God Loves You More Than Pickle Juice

My son loved pickles when he was younger and still does. Pickles were actually the first thing he asked from Santa, and you better believe he had a big jar of pickles under that Christmas tree!

A few years ago (has it been that long?) my son and I were talking about God’s love. I told him that no matter what we’ve done, no matter who we are, God would always love us more than anything in the world. He turned to me and said, “Even more than pickle juice?”

“Yes Ben,” I answered, “Even more than pickle juice”

The look in his eyes told me that the message had gotten across. That evening I wrote this story after reading him a book before bedtime.

Farmer Ron loves pickles. Each spring, he goes out to his garden and plants cucumbers in his garden. He makes neat, straight rows in the ground where he knows the cucumbers will get just the right amount of sunlight and rain. When he has finished this job, he goes up to the house and drinks a big glass of lemonade, because planting seeds in the garden is thirsty work!

Throughout the spring and summer, Farmer Ron goes out to the garden every few days to check on his cucumbers. He wants to be sure that they are getting just the right amount of sun and rain and he especially wants to take out any weeds that decide to live next to his cucumbers because that just wouldn’t do. When this job is completed, it’s back to the porch for more lemonade, as the summer is heating up! Since all is well in Farmer Ron’s garden, he treats himself to a pickle from the refrigerator, but only one! His grandson, Ben, loves pickles too and Farmer Ron is not doing all of this work only for himself!

Ben came for a visit today and is out with Farmer Ron picking the cucumbers that are ready. Because Farmer Ron has been hard at work all summer, this doesn’t take too long. Ben looks at the cucumbers and is amazed at how small they are! Back at the porch, over lemonade and a pickle spear, Ben asks his Grandpa Ron why these cucumbers are so much smaller than the ones Mommy buys at the grocery store for her famous salads. With a chuckle, Farmer Ron tells Ben that these cucumbers are special and will make better pickles when they are done with all of the work.

Since they are done with the day’s work, they go to the neighbor’s pond and spend the rest of the day fishing and eating ham sandwiches that Grandma Irene packed for them. And boy are they good!

After a wonderful fish supper, Ben looks into the kitchen and sees that his grandma has out some things he is sure he has never seen before. She has jars and lids, a big pan on the stove, certain spices and even some onions!

Ben sees all of the care she takes as she puts each cucumber into a jar with different spices and types of vinegar and seals it tight. “These should be ready in about a week” she says, but Benjamin has waited long enough. Before he gets too upset, though, a wonderful green pickle from the refrigerator is held up in front of him and soon pickle juice was dribbling down his chin! Grandma keeps right on working into the night, even after Ben was carried out the door to go home.

A week later, the pickles were ready and Ben was anxious to get out to Grandpa and Grandma’s house. When they arrived, Ben went running in and soon he was enjoying samples of the different kinds of pickles that Grandma made. He had no idea of the time Grandpa spent getting the garden ready and weeding it throughout the spring and summer. He didn’t know that Grandma was up into the night making pickles. All he knew was that he had his pickles.


At first I thought it wasn’t a real word. It was just something that came to mind-probably due to an overabundance of the Nickelodeon cartoons that my son can?t get enough of.


An odd enough sounding word that would fool my 4-year old son in a way that I felt necessary.


My greatest triumph as a father and also my biggest failing, for I allowed my morals and the upbringing of my child to be compromised.

Let me explain…

My son is a good boy. He minds my wife and me. He picks up after himself (with a little prodding). He even minds us when we’re out in public. But a few months ago, someone told him that is was fun to use certain words that I don’t choose to use in this website. I tried punishing him to no avail. He just cursed more discreetly. I tried to ignore it, but that just grated on my nerves. Something had to give. Enter persnickety.

Let me introduce to you Merriam-Webster?s definition of this word.

Main Entry: per?snick?e?ty
Pronunciation: p&r-’sni-k&-tE
Function: adjective
Etymology: alteration of pernickety
Date: circa 1905

  1. fussy about small details : FASTIDIOUS (a persnickety teacher)
  2. having the characteristics of a snob
  3. requiring great precision (a persnickety job)

My son was out playing and he hurt himself. He came to me crying and I caught a few of those words that had been driving me up the wall, so I took that moment as my time to shine.

    “Hey Ben, that really hurts, doesn’t it? I’m going to tell you a word that I use when something really hurts, but you have to promise me that you won’t say it unless something hurts so bad you can’t stand it, because it is the worstbad word out there and you could get in a lot of trouble if you say it when you’re not at home. That word…is persnickety. Why don’t you try it out?”

”OK, persnickety… Hey, I feel better! Persnickety, persnickety, per…”

”Whoa, whoa, whoa! You only say that terrible word when something hurts so you can feel better, then you have to stop. If you keep on saying it, you could get in so much trouble, and don’t tell your mom that I told you that word, either. I don’t want her to get mad at me! It’s our secret.”

And it has worked for us for over a year now. Either that, or my son has gotten extremely good at hiding his cursing. How do I know it works? He heard a boy saying a bad word at the park and let him in on our secret. The boy looked at him funny, but he walked away feeling good about his better mastery of “dirty” vocabulary. That’s one way I know it worked.

The other way involved a case of the stomach flu Ben had just a few months ago. He was in the bathroom in the middle of the night. He sat on the toilet and held a bucket under his chin, rocking back and forth with the pain. I felt so sorry for him. Then, out of the blue, he started whining, “Persnickety, persnickety,persnickety, persnickety…I’m sorry mommy, but it hurts so bad. Persnickety, persnickety,persnickety!”

Maybe I made up a new bad word, maybe not. But I feel pretty good about this aspect of my parenting.

A Hatched Egg and a Planted Potato

This was written by my uncle Ray Nickel, who passed away in his sleep December 26, 2008.

Have you ever gone to the farm, a fair, or a zoo and watched those white-pearl eggs in the incubator under the glowing lamps and waited for a yellow fluff of a chick while it pecked from within its brittle prison, jiggling it almost imperceptively and you could hardly wait till it broke free so you could see it wet and new to the world wobbling on its new found legs and peeping its new song? Or, have you ever cut up a potato tuber, careful to get at least two to three eyes per section, buried it eyes-up beneath the crumbly prepared musty earth in faith that it would sprout and in a few weeks you would harvest some white cobblers, or smooth reds or Idaho baking russets?

I am always impatient for new life. Spring can never some too soon; flowers take too long to bloom; babies take too long to be born. I can hardly resist nature’s course and have, at times, helped the petals open on a flower or rushed planting in the spring. I’ve even helped those chicks hatch by picking away at the crack of an egg and I’ve even stolen out to the garden and carefully scraped away the dirt from where I planted those potatoes to find little marble-like new potatoes amazingly growing out of that old, shriveling, rotting, slice of potato.

I recently stood beside the shell of a man lying in his casket. They did their best to make him “look natural,” but the shell was cracked, the slice of humanity was shrunken, destroyed by those frightening, out-of-control cells. In these last few months he was pecking away at this mortal life longing for the eternal. His body was shriveling while he longed for new robes of righteousness.

He said, “It’s steep.”
“What’s steep?” I asked, “The pillows too high under your head?”
“No, the last mile is so steep, but I see beautiful places in my dreams. I didn’t want to come back. It was filled with azure skies and looked like the majestic mountains of Colombia.”

He often said, “What am I going to do?” as the shell crumbled or “Help me!” as the flesh dissipated. But then it dawned on me that he didn’t want help to stay but help to go, not help to remain but help to step over. He said, “I accept what God has for me. I don’t want to fail Him in the end and complain.” He beat back the doubts of the enemy. He examined his life and cleared his conscience of all things. He exaulted in the truths of the Bible. He comforted in the old hymns in the night. He grasped the hands of friends. He prayed with all who visited. He prophesied to his children as Jacob of old. He encouraged many in the faith. He wept for those who didn’t believe. He gave his last advice. He set his house in order. He was chipping away at the shell of mortality. The old was dying, the new was sprouting.

As I stared at his shell in the coffin, I realized he had taken refuge under the almighty wings. New fruit was forming in the lives left behind. Somewhere he was enjoying resurrection life because of death. Jesus’s death. Than man lying there…didn’t want me to weep for the death but celebrate the life. This man taught me how to live and now he had taught me how to die. That man was my father.

The good news, the bad news

  • The good news: My chronological Bible project has started.
  • The bad news: I didn’t proofread the e-mail before sending it and sent an unfinished version.

This has been rectified and the original e-mail can be deleted in favor of the corrected version. How embarassing, though! Oh well. One of my favorite quotes is, “Rome wasn’t built in a day, and that’s my excuse!” although I wanted a professional-looking newsletter from the beginning.

When I was married, there were a few bloopers in the wedding ceremony. The bloopers are what made it memorable. And that’s OK.