The Truth Beyond Brother Cecil

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.

Holy Transfiguration Skete, at Jacob's Falls in Michigan's UP. Not much like Cecil's monastery, 

but this is the monastery I am most familiar with, having driven down this road along Lake Superior many times.