand on John’s shoulder as the pain racked his body and the tears flowed freely, hoping my touch might be of some comfort to him. I now saw John not as a typical drunk but as a man tortured by the pain of combat. I was ashamed of having put him so neatly in a class of misfits.

John had answered the call to military service. He had been a young man when he learned the fine art of killing the enemy, but he was never taught how to handle a tiny baby who was being used as a booby trap. I was ashamed of all who had met John and had turned their heads away from him. I was ashamed of myself and my quick judgment.

John and I talked for a couple of hours. We talked about places we had both seen in Vietnam and our fears of coming home. Though John was in the Army and I was a Marine, our experiences were similar. In those two hours, I found a new friend, a brother.

The hospital maintained a small fund that was to be used by the Chaplain when he deemed it necessary. John would have his ride home in a cab, and our fund would pay for it. I helped John get into the cab, yet he was insistent that he could do it all himself. I gave the driver the required money and warmly shook this hero's hand. I wished him well, and I welcomed him home.

Two months passed, and one night, as I was making my rounds in the ER, I saw the same nurse who had been there the night John came in.

“I haven’t seen you around here lately, but I guess you heard,” she said.

“Heard what?” I asked.

“That fellow, the one they brought in drunk, and you talked with him, well, he died a couple of weeks ago,” she replied. “They brought him back here, but he was already gone,” she said.

I was shocked. Yes, I remembered John and the night we had become friends. I had hoped, no, I had prayed that John would find another way to deal with his pain and that he would leave the alcohol behind. The news of John’s death greatly saddened me. I wondered if there was more I could or should have done.

I didn’t cry then, but later, when I was alone, I let loose with tears equal to the tears he shed that night I was with him. I didn’t know where he lived, but knew I would miss him. I prayed that God would be generous to this soldier who had endured so much and at such a cost. I prayed that God would forgive me for failing to see a hero who needed peace.

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Mom's Biscuits

Cecil Pickler — Mon, 13 Jan 2025 17:23:36 -0500

Mom's Biscuits

Have you ever smelled homemade biscuits cooking in the oven? I am guessing you have not. Do not feel bad that that is not a cherished memory of yours. We have become a different world, and few folks actually make biscuits. No, today we open a can of biscuits that Pillsbury made, and we cook them according to the instructions on the can. Those biscuits are great, and I eat them myself, but I remember the smell of biscuits cooking in the oven, and canned biscuits from Pillsbury do not compare to the real thing.

I remember the smell of biscuits cooking in my childhood kitchen. If you were inside the house, the smell of hot biscuits was the signal to come to the table; our meal was almost ready. Notice I did not say dinner; biscuits were made for every meal in those days. I never gave much thought to the smell associated with biscuits being cooked, but there is a distinct odor that overrides other succulent odors in the kitchen.

In my youth, I took those odors for granted. It simply meant we were about to eat. I did not consider the love that prepared the meal or the logistics of a particular meal. My father occasionally cooked a meal, but the task of preparing meals was my mom’s, and she was very good at taking care of us with her culinary skills. It was what we did back then. As a family, we gathered at “the” table and ate the meal mother had prepared. I still don’t like liver, but back then, I ate liver very slowly, one very, very small piece at a time. It was that simple, yet I see the biscuits my mother made as the foundation of our futures.

There was no central air conditioning back then, and even when it was cold outside, the kitchen was tight and warm. Many years after we left home, our favorite gathering place was the kitchen, where we gathered once again around the table of our youth. In the summer, we could smell biscuits being cooked from the backyard. We knew we needed to go ahead and wash our hands because when the biscuits were done, the meal was ready. We didn’t know life could be any different. We didn’t realize some families never sat together for a meal, and we didn’t know how special it was for us then. We passed the biscuits and deepened our love for each other without giving it much thought. It just happened.

All of us watched Mother as she made the biscuits. She could have taught the class about multi-tasking because she could mix the ingredients, stir the lima beans, and set the table simultaneously. She never measured anything when she made biscuits. She would sift the flour into the big wooden bowl and then create a large, inverted cone in the middle with her hand. Then she would put some lard (shortening) in the middle, and as she began to work the lard and flour together, she would add the buttermilk. She never made a mess and knew precisely how much to use to fill the bread pan. When the ingredients were thoroughly mixed, she would pull off a small piece of dough and form it into a biscuit. Again, she knew exactly how much to pinch off to create a biscuit. The last thing she did to the biscuit was put a finger dimple in the middle. It was like her stamp of approval.

Mom’s biscuits were the same size, and she cooked them at around 425⁰ until they were golden brown. Occasionally, she would create what we called a “hotdog” biscuit that was long instead of round. Those biscuits were the prize we all wanted. If we saw mom making bread, we would ask if there would be a hotdog biscuit. If we saw a hotdog biscuit being formed, we claimed it before it entered the oven because everyone wanted a narrow and crunchy biscuit.

Since we all watched Mom make biscuits, we knew how to make biscuits in theory. Several months after I was married, I called my mother and asked her to guide me through the process as I was going to surprise my wife by making biscuits for the first time. The surprise would include a full meal with biscuits being the most surprising part. I had all the ingredients on the kitchen table and was ready. Mom told me to put some flour into my bowl. I asked her how much flour I should put into the bowl, and she said just put some in there. Mother had made biscuits so many times that it never occurred to her to write any of the process down. Then she told me to make a hole in the middle of the pile of flour, and I moved my hand in a circular motion in the flour just like I had seen her do so many times in the years before.

“Now, put your lard in the middle,” she instructed.

“How much lard do I need,” I asked.”

“Just get some on the ends of your fingers,” she replied.

I had no idea how much of anything I should have used as things progressed. Before I knew it, I had dough up to my elbows. The kitchen was a pure mess. I hung up the phone and threw the pan full of good intentions into the trash can. We dined that night on the meal I had cooked and some loaf bread. The next time I cooked biscuits, they were edible. My brothers and sisters could make biscuits, but they were never as good as mom’s.

Our table was crowded, but if one of us was missing, we all felt their loss. It wasn’t the same, and we all knew it. Our food did not have fancy names but came from the garden we toiled with our hands. We all knew how to hoe the beans, pick the tomatoes, shuck the corn, and snap the beans. We knew how to lay a row and drop the seeds at the proper intervals. We also learned how to break up crusted cow manure with our hands to make things grow bigger and better. It was how we lived then; we took it for granted since we were kids. Perhaps we even silently told ourselves that when we grew up, things would be different.

Chickens in our yard made many a Sunday meal. It was incredible how mom fried up a chicken, using all the parts, including the neck. There was a crust on the chicken that would have made a staunch vegetarian a chicken lover. No one could fry chicken like Mother did. She would use the grease from frying that chicken to make a delicious brown gravy. We poured that gravy over crumbled biscuits and mashed potatoes, and perhaps some of the gravy was poured over a piece of the "hoecake.” Mom would add some green beans or corn, and we were set to go.

Christmas in the days of my childhood was a very special time, not so much because of what we received from Santa, but because of the cooking mother would do. There were numerous pumpkin pies, sweet potato pies, real chocolate cake with cooked icing, and a coconut cake with real coconut. These were made from scratch, not a mix. Our mother had a way of blending everything and adding just the right amount of love to make it a banquet.

The most memorable part of this was no limit on how much you could have. I once ate a whole pumpkin pie before breakfast on one Christmas morning. It was just so good that I could not stop eating it. The presents we received soon faded, but the beauty of our kitchen was something that lives still.

Growth is a natural part of life, so it happened to each of us. David left first to be a US Marine, and we felt the significant loss of his presence. Gloria followed when she and Del were married. Later, I left to be a Marine and served in Vietnam. I was followed by Doug, who left home to be a Soldier in the US Army. Doug worked hard in the grocery business and achieved accolades for his management and creative skills. Karen graduated from college and shortly thereafter served in Japan for two years as a Journeyman Missionary. Seminary came after Japan for Karen, then to the great state of New York to serve her calling. Joyce amazed us all by being the most tenacious at everything she did. She brought laughter to all of us because she was so much like Mother. Mother encouraged Joyce to learn to play the piano by buying a piano and purchasing lessons. That was a benefit that served all of us for many years. Joyce and I would play and sing with great harmony.

We have each taken our paths in life and established our kitchens. Professionals in every sense, our families embody the essence of the kitchen of our childhood. We still hold the family table as something honorable and sacred. We still abide by the table as a meeting place, a reference point, and a common point of contact. Even though the scriptures tell us in the book of Matthew that “Man does not live by bread alone,” we continue to smell the bread in the oven of our childhood and embrace the hands that prepared the meals that enabled us to become adults. I may not have understood the value of mom’s biscuits when I was young, but today, the memory of the odor of bread in the oven carries me home and to a time of uncompromised love.

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Breakfast Meeting

Cecil Pickler — Mon, 13 Jan 2025 10:35:08 -0500

Breakfast Meeting

"Good Morning, Jim,” said Tom as he slid into the seat across from his old friend.

Jim and Tom look forward to their weekly breakfast meeting, during which they discuss interesting and sometimes provocative topics. Both men are retired from public work, and though they have been friends for many years, these breakfast meetings have drawn them closer.

"Jim, the traffic out there is simply unbelievable," began Tom. "Everyone is driving dangerously fast; it is like they could care less about safely getting where they are going. Everywhere you look, people are just living too fast. It scares me to drive on Market Street during the morning rush hour," fussed Tom.

"Times are different," replied Jim, "but we have to expect that kind of thing with progress. It's one of those things we can't change," Jim said, not wanting to talk about traffic.

For the past two years, Tom and Jim had greeted each other in the same fashion, each knowing they wouldn't miss this breakfast, regardless of the circumstances. They had come to respect each other, and though neither had mentioned it, they recognized a strong spiritual presence that was drawing them even closer.

"Shall I bring you the usual this morning, fellows, or would you like something from the menu?" said Linda as she brought them the first cups of coffee.

"I'll have the special," said Jim while Tom seemed to ponder the menu.

"And you want your eggs scrambled, your toast crisp, and your bacon crisp too," replied Linda, displaying a good working knowledge of the men.

“I'll have the special as well. Can I get you to leave off the bacon? My doctor wants me to cut back on the sodium," announced Tom without sounding excited.

"No problem," said Linda, as she scribbled down the order in restaurant shorthand

Linda looked forward to serving these men because they were always very nice to her. They never fussed with her or accused her of making mistakes like some construction customers did. Linda thought it was nice that they always complimented her on her hair and clothes. She imagined they had learned well from their wives. Linda liked how the men talked about serious issues but never let anger spoil the meal. Linda recognized the strong friendship that bonded Tom and Jim and how they acted toward themselves and others. She wished all of her customers could be so nice.

Jim would arrive a few minutes before 8:00, and Tom would arrive at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Jim would sit in the place he had long ago chosen as the best seat in the house, and then Tom would stroll in like he owned the place, speaking to all the servers as he went. All of the servers knew these men and treated them with respect. They never seated anyone in the seats the men had chosen long ago as ‘their seats.’ It was as though a permanent reservation was set for these two remarkable men.

"I'll get this for you right away," said Linda as she touched Jim lightly on the shoulder. "If you need anything else, just let me know," she said with the smallest amount of confusion. Linda knew something was wrong. When she touched Jim on the shoulder, he felt agitated. It was unusual because Jim had always responded to her touch with a remark or a small gesture of appreciation. Today, he remained silent, and now she noticed the tenseness in his eyes. His eyes projected a level of weariness she had never seen. As she walked away, she wondered if she should say something but passed it off as just an off day for Jim.

Both men took their napkins and placed them on their laps as if on cue before taking a sip of hot coffee. With two hands around his cup and apparent hesitation, Jim said, "How do you know that God exists?"

Jim had considered this question for a long time. He had wanted to ask Tom many times before but felt guilty because both men were active deacons at Fellowship Baptist Church, and as such, both were expected to know the answer to such a question. He knew it would seem like a breach of faith if he voiced the question, but he had struggled and was desperate for an answer. He knew he could trust Tom, yet it was agony to ask. Now, Jim felt strangely at peace with the question out in the open.

"How do I know? Said Tom, as if disbelieving the question. Tom was a bit surprised by the question because they usually talked about trivial, meaningless things before getting into anything serious.

"Well, He lives within my heart, as the song says, and like the preacher preaches," Tom said, hoping that would answer the question.

"Oh, come on, Tom, I am serious. I want to know," said Jim in a manner that told Tom a simple answer would not do.

"There just has to be more than that to explain the existence of God,” said Jim, emphasizing the word has. "I know this sounds pretty basic, but I have read about other ancient cultures lately, and I'm confused right now. I want to hear what you think about this, said Jim to further explain the strange question.

Tom looked at his friend and suddenly felt unworthy of answering his question. He now noticed the tight grip on Jim's coffee cup and was ashamed of having tried to answer a complex question in such a simple manner. Now, he sees the sadness in Jim's eyes and the evidence of not getting much sleep. Tom knew the loneliness that Jim felt as a result of his wife's death nearly four months earlier. He and Jim had become closer after her death, and they often talked about her. Somehow, her death had changed Jim. Jim had become more reflective and more sincere. Lately, Tom noticed Jim slowly withdrawing from the community and church events. Now Jim was asking a difficult question, and Tom realized his response would be critical.

"Jim, I know many things that are said sound rather simplistic, but when I say them, they do have meaning,” began Tom. "I have seen things in life that can only be attributed to God."

Tom paused a moment as if recalling a tough time. Jim understood the silence as not needing his input, and though Tom had lowered his face, Jim knew Tom’s expression had changed. He no longer had the look of traffic annoyance or laughter. With his hands clasped around his cup, Tom raised his head to continue. Jim noticed the most noticeable change, a small tear in Tom's eyes."

“I still remember the day my father died," Tom began rather softly. "You never knew him, but my dad lived what I believed to be the most perfect Christian life. He had loved and helped people more than can be written or talked about, yet he came down with a disease I couldn't even pronounce. At the time, I couldn't believe a real God would have allowed that to happen. The disease stripped him of his strength, and it quickly became necessary for someone to carry him wherever he needed to go. Later, he was bedridden with a pain that was constant and unbearable. Many times, I heard him crying when he thought no one could hear his anguished torment, yet even when his pain was at its most horrible level, he praised God for His forgiveness. On the day my father died, the pain had reduced his speech to an unintelligible murmur, and the doctors had told us the end was near.”

Jim sat unmoving as Tom recounted his story. It seemed time had paused, and nothing mattered except the conversation between these two men. Though Jim had not anticipated Tom's explanation in such a detailed expression, he was powerless to interrupt, and more than that, he was moved in a way he had never experienced before. Jim also noticed a more substantial tear in Tom's eye that ran wildly down his cheek, making a wet spot on the table. Jim saw a tremendous man with the vitality of a moose with tears in a public place. Jim was moved with compassion for his friend.

"I searched my father's room for the faces of those who loved him," said Tom, "and I was remembering special things about each." "My mother," he said, "was seeing the end of a forty-year marriage built on a powerful love. Her tears seemed to tell everyone who noticed their love was shared. My older brother had little to say in verbal expressions, but his face, too, showed his grief. I remember my father teaching him to drive the family car. We all laughed at his mistakes even though we knew we would someday make the same mistakes. The others in the room all had expressions of love and loss on their faces. It was then, while in the quiet suffering of us all, my father suddenly opened his eyes fully, and it appeared as though he was seeing something in the room. Jim, my dad, opened his eyes as if he had been healed,” said Tom, with emotion pouring from his soul.

Tom seemed to straighten up a bit before continuing.

"Even though he had no strength left," said Tom, "my daddy raised both arms toward heaven, and in a loud, intelligible voice, he said, 'Thank you, dear Jesus. I'm coming home at last. When he had said this, his arms dropped to his side, and his eyes closed. My father had died," Tom said with the whole emotion of yesterday. "I looked at my father, and his face was peaceful. I could hardly believe my eyes at what I saw. Gone were the disfiguring marks of extreme pain. It was as if death itself had not only removed the pain, but it had also removed the idea of pain as well. It was as if Jesus himself had smoothed my father's face with His hand," said Tom. "I just couldn't believe he could look so much at peace," said Tom excitedly.

It was as if Tom needed time to compose himself before continuing.

"I hope everything is as you like it," Linda said as she placed the hot but insignificant plates on the table. I'll warm your coffee, and if you need anything else, just let me know. " She turned to get the coffee.

Jim hadn't noticed how tightly he was gripping the coffee cup until he gave it to Linda to fill. A great mixture of feelings was running through Jim that he could not explain. Jim wanted to run and hide; he wanted to cry, he wanted to sing, and he wanted to talk. Strangely, though, he was not hungry.

Tom also loses his desire to eat because he continues his story without taking a bite.

"I believe it was God who gave my father the power to raise his arms and speak," said Tom. "Nothing in this world could have given him the energy to move in such a manner, and God had to take away the pain from his face. I believe God did that to instruct a rebellious son about faith and commitment,” he explained.

“Shortly after Dad's funeral, I rededicated my life to God because I wanted to be able to approach death in as serious a fashion as my father had done. I wanted to hold on to something that was not just for the day and something that would not change," Tom said in answer to Jim's earlier question. "His death had caused me to realize God was what I had been looking for," said Tom with conviction.

"Yes, I have heard the cliché people use for tough times," said Tom, "but the folks that use them are sincere in wanting to help."

"You are correct; they used cliché back then, too, but it never bothered me too much," Tom offered. "I know that it is difficult to express God's presence in more earthly ways, and when we do, it seems we are weakening the truth of God. I believe God is spirit, and if He is to have expression here on earth, then it will have to be with and through people like us who know Him," Tom said, hoping Jim would understand. "Sometimes it appears it doesn't work very well, but who are we to judge success and failure for something as important as eternity?"

"Unfortunately, we are prone to make mistakes. I suppose he could have shown us all a blinding light like he did for Paul, but isn't it more incredible that He is allowing us to participate in His kingdom here on earth in such a marvelous fashion?" "It is His will that we all have a means of participating in His work here," Tom said. "You know what is incredible?" Tom asked rhetorically, " His success lies in our ability to communicate this to the world."

Jim felt at peace for the first time since his wife Janie died. He had become worried that his faith was in vain and that God was only a myth. He couldn't get it out of his mind that if God did exist, then why didn't He heal his wife?

Jim felt he had done all that was required of him; he had prayed according to the scriptures and had believed in miracles. Now, through Tom's story, he knew the answer. God had not forsaken him but rather had continued to guide him. It was God who directed him to ask Tom this problematic question. Suddenly, Jim felt the resistance fall from him, and he began to weep. He lowered his head and silently thanked God for guiding him this morning and for his good friend Tom, and then Jim rededicated his life to God.

Both Jim and Tom eventually ate their breakfast and discussed other things. Jim had been honest enough to express his doubt, and Tom had been sincere enough to tell his story and thus magnificently proclaim his love for God. Regarding breakfast meetings, none could have been more critical because of their newfound love for God and each other.

Nearly two years after this meeting, Tom suffered an aneurysm and was rushed to the hospital. The doctors worked desperately to repair the damaged blood vessels but to no avail. Tom died quietly without waking from his sleep. When Jim paid his respects at the mortuary, he noticed a change in Tom's appearance. Tom had always sported a rugged appearance due to his many years of work outside, but now his face had changed. Jim was sure there were fewer lines and wrinkles, but more than that, he was sure Tom had the beginnings of a smile, the same type of smile his wife had when she died. Suddenly, Jim remembered the breakfast encounter that had changed his life. Now, as he looked upon the face of his dead friend, he knew Tom was resting in Heaven. Through tears that stained his shirt, Jim silently thanked God for his friend and that extraordinary breakfast encounter.

CP 1991

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Who Shold Say, I Am Sorry

Cecil Pickler — Sun, 16 Mar 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Who Should Say, I Am Sorry

I am sorry that when I registered to vote, I chose the party my parents had claimed many years before when they had become of age. I apologize for not caring enough about our country to determine my political affiliation based on my passions, interests, and knowledge of world events. I am sorry I took the easy, uneducated way out when making that critically important decision. I am most apologetic for not realizing after I had matured more that my decision had been made in haste and no longer aligned with the needs of the American people. A statement could be easily said that I did not love my country enough to stand up for all Americans because of my choice of political parties.

When I turned twenty-one (the age to register when I was young), I hastily chose my parents' party. Over the years, that party garnered much power over the people of the United States. With their power, they placed unfair tax burdens on the people while they were getting rich on insider trading and manipulating the country’s balance sheet. We trusted them because it was much easier to give them the benefit of the doubt than to consider the opposing party had a better plan.

I thought my little vote did very little to right the wrongs I saw. What a mistake that was! What if everyone thought that way? Again, I took the easy way out by believing there was truth in the idea that there were evil people on both sides of the aisle, even though it seemed my selected party committed the most egregious acts.

The party I had chosen so long ago had been billed as the party for the working class, but over the past several election cycles, it has shown itself to be the party for itself. I never changed my party because I feared it would somehow dishonor my mother and father. How foolish a thought was that? My parents loved me for who I was. If they are watching me from heaven, I am sure they are proud of me and continue to love me as I am. Okay, I finally changed my political party and am happy I did. I started noticing how politics directly impacted my life, especially local politics, and it began to make sense that there was a need for change. I needed to change my party because my cost had increased tremendously under my party's rule, and I was less safe. I wish I had taken an interest in politics much sooner. Perhaps I could have advocated for a better America for everyone before it beca

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What Has Politics Done For Us?

Cecil Pickler — Tue, 14 Jan 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Governmental Politics should include a reasonable debate between our political parties to reach a consensus on any given issue. That is my interpretation, not a dictionary version. Most Americans see this as what they feel politics should be. However, this is not how politics is carried out in the United States.

In the United States, everything is done on the world stage. All of our enemies know how divided we are. Each party is determined to maintain dominance in our House and Senate. The greater our party prevails, the better we feel because we know we have the votes necessary to get whatever we want as a party.

Our system of politics is unfair to the citizens of the United States. We are our representatives' constituents, yet our voice is seldom heard and never defended in Congress. Once elected, our representatives become entwined with the ambitions of Rhino Representatives, who have benefited financially from their time in Congress. Our representatives campaigned and promised to give us a voice in Congress, to voice our concerns and effect changes in our laws that will protect us. We worked alongside them to get them elected, but once they've been assigned an office and a desk in the chamber, we exist no more.

Laws are created and passed that infringe upon our fundamental rights as Americans. These new laws also gradually strip away our rights and privileges by design. They know they cannot make significant decisions quickly, or we will get wise to their scheme and throw them out. They sign bills that protect those who seek to destroy us, and they balk at sending aid where it is needed most. The rich in Washington get richer, while the poor of our country fall behind on necessities.

Given a critical look at our system, Politics has done us no favors. Through politics, we have learned to hate people whose skin color is different from our own. We seek out a particular party because we have strong views on how this country should be governed. The politicians let us down when they ignore our frantic cries for help.

Our problem is that politics has done nothing for us and many things that harm us.

How many of you voted to allow millions of illegals to come into our country and take our jobs? How many of you voted to give these people benefits that you cannot obtain for yourselves? How many of you voted to give the illegals college tuition when you have children who cannot afford a college education? How many of you voted to send billions upon billions to Ukraine to fight their war with Russia?

None of you voted for these things, and most of you are affected by the decisions.

Please take the time to change my mind!!

I would greatly appreciate your comments.

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My Next project: Whispers of Hope

Cecil Pickler — Tue, 7 Jan 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I am already working on my next novel, Whispers of Hope. This book is a continuation of my book, A Walk Among Heroes. In this book, I go deep into my time after serving in the war of Vietnam. I detail my struggles to be normal and to gain a successful future. This book allows me to compare my problems with PTSD with the problems the Civil War Soldiers had when they went home after their war. If you have served in war, and if. you have PTSD, please read this book. I hope you will find peace.

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My next project: Whispers of Hope

Cecil Pickler — Tue, 7 Jan 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Whispers of Hope continues where A Walk Among Heroes leaves off. Pick spends more time with the spirits on the Gettysburg Battlefield but this time, he talks with the men who survived the war and went home with their form of PTSD. This book enables "Pick" to detail his coming home struggles and how he eventually came to terms with his PTSD.

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