Headed back toward home after buying a horse near Vichy, Missouri, we stopped at a Casey's in Ashland. I set the gas nozzle into the tank opening on the Silverado and clicked it onto the slower setting. On my way over to the store entrance, I noticed a guy filling up cans in the back of his pickup. We nodded at each other.
Inside a few minutes later, I saw him again, and we swapped "hello's." He walked on over to the soft drink dispenser and I turned to check out the pastry cabinet. Among a beckoning assortment of donuts, eclairs, and various other opportunities for solace and comfort, I saw a rack of apple fritters. I immediately thought of my oldest sister, Freeda.
Several years ago, after surgery to remove a malignant tumor, she endured a series of radiation treatments. After each treatment, she rewarded herself with an apple fritter. Based on that, I came up with an idea of solidarity and support when I was working as vice-president of academics at Cowley College in southern Kansas.
At a faculty in-service, on the first anniversary of Freeda's celebration of survival, I provided apple fritters for everyone. Okay, I cut them up and provided one-fourth of an apple fritter for each teacher. I then called Freeda (who lives in North Carolina). Using my camera phone, I panned the room. On cue, we all held up our fritters and, more or less in unison, said, "Congratulations, Freeda!"
Since those early days of her treatment and survival, I've thought of her every time I've seen an apple fritter. So, standing there in front of the pastry rack at a Casey's in central Missouri, I decided to take a picture of the apple fritters and send it to Freeda to let her know I was thinking of her. After I took the picture, I noticed the guy I'd spoke to earlier standing behind me and waiting for a shot at the pastry choices.
"Sorry," I apologized and then explained as I took a napkin and lifted out a fritter, "My oldest sister had cancer and when she was having radiation, she would have an apple fritter after each treatment. I wanted to send her a picture and let her know I was thinking of her." I expected nothing more than a nod or maybe an impatient sigh and shrug.
Instead, the other guy, a few inches taller and nearly twenty years younger than me, asked, "What kind of cancer?"
Caught totally off guard, even though I was nearly sure of what he'd said, I responded, "Beg pardon?"
"What kind of cancer did your sister have?"
"Sarcoma, I think. I'm not sure."
"My wife has lymphoma. We've been fighting it for eleven months. We thought it was gone but then it showed up in another spot last week." With his right hand, he lightly tapped just below his collarbone on his left side. "How's she doing?" I asked, "Does she have a positive attitude?"
"Yes, she does," he answered and then paused. "It hit her pretty hard for a day or two when we first found out it was back but she's back on track now." He spoke without the least hint of self-pity in his voice or in his eyes.
I stepped over and he moved up and opened the door to the pastry cabinet. "Does she have a strong faith?" I asked and he nodded emphatically. "Oh, yes, she sure does!"
"Makes a big difference, doesn't it?" I responded and he again replied with obvious conviction, "Yes, it does."
He took his drink and pastry and headed over to checkout. I turned back down the aisle to find Randa. A moment later, as he started to push the door open, he twisted back toward me, smiled, and said, "You folks have a good day."
"You take care," I replied and watched him walk toward his truck. I had a sudden impulse to go out and ask his wife's name. Maybe I should have.
But I'm pretty sure God will know who we're praying about.
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