Fred Cutter grew up in the scorching desert of Arizona and served two deployments in the desert of the Middle East. He makes his home with his wife and daughter in the Sandhills area of North Carolina, where he is a contributing member of Methodist Creative Writers. The Acceptance is his first published short story. His works highlight the struggles of anchoring a life of faith against the challenges and allures of the modern world.

“You okay, sir?”

Tom gripped his chest and leaned on the grocery shelf filled with Cheerios.

I can’t breathe.

Someone rested a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, you okay?”

Tom shook his head as he dropped to his knees. His chest crushed under the weight of what he was sure was a heart attack. I’m too young for this . . . only thirty-eight!

“I’m calling an ambulance!” the man said.

Tom couldn’t acknowledge him. He leaned forward on all fours and gazed at the barely visible floor. The world was fading, fast. The man spoke rapidly, probably into a cell phone. This had to be a heart attack. It’s what had killed his father at almost the exact same age, but Tom led a healthy life. Always up early for a run and ate organic and freshly cooked food throughout the day. Working long hours in his plush downtown office to build a profitable financial services business gave him the freedom to buy his health.

I’m not going to die.

“Sir, the ambulance is on the way.”

I’m not going to die.

The pain slipped away as suddenly as it came. I’m not going to die. His vision cleared. Tom willed himself to live. The pain dissipated, leaving only a faint ache of discomfort.

Tom palmed the floor, and he shivered at the sickening thought of how dirty his hands would be. He caught his breath and pushed himself off the floor and leaned against the shelf. I willed myself to live.

He shook his head and looked up at the man standing nearby.

The man knelt and put his hand on Tom’s back. “Looks like you were having a heart attack. The ambulance is on the way.”

I’m not going to some hospital. I’m not my father. I won’t die the way he did.

“Thanks for your help, but I’m feeling better. Probably just indigestion.”

The man’s eyebrows arched. “Won’t hurt to let them check you out. They’ll be here in a sec.”

“No, thanks.”

“Sir, my name is Paul, and I’m a pastor. Is there someone I can call for you? Wife? Your own pastor . . . that is, if you are a Christian and attend church?”

“No wife, and though I know about Jesus and church, I’ve never had need for either.” Tom resisted the urge to argue. He had fought with his parents for years about going to church, and never looked back on the idea once he left for college. That was almost twenty years ago.

“Before the ambulance gets here, can I share—”

Tom held up a hand, like a cop stopping traffic. “Yeah, I know where you’re going with this. I’ve never seen God, and I’ve done just fine without Him. No, thanks.”

“You could have died. I just want to ask that if you had died, do you know where you’d spend eternity?”

Tom laughed. He had almost died. Of course the pastor was only trying to help him, but it was funny nonetheless. “Sorry. It’s just that . . . never mind.” He shook his head and stood. The pain was completely gone. “I need to get back to work.”

The man called out from behind, “Sir, it’s not wise to refuse a medical and a spiritual evaluation!”

Tom left the man alone in the aisle. He didn’t want to deal with the approaching ambulance sirens. The cool afternoon breeze further calmed his nerves as he stepped outside. Flashing lights approached from the right. Tom crossed into the parking lot and avoided the ambulance’s attention. He refused to believe that he suffered the same kind of heart attack that killed his father. It was only indigestion. Nothing a little power of the mind action can’t fix.

Tom reached his Jaguar sports car. He ripped out of the parking lot. He had work to do and didn’t have time to deal with doctors and pastors. Physicians for the body and soul are for those who are physically and spiritually sick. Tom was neither. He was in the best health of his life and had even recently run a marathon. And who needs church?

He parked in the three-story garage of his downtown office complex. He was a few minutes late from his lunch break so the garage was empty of other people returning from theirs. Good. He didn’t want to explain himself.

He drove his car into his parking spot and killed the engine. Before he could release his seatbelt, a new pain seared through his chest, twice as intense as before. He struggled against the seatbelt and coughed airlessly. His cell phone was too deep into his pocket to reach, and the seatbelt buckle wouldn’t give.

I can’t breathe!

Tom honked the horn. Someone would see or hear him. Someone would come and save him.

But nobody came; no one heard.

I’m going to die. The conviction overwhelmed him. The pastor’s question echoed within the closet of his mind. His four hundred million dollar business that he’d worked so hard to build couldn’t help him at this defining moment. I can’t breathe.

He fought to speak but the words remained locked in his mind. The world grew dark. Death approached. I believe, but please, let me speak . . .

Let me speak.

Let me—

He used to believe that the only thing worse than death was dying without having left his mark on the world. But now, too late, he knew that the only thing truly worse than death was having rejected the only One who could make his death a time for rejoicing rather than stepping into eternity without Him.