A shouted whisper

For 50 years, my father, Clyde E. Nichols, wrote a faith column for a local newspaper. It was later picked up by three or four other papers. I have submitted columns to The Rockdale Reporter and it is always a challenge not to use one of my father’s opinions, illustrations or anecdotes. But, unless I have borrowed without remembering, I have continually endeavored to submit original articles. Until today.

The late Fred B. Craddock was one of the shining stars in the American pulpit. I once attended one of his lectures at Minister’s Week.

The host who introduced Dr. Craddock said to the audience: “If you have ever preached a Fred Craddock sermon or told a Fred Craddock story, raise your hand.”

A sea of hands went into the air. I recommend his book to you: Craddock Stories.

For those of us who always need a word of faith in the face of death, I share the following Craddock story with permission from the Christian Board of Publication: A colleague of mine down at Phillips University, a young woman, taught physical education. She was a marvelous person, young, vigorous, unmarried.

One night she was sitting in her apartment grading papers, and she heard a knock at the door. She went to the door, unlocked it, opened it, and there stood death, with his yellow face staring right at her. She slammed the door, locked it, and called the doctor.

He said, “Malignant.”

She had surgery. A few months later she was back, and I said, “Hey, you’re looking good.”

She said, “I never felt better.”

Now, she had lost some weight, but she was back teaching physical education, bouncing on trampolines and all, doing great. Everything seemed to be wonderful.

She was at home one night watching television when she heard a knock at the door. She went to the door, opened it, and there he stood with his yellow face.

She slammed it and locked it and called the doctor.

He said, “Chemotherapy.” Oh, she was sick. All her hair came out, so she got a wig, and she came back to school.

I said, “That’s becoming. You should’ve been wearing that all along.”

She said, “I feel pretty good.” And she was teaching again.

One night she was sitting there grading papers in her room, and she heard a knock, so she went to the door, unlocked it, and there he stood, old death with his yellow face.

She slammed the door and tried to lock it, but the lock was broken. She called her friends and relatives. Everybody gathered, and we took turns leaning against that door. We leaned against the door; we leaned against the door.

We even got to where we were joking and laughing, “We’re not going to let him in. We’ll keep him out.” We’d look out the window, and there he sat under a tree with his yellow face right out there.

One night she said, “Get away from the door.”

“What?” “Get away from the door.” So we got away from the door, and he came in. I felt sorry for him. He likes to come in with his fiery darts of pain and fear.

There he stood; in one hand he had peace, in the other, rest. He looked like a servant of God.

Oh, I know there are people who say, “Well, it’s too bad you lost your friend,” and it’s true.

But I heard the whisper in there as we gathered at the church a couple of days later and the congregation stood in great throng and sang “Now Thank We All Our God.”

It was a shouted whisper.