Brother Cecil hung the
hoe on its hook and turned to leave the empty barn. He slid the door shut
behind him and secured the latch. With a sigh, he began the long march back to
the big house, his robe rustling as he walked. In the heat of the early July
afternoon, he hardly broke a sweat. Years in the long wool robes had acclimated
his body. That, or perhaps the years had thinned his blood. Any amount of heat
brought welcome relief from the cold ache in his bones.
Behind
the barn, the open field sat vacant. The cattle had all been sold and
slaughtered, no doubt already in someone’s freezer. Only a few chickens
remained in the chicken coop, and he was grateful for the fresh eggs they
blessed him with each day.
Brother Cecil stopped
beside the three-acre garden plot to inspect the progress. Tiny white flowers
clung to the plants along one row. It would be several more weeks before those
flowers would sprout into green beans. The cornstalks were not yet a foot high,
a bad sign with the Fourth of July looming. Having known since early winter that
he would be here alone come harvest, he had sparsely planted the garden—a row
of beans, a row of corn, a trail of peas along the fence, a hill of squash, a
half-dozen tomato plants.
In the distance, the
picturesque chapel stood as a sentinel over the grounds. Its only stained-glass
window—the round one over the front double doors—seemed to glow, even though
there should be no light inside. Brother Cecil shook his head.
“Surely God is still
inside,” he said out loud, though no one was within hearing except the sparrows
who had taken up residence in the barn. “Ah, the good Lord is out here though,
too. Eh?” He looked up at the blue sky and winked.
Meet Brother Cecil. I don’t mean to brag, but this is
one of my favorite scenes from my novel, “The Truth Beyond the River”. Can you
picture it as well as I do? Or is it just because I grew up on the edge of
Wisconsin farmland, and this scene has been in my head my entire life?
But where did I get his name from? When I was in
college, I think my second year, I took a Logic class. Don’t ask why. But we
put together and took apart sentences such as “Mathematics is the queen of the sciences,
and Mars is not a planet,” in an attempt, I believe, to discern the truth. One
such sentence was “Cecil was a compassionate man.”
I don’t know why, but that simple sentence has stuck
in my head for forty years. And when I was picturing the sweet, kind old monk,
who would change the lives of several people in the book, I knew his name had
to be Cecil.
If you’ve already purchased a copy of the book,
thank you from the bottom of my heart. If not, click on the link to get yours.
Also, I’m still waiting for that first review. And in case you are wondering,
even negative reviews are welcome. After all, the theme of the book is about sharing
the truth.