Hope, Shared in Pieces

He was 76, an old man with a winning smile and an infectious laugh. The kind of fellow who would lean forward and listen to the details of your story. The kind of man you could trust with those details—and with your life.

He taught a good Sabbath School class, served as head elder for years, fixed the church windows without being asked, kept the church lawn well groomed, and always started potluck at the dessert table.

He loved everyone, and everyone loved him.

A New Hobby

At first he cared for a friend’s horses and cattle. That gave him opportunities to meet other local ranchers and join many conversations at Riley’s feed store. He was the mountain’s best listener, and his stories filled the store with friendly laughter.

“You ought to give up on the cows,” one of the ranchers told him. “You really know how to listen and talk. You’d make a good living in real estate!”

The idea made him laugh. But he thought about it all the way back up the hill. At home he told his wife that he was considering getting a real estate license. She laughed—not a derisive laugh, but the same encouraging laugh that had helped them through many a time of trouble.

That laugh, Mama’s prayers, and many hard hours at the kitchen table helped him pass the test and win his new life. Now he drove the backroads carefully, with his eyes open.

“Mama, I found an absolutely perfect little country house today,” he told her over supper. “It’s the kind of place I think a young family should buy. In fact, I talked with the owner, and he’s interested in listing it for sale with me.”

He sold that house and helped the buyers move in. He even spent time with their kids, helping take the training wheels off the little girl’s bicycle. While he was there, a neighbor came over and asked if he was the real estate agent who had sold the house. He acknowledged that he was, and the neighbor asked if he would sell his house also.

There were more. Many more. People who trusted him with their houses, their land, and their hearts. He lived “like God’s friend,” some said.

A Good Opportunity—or So It Seemed

At church one Sabbath a visitor took him aside and asked if he could make an appointment for Monday morning.

“Sure can,” he responded. “Got a house you’d like to sell?”

The visitor smiled and winked.

Monday afternoon the visitor—let’s call him “Ralph”—laid his plan out on the kitchen table.

“I buy fix-me-up houses, especially apartment buildings. I fix the plumbing, paint the walls, add carpeting, and then sell them for just a little more than people want to pay. I’m making a lot of money. Would you like to join me? We could do good business together!”

He and Mama prayed and decided to test the idea by buying in with Ralph on a small apartment building. It took some work, but they got it all beautiful and then sold it for a nice profit. That building was the first of many, all working with Ralph, the new church friend who had a knack for finding perfect fix-me-uppers.

About six months later Ralph dropped by and asked if he knew anyone else who might like to join them in the fix-and-sell business.

“If we had more capital, we could buy more houses,” he said, and then painted a dream picture that included profits for all. Big profits.

He talked to some of the church people, a few of the old ranchers, and the owner of the feed store. All were people he had laughed with, prayed with, and shared pecan pie with at the church’s potluck.

Many bought in, and he was able to provide Ralph with enough cash to buy the apartment building that was going to make all of them wealthy.

That’s when Ralph disappeared . . . along with the money.

He was horrified, blamed himself, visited all the people who had invested with him, and promised to do what he could to get their money back. Most understood and agreed to be patient with him. Some did not and chose to take him to court for stealing their savings.

The judge decided he was guilty of defrauding investors and sent him away for four years to a distant prison, to a cell shared with murderers, addicts, thieves, and wife beaters.

He cried often, prayed hopefully, and laughed little.

Then he began listening to the other prisoners. He heard their stories, and his kind heart began overflowing into their broken lives. He showed them where to find hope in the prison Bible. He cried with some and prayed with many.

“Chaplain,” they called him, and they were glad he was there. He honored each one as a friend, and his laugh was the happiest sound in the prison.

His stomach had been hurting since before the trial, but now it was growing worse. At first he blamed the food, as everyone did, but he was afraid, especially because a doctor at home had been worried that cancer might be the cause of his pain and bleeding. The prison doctor checked his vitals, took blood, and ordered a couple of X-rays.

His laugh was the happiest sound in the prison.

“We’ll see,” he said.

Three days later a jailer unlocked his cell and escorted him to the doctor’s office.

“It’s not the food,” the doctor said. “It’s the cancer. It’s gotten really bad.”

The Joy of Pie

Mama came, but not often. The prison was a far journey from home. But an eager family came to visit him on Thanksgiving. It was one of his kids, her husband, and the grandkids. They brought a full holiday meal and a large white box tied with a red ribbon. A tall card had his name written in bright letters.

The guards frowned, ran it through the X-ray machine to be sure there wasn’t anything dangerous inside, read the card, untied the ribbon, and opened the box. Then they called for him to come to the visiting room.

Moving with obvious pain, he stood for a dehumanizing search, then shuffled to the metal detector and through the doorway, where he was rushed by three very happy grandkids. Everyone in the visiting room smiled and laughed. He added his laughter, then sat painfully at the family table.

“Grandpa, do you know what’s in the box?” his granddaughter asked, her eyes aglow with expectation.

“No, sweetie. Is it for me?”

“It’s your favorite,” she answered, shoving the box toward him.

The guard had retied the ribbon, so he untied it very slowly and with dramatic expectation.

By now everyone in the room was watching. He was laughing, his same old laugh that made you know the world was OK and that the bad things were all going to go away forever.

He peeked through the crack under the box’s lid and then laughed his “This is the best day of my life” laugh.

“It’s one of Mama’s homemade pumpkin pies, Grandpa!” his granddaughter shouted.

One of the guards provided a sharp knife and watched carefully as Grandpa made sure the pie was divided into very thin pieces.

“Why so many pieces?” the granddaughter asked.

“Because I’ve got to share this gift with all my friends,” he laughed.

“Hello, everybody.” He stood, leaning a hand on the table. “Would anyone like a piece of homemade pumpkin pie?”

It was quickly gone, small slices given to a murderer and his Thanksgiving visitor, other pieces to addicts, thieves, molesters, and guards. All shared with his happy laugh, the same laugh that had helped him through many a time of trouble.

A laugh that opened the door to hope.