The Banana Peel

by Donna Poole

Gertie peered over her half-glasses at the packed waiting room.

Looks like the room is going to live up to its name today. Might be a long wait.

She tucked a few strands of wispy gray hair behind her ear, pulled out her knitting bag, and got busy.

“Scuse me. You got a tissue?”

The voice came from a young woman to her right. Gertie glanced at the beanie the young woman was wearing to cover her bald head and the empty ice cream pail—aka barf bucket—she was carrying. Gertie had been there. More than once. The woman didn’t look more than twenty years old.

Just a girl, poor kid. God, help me help her.

Gertie handed over several tissues with a sympathetic smile.

“It’s tough, I know. Are you here alone?”

The woman shook her head and blew her nose. “My husband went to the cafeteria. He’s starved, and he doesn’t like to sit here and see…all of us. He won’t go back with me when I get my treatments either. It’s hard for him. You know.”

Gertie nodded. “I know. I’m Gertie, and I’m happy to meet you.”

The woman sniffed. “I’m Ava, and I wish I was anywhere but here.”

Gertie nodded. “I get that. I’ve been coming here a long time.”

Ava’s eyes widened. “A long time? How long?”

“Five years now.”

“What kind of cancer do you have?” Ava asked still crying.

Gertie answered.

Ava wiped her eyes. “That’s the same kind I have,” Ava said. “But they told me I’d probably be cured after eighteen weeks of R-chop chemotherapy, and I’m having a hard time even living with cancer that long! Why do you still have it?”

“It’s a long answer, but I’ll try to make it shorter. At my age and with my other health problems, they said I had a 60 percent chance of beating the cancer with R-chop.”

“But you were in the unlucky 40 percent?” Ava asked.

“Something like that. Next came radiation and GemOx.”

“What’s GemOx?” Ava interrupted.

Gertie was pleased to see Ava’s tears had slowed to a trickle.

“For me it was like R-chop on steroids, but by then I was where I am now, one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, and for me, one foot on a banana peel is especially dangerous.”

“What do you mean one foot on a banana peel?”

Ava had quit crying, and Gertie was feeling pleased with herself. This was heading in the right direction.

“It’s an odd expression. Sometimes in old time comedy acts someone would slip on a banana peel and fall. People would laugh.”

“I don’t think that’s funny,” Ava said.

“I don’t either, really,” Gertie said. “I guess you have to appreciate slapstick comedy to laugh at something like that.”

Ava wasn’t using any more of the tissues. “What’s slapstick comedy?” she asked.

“You ever see The Three Stooges or Home Alone?”

Ava nodded. “Oh yeah, My grandpa thinks stuff like that’s funny. Me, not so much.”

“Well, slipping on a banana peel was in that same genre, but now it means any situation that’s unstable or puts you at risk of sudden change.”

“So your cancer’s unstable?” Ava asked, reaching for another tissue.

Gertie patted Ava’s arm. “Don’t start crying again. It is, but it’s been unstable for five years. I’m used to it.”

“I don’t know how you live like that! I don’t think I could!”

“Do you really want to know how I do it?”

“I really do. You sit there knitting like it’s the most normal thing in the world not to know if you’re going to live or die tomorrow.”

Gertie chuckled. “Actually, Ava, not knowing that is the most normal thing in the world for everyone, but people don’t usually think about it. I have to think about it. And I can face that instability because God is my Rock. And I can face death because I know I’m going to live forever.”

Ava gave her a side eye. “You a Sunday school teacher or something?”

Gertie smiled. “Matter of fact I am. Why? Don’t you like Sunday school teachers?”

Ava thought a moment. “I haven’t thought about Miss Bessie for a long time. She was my Sunday school teacher when I was a kid. I loved her. You kinda remind me of her. She wore half-glasses like you, and she was really old like you, ninety something.”

Gertie laughed. “Hey, I’m only seventy-five.”

Ava blushed. “My bad. I can’t tell people’s ages once they get old. But thanks for reminding me about God. I trusted Jesus as my Savior from sin when I was a little girl, but then life got busy, and I kind of forgot to include him. I hope he hasn’t forgotten me, because I could really use his help now.”

Gertie said, “He hasn’t forgotten you, I promise. And I won’t either. I’ll pray for you.”

Ava started crying again. “I feel like we’re friends now, and I wish you weren’t dying!”

“Who says I’m dying? My cancer isn’t stable, but my oncology team thinks I might live for years!”

“But…but….” Ava wiped her nose and sniffed. “You said you had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”

Just then they called Gertie’s name to go back for her chemotherapy infusion. She shoved her knitting into her bag, pushed herself out of her chair, grabbed her crutches, and laughed.

“I sure do have one foot in the grave! Look!”

Ava followed Gertie’s glance and noticed only one shoe sticking out of Gertie’s pants. The other pant leg was empty.

Ava’s eyes widened. “Cancer?” she whispered.

“No! Car accident when I was your age. I really did want to bury my foot, but they wouldn’t give it to me after they amputated it. But I have fun telling people I’ve got one foot in the grave!”

Then Ava laughed too. “And the other one on a banana peel! I hope I see you next time I’m here!”

“We’ll see each other again, I’m sure,” Gertie said. “Here or in heaven!”

“You preaching again, Gertie?” Ava heard the nurse say as he walked Gertie toward the elevator.

A few minutes later her husband returned. “I met the funniest old lady in the elevator. She only had one leg. She told me I should spend more time in the waiting room with you, and you know what? She’s right. I was thinking the same thing the whole time I was in the cafeteria. I’m sorry, honey. From now on, it’s the two of us fighting this cancer together.”

Ava slipped her hand in his. “Nope, it’s four of us fighting my cancer. You, me, God, and the old lady with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel?”

“Huh? What’s that mean?”

A nurse called Ava to go back for treatment and her husband stood to go with her.

Ava smiled. “I’ll tell you about the banana peel after they get my IV in for treatment.”

He swallowed hard. “Is it okay if I don’t watch?”

She laughed. “You don’t have to watch them put the IV in. You just watch to be sure I don’t step on any banana peels on the way there.”

The End
***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Please Pass the Pasta

by Donna Poole

He looked at her with tenderness in his smile. She felt suddenly shy and blushed. And I? I was there from the beginning.

If you’re thinking the infatuated couple was sixteen, you better add five decades to that. Perhaps you’re surprised two sixty-six-year-olds can fall in love with each other just the way teenagers can? Well, I wasn’t surprised. Having been Cupid’s scribe for centuries I can tell you I’ve seen it all!

I have permission from Cupid to tell their story, but I’ll have to change names to protect their privacy. So, lets call them Adam and Eve. That’s original, don’t you think? Besides, those names are easy for me to remember, and I admit my memory isn’t as sharp as it was when I became Cupid’s scribe in 700 BC.

Probably one reason Cupid is letting me share details is he’s still angry with this couple. They fell in love totally without his help, and he was miffed. He left me to follow their journey and flew off in a huff.

“Mark my words, Thoth,” he said to me, “that relationship is doomed; I’m sure of it. You watch them, take good notes, and report everything back to me.”

And so, I texted Cupid daily reports. Unless you’ve had to write on stone with a chisel you have no idea what a time-saver texting is. Back when I had to record everything on rock and fly it back to Cupid my mythological back was killing me every day. But that’s a story for another time.

Adam and Eve met in church of all places. They attended a church group for older singles called “White Heads but Not Yet Dead.” Cute, huh? Cupid rolled his eyes when he heard that one.

Adam had lost his wife several years earlier and was beginning to think he might not want to spend the rest of his life alone when Eve walked into the singles’ group he’d been attending for two years.

The leader asked Eve the usual “let’s get to know you” questions.

“Did your partner die?” he asked.

Eve shook her head.

“Divorced? Don’t let that embarrass you. Half of us in here lost a spouse that way.”

There were nods of agreement.

Still Eve said nothing. The leader waited.

“I never married,” she finally said. “I took care of both my parents until God called them home, and by then I was fifty. That was sixteen years ago. I came tonight because, well, I guess I’m tired of being lonely.”

The shy, quiet way Eve spoke went straight to Adam’s heart. I actually turned around looking for Cupid shooting one of his invisible arrows, but then I remembered he was home with influenza B; it’s going around you know, and even mythical creatures are not immune.

I immediately knew Cupid was going to be upset. He thinks he must be involved in every love story. He wasn’t going to be happy with me either; he’d told me to keep my eye on this group. But what was I supposed to do? I can’t stop the beginning of a love story. I did my job as scribe. I followed Adam and Eve to the coffee shop after the meeting and took notes.

At first, Eve was hesitant to go out for coffee.

“Thank you, but no,” she said when Adam asked her. “I don’t date.” She cleared her throat. “You’ll probably think I’m weird, but I’ve never dated.”

“Not even once?”

She shook her head no. “Not once, and I’m too old to start now. I just came to the meeting for company, definitely not to find a date.”

Adam ran his hand through his white hair and Eve tried not to notice the curls. Her brother, waiting in heaven for her, had curls just like that.

“Well suppose we don’t call it a date,” Adam said. “Why don’t we just go get coffee as two people who might decide to be friends once they get to know each other? You don’t have a problem with making a new friend, do you?”

She laughed, and poor Adam felt his heart flip. Oh, I knew the signs. How was I going to word this message to Cupid?

By the time Cupid recovered from the flu, Adam and Eve had gone on several non-dates.

They talked about everything, and Eve lost some of her shyness.

As soon as he was well enough, I took Cupid to the coffee shop to let him see for himself what was happening. That’s when he took one look at them, turned purple with fury, and told me to stay on the case.

I wasn’t about to leave anyway, I’d gotten involved. My ancient heart felt tender the first time Adam held Eve’s hand. They always prayed before they had their coffees and bagels, and one night her hand was on the table. To most people it probably looked like an old hand, tiny and fragile with a network of blue lines. But Adam looked at that hand like it was the most precious thing he’d ever seen. He covered it with his large hand calloused from farming.

“May I?” he asked.

Her smile was her answer, and so he held her hand all through prayer. Sweet.

They never went anywhere together but the same coffee shop. After two months while they sat in their regular booth, Adam asked, “Can we call this dating yet?”

Eve laughed. “Adam, I’ve known it was a date from the first time we sat here exactly two months ago!”

He looked surprised. “You knew this was our two-month anniversary?”

She laughed again. “I wouldn’t exactly call it an anniversary.”

“I suppose you’re right; but be prepared. In another month I’m going to ask you a question.”

Eve couldn’t say she didn’t know what was coming. It was an unusual proposal, and it happened right in their booth at the coffee shop while I hovered nearby.

“Eve,” he began, “is there anything about me you still need to know? Any questions you want to ask?”

“I do, and your answer is a make-or-break deal, so think carefully.”

She paused, the question hanging between them. Adam started to sweat, pulled out his red kerchief, and wiped his forehead.

“Well, get on with it, honey,” he begged. “Time’s a wasting, and at our age we don’t have much to squander!”

Poor guy. I almost panicked with him. What could Eve possibly want to know they hadn’t already discussed?

Eve took both his hands and looked him in the eyes. “How do you feel about pasta?”

His white, bushy eyebrows shot up. “Pasta?”

“Yes, pasta. You know. Spaghetti.”

“That’s your make-or-break question? I love spaghetti! My mother made it every Sunday when I was a boy, but to be honest, I haven’t had any in years. I sure would like to have some again; maybe we can go to an Italian restaurant on our next date.”

Again, there was a long silence. Eve chewed her bottom lip. Adam kept sweating. I was glad I was invisible, because my legs suddenly felt weak, and my wings were too heavy.  I slid into the booth next to Eve before I collapsed in an invisible heap on the tiled floor.

What if Eve hated spaghetti or had a pasta phobia or something.

“You see,” Eve said just a millisecond before Adam and I passed out, “my mom made spaghetti every Sunday too. We didn’t always have enough to eat when I was a child, but on Sunday, no one went hungry. When I was still a little girl, I told my mother I’d never marry a boy who didn’t love pasta. And I’m a woman of my word.”

“Did you say marry?” Adam asked, letting go of Eve’s hands and reaching into his coat pocket for the diamond ring that was there.

Before he could get the ring out, Eve reached into her bag and pulled out a ring box.

“My father wore this black onyx ring on his right ring finger as long as I can remember. Adam, will you marry me?”

He chuckled. “Aren’t I supposed to be the one to ask that question?”

Eve said, “I also told my mother if I ever found a man I loved, I was going to propose first. She was horrified, but I’m a woman of my word.”

“In that case will you give me your word you’ll marry me?”

“I asked you first. What’s your answer?”

“How about if we both answer on the count of three?”

When they said “yes” and exchanged rings people in the coffee shop laughed and clapped. A waitress brought them chocolate covered donuts.

“Here’s a little something extra to celebrate,” she said. “But aren’t you two nervous? I remember the first time you came in here and it was obvious you didn’t know each other, and it’s only been a few months, right?”

They answered in unison, “Three months ago tonight.”

Adam and Eve married a month later, and an Italian caterer served spaghetti at their reception.

I flew by occasionally to check on the couple when Cupid was otherwise occupied. They enjoyed many years of happiness and ate spaghetti every Sunday. I didn’t tell Cupid about their happily ever after; if there’s one thing he hates it’s being wrong.

The End
***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Perfect Planning

by Donna Poole

“Want to go to the mall?” Jack asked.

Anglina buried her head in her pillow. “Not really. Why are you awake so early on a Saturday morning?”

“Why are you not awake? You’re usually up before sunrise.”

She yawned and stretched. “I’m tired today. And since it’s our first Saturday as empty nesters and there’s nothing we have to do, I figured I’d sleep in.”

“That’s why I’m awake, our first Saturday as empty nesters! Isn’t it great? Let’s not waste it. Come on! You shower, and I’ll fix breakfast. How do you want your eggs?”

“In the carton. Just toast and coffee for me, honey.”

“Are you sure? I’m in the mood to celebrate! I’ll make your favorite Western Omelet.”

“Thanks, but just toast.”

Jack talked all through breakfast about how happy he was that their perfect planning had worked out just as he’d imagined. They’d been young when they’d had their two children, a boy and a girl, planned and spaced two years apart. As much as Jack had loved being a dad, he’d always looked forward to still being young when the kids left home.

“This is our time, Ang,” Jack said. “No more ball games, recitals, plays; no more girl scout cookies to deliver, no more parent teacher conferences…”

Anglina chuckled. “Those two were in about every sport and activity possible in high school, weren’t they?”

“Yeah, and it didn’t end when they went to college either, because they didn’t go far away. We still attended games, drama productions, concerts, homecomings; you name it—we went.”

“It was fun though, wasn’t it?”

“It was, babe, but now we can do what we want to do.”

She sighed. “What exactly do we want to do?”

“Well, we’ll figure it out as we go. We’ve got all the time in the world. For starters, I want to go to the mall!”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. We can window shop. Maybe I’ll buy another 3-D puzzle.”

Anglina looked at him but didn’t say anything. He had three unopened puzzles sitting on the puzzle table already. Puzzles were something he and Denny had always done together.

“You having fun?” Jack asked as they strolled through the three-story mall.

“People watching is fun. Look at that baby. Isn’t she cute?”

She nodded at a baby nestled in her father’s arms, sucking her thumb, and holding onto her father’s earlobe with her other chubby hand.

Jack smiled at the baby, and she popped her thumb out of her mouth and smiled back.

“Ang, she remind you at all of Missy when she was a baby?”

Anglina nodded. “Kind of. I dressed Missy all in pink like that until she got old enough to talk and informed me she hated pink!”

Jack laughed. “Remember when we brought Denny home from the hospital? Missy was so disappointed that he couldn’t play with her right then. She told us to take him back and get a different one!”

They wandered on through the mall talking about their kids’ growing up days. They kept seeing the baby. Awake or asleep, she was always holding her dad’s ear.

“Holding her dad’s ear like that? It might be the cutest thing I ever saw,” Anglina said to Jack. “Do you miss it at all? The baby days?”

“Are you kidding? Taking turns getting up in the night, being exhausted all day? These days right here? These are going to be our best days; trust me. Hey, let’s get some lunch at the food court. What sounds good to you? Subs? Chinese? Tacos? Pizza?”

“I don’t suppose any of them serve toast, do they?”

“What’s with you and toast? Are you sick?”

“No. I’m not very hungry, and I’m tired. I’ll save us a place at a table, and you get whatever you want to eat. Just get me a cup of hot tea.”

“Hot tea! Since when do you like hot tea? And another thing! You’re never tired; you can outwalk me at the mall every time.”

She shrugged. “Well, I’m tired today, and tea sounds good.”

By the time Jack returned with her tea and his food she’d fallen asleep, her arms folded on the table and her head on her arms.

“Babe!” he shook her shoulder. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

He uncovered his plate. “I ordered an extra-large and got two forks in case you change your mind. I know you love chow mien.”

Anglina took one look at the food and covered her nose. “That smells disgusting. I feel like I’m going to be sick.”

He put the Styrofoam lid back on the food and grinned at her. “Okay. So, when were you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“About the baby. Come on, Ang. The only time you’ve ever been this tired, liked hot tea, or hated Chinese food was when you were pregnant. When are we having this baby?”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Jack. I know how much you’ve looked forward to this empty nest time. I didn’t want to tell you. I’m fourteen weeks along.”

“Wah hoo!” He jumped from his chair and shouted. “We’re going to have a baby!”

People at nearby tables smiled.

He sat back down. She stared at him. “You’re really happy about this?”

“Ang, do you realize all we’ve talked about today is our kids? I wanted to come to the mall today because I was feeling sad about the kids being gone. I needed to get out of the house. I’ve been trying to talk myself into believing these were going to be our best years, but honestly, I feel too young to be an empty nester. I’d rather wait and be one when I’m in my sixties!”

His smile made her a believer.

“Come on, Ang!”

He threw his food in the nearest garbage can.

“Where are we going?”

“To the puzzle store. I hate doing puzzles alone. I’m going to pick out one the baby and I can do together!”

She laughed with tears still on her cheeks. “I know it’s been a while, but you must remember it will be several years before this baby can put together puzzles.”

“I can wait. The time goes fast. Too fast.”

The couple with the baby was coming toward them. The dads smiled at each other.

“Your baby girl is adorable,” Jack said. “We’ve got one in the oven!”

“Jack!” Anglina laughed. “People don’t use that expression anymore.”

“I do!” Jack said.

“We’ve got one in the oven too!” the other dad said, smiling at his wife. “We have three in college, and when God sent us this surprise, we didn’t want her to grow up alone.”

“Congratulations!” Jack said.

He watched the other couple walk away and took Anglina’s hand. “What do you think, Ang? Should we get this baby a sibling?”

“Jack, I know we’ve been busy helping the kids move into their new homes, but you’ve gotten terribly unobservant lately. You didn’t notice how quickly I was gaining weight?”

“I noticed. I just thought it was, maybe, you know, middle-aged spread?”

She laughed. “I’m spreading alright, and there’s a good reason. The doctor gave me an early ultra-sound because of my age. This baby already has a sibling.”

“You mean?”

She nodded. “Twins. A boy and a girl.”

“Holy cow!” He stopped walking, put his hand on his forehead, and stared at her.

“Say something!”

He just kept staring. Finally, he laughed. “That’s what I call perfect planning!”

The couple with the baby had turned around and was coming back toward them.

“Hey!” Jack said to the other dad. “I just found out we have two in the oven!”

“Congratulations!” the other dad said. “You should celebrate! Maybe the four of us could go out for dinner sometime?”

“Anything but Chinese!” the two women said at the same time.

And the baby popped her thumb out of her mouth and laughed.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author.

First Love

by Donna Poole

“At least it’s not forty below,” Randy said.

“It’s not a balmy eighty degrees either,” Clarissa retorted.

He laughed. “Where do you think you are, woman? Florida?”

She sighed. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever be snowbirds like some of our friends are.”

“Don’t suppose.”

For some reason his cheerfulness, usually so endearing, irritated her today. Perhaps because he’d insisted on taking their daily doctor ordered walk outside downtown instead of in the college gym. She didn’t like slush seeping through her old boots and getting her toes wet. She didn’t like the wind chill. And she really didn’t like these walks; she didn’t think they were helping his health or hers. How could they? She walked turtle speed, clinging to a cane with her right hand and to his arm with her left.

He stopped in front of the candy store window decorated with cupids and hearts. “Want some candy for Valentine’s Day?”

Clarissa sighed again. “You know what the doctor said about candy. And if we were going to cheat on our diets and eat some you wouldn’t want to buy it here.”

Randy squinted at the price on a displayed box of chocolate then whistled. “People really pay that for a half-pound of candy?”

Yes, and people our age retire. And people our age go to Florida in the winter. And people our age have enough money to buy new boots when their old ones wear out.

She didn’t say any of it out loud though. What good would it do? His old, family run hardware store was Randy’s life. It made less money every year, and sooner or later he was going to have to face the fact that it needed to close the way so many other businesses in town had.

Sooner or later; what am I saying? It’s already later. We’re seventy-seven years old. We have no retirement money left. What we saved in the more prosperous years is gone now keeping that store open. Pretty soon we’re going to be back to eating pork and beans and boxed mac and cheese on alternating days the way we did in college. What’s he thinking?

She didn’t ask Randy what he was thinking. She already knew his long-range plan. He wanted to die behind the counter of that hardware store of his with his boots on, family proud until the end. The faded sign, hanging by only three screws, read, “Randy Sanger and Sons, Hardware.” But the sons had long ago left the small Michigan town to live their own lives in other states, and she and Randy understood. This little town was dying; the hardware store was dying, and she and Randy were dying. And they’d never get to retire, or be snowbirds in Florida, or spend any time together.

Quit being so dramatic, she told herself. We aren’t exactly dying yet, just getting older. I think our love is dying though. I can’t remember the last time we did anything fun together. All Randy does is work, go to church, and fall asleep in front of the television.

Clarissa sniffed, pulled her arm out of Randy’s, and dug in her pocket for a tissue.

“What’s wrong?”

But before she could answer Randy walked on ahead of her and stood looking in the window of the new hardware store in town, the one that carried everything he couldn’t afford to keep in stock. This store was on the main street in town; his was down a side street. This store was one of a chain of thousands of successful stores across the United States.

Clarissa caught up with Randy and linked arms with him once again. She investigated his face as he stared in the window. Would he see it? Would he realize he was waging a losing battle and finally sell the store while they could still salvage a bit of money? Oh, they’d never be snowbirds in Florida, but maybe they could sell the store and their run-down house and find a nice apartment where they could enjoy time together in their last years.

Randy lifted his chin. Clarissa knew that stubborn sign; she should after fifty-seven years.

“You know what Bud Smith said to me yesterday at my store? He told me he’d never give a penny to this chain store. He said he’d rather wait three weeks for me to order him something than pick it up here in an hour. He said Mom and Pop places are worth supporting, and he’s right!”

“Randy Sanger! Do you love that store more than you love me?”

He didn’t seem to hear her. His face had a dreamy look, and he was staring at the street.

“A man never forgets his first love,” he said.

Clarissa turned to see what Randy was staring at. A beautiful older woman, tall, erect, with silver hair and no cane was sliding into a car. No scoliosis hunched her back like it did Clarissa’s. She adjusted a fur cape and smiled at an elderly man who bent and kissed her like they were young lovers.

Is this the first sign of dementia? I’m his first love! He never even dated anyone else, as far as I know.

But Randy was certainly looking at her like a man in love. Clarissa was too hurt to be angry.

“Okay. Who is she?”

“What she?”

“The woman you’re staring at!”

“What woman? Clarissa! The car, look at the car! Don’t you remember?”

She looked. The woman was getting into a vintage, perfectly preserved yellow VW Bug from the 1960s. It had a black convertible top.

“Don’t you remember?” Randy asked again.

“How could I forget?”

They looked at each other, laughed, and decades disappeared. Once again, they were college students in their twenties, standing in a car dealer’s lot after hours, staring at the same VW Bug they’d looked at so many times before, a yellow convertible with a black top.

They’d both wanted that Bug more than they’d wanted anything. They’d turned their meager college tuition budget inside out, upside down, and sideways trying to figure a way to get it, but it was as impossible as flying to the moon. Instead, every night when they got off work, they went and looked at the Bug. Until it sold. That night they went home and to console themselves added a piece of cheese to their toast topped pork and beans.

Now, back on the street over a half-century later, they stared as their dream car drove away.

“How much do you suppose it’s worth today?” Clarissa asked.

Randy shrugged. “I’m guessing fifty grand.”

She sighed. “I’d have guessed more, but still a bit out of our budget, huh?”

He laughed as they headed back to their rusty old minivan. “A bit.”

He helped her get in, put her cane in the back, and started to shut her door.

“Hey wait. Did you think when I said, ‘A man never forgets his first love,’ I meant the woman getting into the VW?”

She nodded.

“How could you think that? You know you were my first love. You’re my only love. You’ll be my last love.”

He grinned at the shocked look on her face and got into the van.

“What? I still have a little romance left in me. I took Valentine’s Day off work. Thought we’d get lunch at that little Italian place and then play Scrabble. You still like to play Scrabble?”

She nodded and reached for his hand. “That sounds lovely. So, Bob’s working alone that day?”

“Yep. Told him he’s gotta do it.”

“But this is his first Valentine’s Day as a married man. Maybe you should just take a half day off and let him take the other half.”

Relief washed over his face. “You wouldn’t mind? I was wondering what we’d do after we played Scrabble. I get kind of bored just sitting around watching TV.”

I was wondering what we’d do after we played Scrabble.

Clarissa shouted with laughter that turned to tears and back to laughter.

Randy Sanger, you’d be the most unhappy, bored, retired man on the planet. Wouldn’t that be a lot of fun! No, thank you.

She kept laughing and crying. Alarmed, Randy pulled the van over to the side of the road just as the rusty muffler fell off. He got out, picked it up, and threw it in the back of the van.

“Good thing I know a good store where I can get clamps to fix that old muffler,” he said. Then he patted Clarissa’s shoulder. “Are you okay, honey? I really do love you; you know.”

“I know.” She sniffed. “But I almost forgot.”

“You almost forgot?” His voice went up an octave. “You aren’t getting that old timer disease, are you?”

She couldn’t resist teasing him. “I might be. Will you still love me?”

“You know I will! I love you more than anything. Even more than my hardware store.”

She smiled at him. “Happy Valentine’s Day, honey.”

“It’s not Valentine’s Day yet!”

“It is for me.”

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author.

The Weary Widow

by Donna Poole

I’m bone weary, more exhausted than ever, but what a day it’s been! I wish I had the pen and parchment of a scribe to write my story, but I’ll whisper it to the wind blowing by my little temple chamber. Perhaps it will carry my tale down through time to someone who cares enough to listen.

They call mine a sad story, but do you believe a warm river of joy can run under the ice of sorrow? I do, and I’ve lived in that joy for one-hundred and five years. That’s right; I’m a very old woman. Some think me only eighty-four, but no matter; old is old, and no one denies I’m that.

Oh, but please excuse my lack of manners. Let me introduce myself. I’m Anna, daughter of Phanuel from the tribe of Asher. Long ago, in Deuteronomy 33:25, Moses wrote of my tribe that “your strength will equal your days,” and that has been true of me.

 It seems almost like a life another lived when I recall my few married years. I wedded my beloved husband when I was only fourteen years old, the common age for marriage. Our happiness was beyond words. We talked about everything. My favorite topic was the coming of the Messiah; I’d been fascinated by that since I’d been a tiny girl, and my beloved never tired of listening to me.

“Do you think, dearest, we’ll live to see the Messiah come?” I asked my husband so many times.

He laughed and pulled me into my favorite place, the circle of his arms. “I hope so, but remember, people have been waiting for the Messiah for centuries. Meanwhile, let’s talk about having a family.”

That was his favorite thing to talk about, and I desperately wanted children too. I remember standing together under the night sky, his arms around me, looking up at the stars.

“Dearest Anna,” he said, putting his rough beard on my cheek, “perhaps God will bless us with so many children our offspring will be like those stars, too many to count. Our great grandchildren will sit at our feet and listen to our stories, and our children will nourish us in our old age. I will love you even more when your hair is silver and your smooth cheeks are lined than I do today.”

It was a beautiful dream, but it was not to be. After only seven years of marriage and no children, God took my wonderful husband.

Shattered, I wept in heartbroken despair, feeling the best part of me was forever gone. I was alone with no family to rely on, a harsh place to be in Jewish society. A widow with no means of support was dependent on the charity of others.

As I lay on my mat, eyes swollen almost shut with tears, I heard the quiet voice, and not for the first time. “Anna, my dear child, I have plans for you. Will you take my hand?”

I’d heard the voice so many times during my seven years of marriage, sometimes when I was pounding grain or kneading bread, sometimes when I was sweeping the dirt floor of our tiny home we loved so much. The voice never alarmed me. I knew it was my heavenly Father, and it filled my heart with even more joy than when my husband stooped to enter our home and pull me into his arms each evening after work.

Each time I heard the voice I whispered back, “Yes, I will take your hand. Where are we going?”

But no answer ever came. This time, I sat up on my sleeping mat, wiped my tears on the sleeve of my robe, and answered, “Yes, I will take your hand. Where are we going?”

“Go to the temple.”

I rolled up my mat, took what I could carry, and went to the temple. I wish you could have seen the look on the priests’ faces. I stood before them, a twenty-one-year-old woman, face still wet with tears, clutching my belongings. I looked at them silently; then suddenly I felt the powerful hand of God on my shoulder.

I opened my mouth.

I don’t remember all I said now, but a torrent of joy poured out, proclaiming the goodness of God in the land of the living, promising Jehovah would keep his promises soon and send the Messiah for the redemption of Jerusalem and the world.

The words were not mine, and when Jehovah finished speaking through me, I dropped my head and waited quietly.

The priests whispered among themselves as I waited, praying they would not misjudge my motives and try to marry me off to an acquaintance. The women of my tribe were known for their beauty and often sought after for marriage, even the widows, though not by priests. Priests could marry only a virgin or the widow of another priest.

Please Lord, let them see I desire only what King David did, “One thing have I desired of the Lord, that will I seek after; that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the Lord, and to enquire in his temple.”

Even then, on that first encounter with the priests, I knew instinctively why the Holy Spirit had brought me to the temple; David’s desire was mine and would be forever. I could feel my face glowing with the intensity of it.

After a bit longer of a wait, a young priest, Simeon, approached me, asked my name, and I told him.

“Prophetess Anna,” he said, “we offer you sanctuary here. You may stay in one of the little chambers in the outer court.”

Prophetess! I’d never thought of myself as such, but God had spoken through me.

You may find it hard to believe, but I never left the temple courts after that. Day and night I remained in the temple. I served God by praying and by encouraging others to look beyond the mundane everyday of life, and to live for what matters, because soon they would see the King!

I spent most of my time praying and fasting. At first women glanced at me and then away or at each other. I knew they thought me eccentric; who wouldn’t? But as time passed, they came to me and shared burdens. I reminded them of the two things we so easily forget, the shortness of time and the length of eternity. In helping them discover joy, my own sorrow faded though never totally left. My past life with my beloved faded to a dream and I spent my real life in anticipation. The Messiah would come in my lifetime; I knew it!

You cannot possibly know how quickly you can go from young to old unless you’ve done it yourself. The passing of years took my agility and my smooth skin, but people often remarked about the young fire in my eyes. I gave that glow a name; I called it hope.

Though countless days faded into night; though more than four-thousand Sabbaths came and left with no sign of the Messiah, I did not lose hope. It grew stronger. Each night before I lay down on my mat, I tried to picture him. How old would he be? Would he be dressed like a king? Each day in the temple my eyes searched the face of every young man, looking for the Messiah.

And then one day I heard Simeon, the young priest who’d first welcomed me, now grown old like myself, shout louder than I’d ever heard him. He was standing next to a young couple who’d come to present a baby boy to the Lord and to offer a sacrifice as the law required. They were just an ordinary looking couple, but Simeon was holding the child in his arms and as close to dancing for joy as his old limbs would allow.

He blessed the child, praised God, and prayed, “Lord, now let me die in peace! You told me I wouldn’t die before I’d seen the Messiah, and here he is in my arms, a light to the Gentiles and the glory of Israel!”

What! The Messiah is a tiny baby? Can it be true?

I hurried to see for myself. As soon as I saw the smiling face of the baby boy God’s Spirit fell on me and I thanked the Lord and told everyone who would listen the Messiah had been born!

Simeon may have been ready to die, but I certainly was not. I wanted to see this child grow into manhood, conquer Israel’s enemies, and set up his kingdom.

That night as I lay on my mat the voice I’d come to know and love so well spoke to me once more.

“Anna, my dear child. I have plans for you. Will you take my hand?”

I didn’t ask where we were going, I knew, and I didn’t want to go. Not yet.

“Wait, Lord, shouldn’t you be taking Simeon? He’s the one ready to go. I want to see the Messiah set up his glorious kingdom.”

“Dear Anna, what if the Messiah has come to deliver his people, not from Roman rule, but from sin? And what if that deliverance involves his own death on the cross, a cruel, humiliating, excruciating death?”

I thought of that baby’s smile, and I wept. But then in a brief flash of light I saw an empty tomb, and the Messiah’s triumphant return as king centuries later, and I caught my breath at the beauty of it all. Millions upon millions of his followers returned with him, and I was one of them, and so was my beloved husband!

They call mine a sad story, but do you believe a warm river of joy can run under the ice of sorrow? I do, and I’ve lived in that joy for one-hundred and five years.

“How soon will you take me, Lord?” I asked.

“Very soon.”

I feel my strength fading, but I’m not uncomfortable. I feel like a sleepy child being tucked under warm robes at night by a loving mother.

Quickly now, while I’m still able, I’ll whisper my story to the wind blowing by my little temple chamber. Perhaps it will carry my tale down through time to someone who cares enough to listen.

The End

This story is fiction based on fact. The Bible doesn’t say that Simeon was a priest or even that he was old. It doesn’t tell nearly this much about Anna. Read the true story for yourself in Luke 2.

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Bye, Bye Escalators

by Donna Poole

“Bye bye escalators. They always scared me. Lol.”

That’s what my friend Pam posted on her Facebook page. Boscov’s in Binghamton, New York is doing a ten-million-dollar upgrade and replacing its escalators, the last ones in the area, with elevators.

Mom Poole liked to shop; I think she may have gotten some of her lovely suits at Boscov’s. I never liked shopping, unless it was in a bookstore, and my wardrobe reflected it. Once, when I was back home at Mom and Dad Poole’s for the holidays, Mom, Lonnie, and I decided to leave the kids with the guys and do a little after Christmas shopping. We were ready to leave when Mom looked at me and almost cried. I soon discovered I wasn’t wardrobe approved.

What? I’m wearing my denim skirt, my new red knee socks, and I have my long hair pulled around to the front in two ponytails tied with thick red yarn bows. I look great!

I didn’t say that out loud, just listened to the conversation between Mom and Lonnie. Poor Lonnie, she was always the family peacemaker and sometimes distressed at unable to keep the peace.

I wasn’t deaf then like I am now, so I heard every word even though they spoke quietly.

Mom: I’m not taking her out in public looking like that.

Lonnie: Mom, she looks fine. Please don’t say anything.

Mom: What if one of my friends sees her? I’m not doing it.

Mom turned to me. “Donna, will you please go change your clothes? You can’t wear those red knee socks.”

I did, but I’m not sure what I changed into met with any greater approval; I wasn’t exactly the fashion queen, and what looked fine to my country friends obviously didn’t to the town fashionistas!

I don’t think we shopped at Boscov’s that day. I’m sure we did hit up Philly Sales because that’s where we always bought paper, boxes, tags, and bows for the next Christmas, and if any of you are from the Triple Cities area, you’ll know my first outfit was probably over dressed for Philly Sales.

Had we stopped at Boscov’s it would have taken all my courage to get on the escalator, especially without John. When he’s with me, he tells me when to step on and off. I can’t judge distance and that puts me at a disadvantage in some things, and escalators are one.

It took years and a reoccurring nightmare to make me acknowledge I was afraid of escalators. Growing up I didn’t want to admit I was afraid of anything, not me, not Donna Piarulli, not the Donna who would try anything once!

University of Michigan Hospital, my home away from home, has an escalator. I avoid it like its covered with Covid. In the eleven plus years I’ve been going there for one thing or another I’ve only used it once.

As I grew older my list of fears grew with me, and they made no sense. I discovered I was afraid of jumping into water even though I love swimming. I found I’m terrified of public speaking—or I was. When I had brain surgery my family swears the neurosurgeon forgot to replace my filter, and now I’m not afraid to speak in public anymore. This is not always a good thing.

When Kimmee, our youngest daughter, was little she had a school assignment to write a sentence about something she was afraid of.

“I can’t do this,” she said. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Everyone is afraid of something,” I told her. “Go upstairs and write that sentence.”

She returned triumphant. Her sentence said, “I am afraid of Mommy’s homemade chicken noodle soup.”

Fair enough! I knew she hated that soup!

Some fear makes sense; we have a built-in warning system that alerts us to danger. Some fear isn’t logical though.

Fear is so sad, isn’t it?

Do you know fear’s origin? It’s almost but not quite as ancient as man. Adam and Eve had never known fear. They wouldn’t have been able to define it. They loved talking to God when he came to converse with them in the cool of the day, but the day they disobeyed him they ran and hid when they heard him calling them.

Adam finally answered God’s call and said, “I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid.”

No longer was the garden the place of perfect peace. When sin entered, so did fear. The Bible doesn’t say this but it’s logical to suppose all God’s creatures also felt fear for the first time. Have you ever noticed all the wild creatures look over their shoulders in fear, ready to run?

One of our cats, Louie, came inside as a tiny kitten. He’s always been loved, never mistreated, but poor Mr. Lou is afraid of everything and everyone. Sometimes he’s even afraid of us if there’s anything different about us. If we carry groceries in from the car, we look different to him, so he panics and runs.

Fear, rational or irrational: we all face it, and the Bible has something to help. In the King James Version “fear not” appears sixty-three times. Why don’t we have to be afraid? God hasn’t given us a spirit of fear, but he has given us one of love and a sound mind (cf. 2 Tim. 1:7).

I suppose life’s greatest fear is, “What’s going to happen to me after I die?”

We may fear punishment for our sins. But on the cross Jesus, the Son of God, suffered the guilt and shame for every sin ever committed, even sins so dark we can’t imagine them. All that’s left for us to do is to admit we’re sinners who need a Savior! Then God’s love drives out all fear of punishment (cf. I John 4:18) and promises us heaven.

Still, in this world, we aren’t perfect, and we’re going to be afraid sometimes. That’s when we run to Jesus who understands more about fear than we ever will. Did you ever read the account of his emotions in the garden before he went to the cross?

I don’t know who said this, but I love it. “The sheep don’t have to fear the wolf if they stay close to the Shepherd.”

Will God keep us safe? Does he promise no harm will come to us or those we love? In our dreams, maybe, but not in real life. In real life he says, “Yes, you’ll walk through the valley of the shadow of death, but I will be with you.”

In Jesus, we have someone to talk to about our fears, someone who will face them with us. And if fears get too overwhelming, it’s no sin to get professional help.

On this earth fear will always be with us and with the poor animal kingdom. Until it won’t. We all know fear won’t follow us to heaven, but fear won’t always be a part of earth life either. One day, even the animal kingdom will have peace.

I love this promise from Isaiah 11:6-9: “The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them. And the cow and the bear shall feed; their young ones shall lie down together: and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. And the sucking child shall play on the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put his hand on the cockatrice’ den. They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain: for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the LORD, as the waters cover the sea.”

And Pam! Either there won’t be any escalators, or we won’t be afraid of them anymore. We’ll dance our way up and down them. I’m going to wear my red knee socks.

The End
***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Walk the Mile and Share the Load

by Donna Poole

“I’m not sure you should cut my hair this morning. You just had your second full dose cancer treatment yesterday so you’re probably feeling rotten, and I’m not sure we have time before the funeral.”

“I’m strong on steroids, remember? It won’t take long; I’m sure we’ve got enough time. I’ll feel worse tomorrow than I do today; that’s how this goes. They’ve done so much for us. I love them, and I want to be there for them.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.”

The hair cut was uneventful unless you count the volume of shaggy hair falling to the floor.

“Honey, I can almost hear Bud from heaven.”

We laughed, remembering the long-ago time, when busy with babies and life, I’d let John’s hair creep over his ears and down his neck, and some people at church hadn’t approved but were too nice to say so. Finally, Bud, a deacon, the kindest of men, and a great encourager, approached me after church with some dollar bills crumpled in his hand.

He held them out to me.

“What’s that for?”

“I know you’ve been busy lately, and um, Pastor’s hair, well, it’s getting kind of long, and um, well, I thought maybe you could use this money and send him to the barber.”

Poor Bud looked miserably uncomfortable. I knew he’d been appointed spokesperson and was handling the situation Bud style, encourage don’t discourage.

I laughed and hugged him. “Put your money away, Bud. I’m not too busy to cut John’s hair. I’ll get it done this week; I promise!”

His face brightened and he patted my back.

Haircut finished and running a bit later than we’d hoped, John got in the shower. When he got out, I knew something was wrong. It didn’t take me long to run for his nitro.

When the chest pain ended with just one pill John continued getting ready.

“Honey, are you sure you should go?”

“I’m feeling fine. I’m going. Are you sure you should go?”

We both knew the answer to that. With my lymphocyte count this low I’m at a high risk of infection and am supposed to avoid crowds. But we hoped to arrive early and sit in the back. Some things are worth the risk. I’ve had to miss some funerals and other important things when I was critically low on everything and under orders to stay home; now I’m just under suggestions. This sweet neighbor lady who died left behind people we care about, and we wanted to be there today for them. Why are we still here if not to see one another through?

As you may have guessed, we got a later start than we hoped. We arrived at the church just in time, but there was no place to park. John drove to the corner to turn around and wham! Wheels spun and refused to move.  

So, John, the one who’d just had an angina attack at home, shoveled us out of the snow. We finally found a place a distance from the church and went hurrying off; if you can call me hanging on to John’s arm with one hand and using my cane with the other hand and both of us pushing our way through the snow in the unplowed road hurrying!

“We…are…going…to be…so…late!” I said, gasping for breath.

But when we got inside, the service hadn’t started. The pastor and the family were still lined up inside the door. I wear a mask, doctor’s orders, so of course my glasses completely fogged over, and I couldn’t see a single person. Just shapes.

A tall figure not in the line with the family touched my arm. “You may not remember me, but I pray for you every day. You’re at the top of my prayer list.”

I didn’t know if I remembered him or not because I couldn’t see him, but I thanked him, and tears formed behind my fogged-up lenses. It seems every time we go somewhere to encourage people, someone encourages us. John told me later the tall figure was the pastor from the Pittsford Wesleyan Church who, like us, and all the others in the full church at Liberty Bible Church, had come to show Bob and the family we cared deeply about their sorrow and wanted to walk part of this hard mile with them.

John spoke with the family as we made our way into the auditorium. I still couldn’t see a thing, but I managed to find Bob, the last in line. I can’t remember if I said a word to him. I know I hugged him. And he kissed the top of my head.

Amazingly, the last pew was empty. When we were seated, I took off my glasses and saw we knew so many of the people there.

The sermon was a beautiful tribute to Kathy; it made us chuckle and cry. And it was a beautiful tribute to the only one Kathy loved more than her family, the Lord Jesus. Pastor Wickard preached from Kathy’s Bible with its verses underlined and its margin notes written in her handwriting. He reminded us Kathy is in the Father’s house now, and that she’d want him to tell us all how to be there with her.

He spoke with simplistic beauty the old confession of the faith: Jesus, God the Son, loved us enough to die for our sins. And we, sin sick and weary, need but cry out to him to save us from our sins, and he will do it. And then someday we will all be where Kathy is now.

Too simple you say? Pie in the sky? Other great minds thought so but changed their minds when they investigated. On that note I highly recommend the movie, “C.S. Lewis Onstage The Most Reluctant Convert.” Please watch it before you disregard Christianity; you have everything to lose and everything to gain.

Back to the funeral, Kathy’s celebration of life, Pastor Wickard spoke words of comfort to the family. We sang together the old hymns Kathy loved. And then it was over. We talked a few minutes to a couple we dearly love and then made our way back to the car through the snow. I was freezing, and my socks under my boots were soaked. My heart ached for Bob and the family, but a warm joy sang through it all. We’ll meet again, all of us, at the Big Table in our Father’s House.

Next weekend is another funeral, a cancer warrior who lost her fight but gained heaven. I’ll miss her loving, encouraging messages. Patty wrote me this strong encouragement on December 19, 2020.

“I was brought to tears this morning when praying for you and it had me wishing I had something deep and scriptural to share with you. Instead, I found a snippet of a sermon that had been shared with me.

‘Our primary purpose is not our pleasure it is His glory. We are not called to do something easy. We are called to do something important. Things that are important require commitment and effort and perseverance, and we persevere because we know there are eternal purposes to earthy difficulties. God knows our burdens. He knows their purpose. Some He will fix; some He will not.’

“This has brought me a lot of comfort on those days when I know I can’t take anymore. Looking forward to the day when we have understanding.”

Patty understands now! But the rest of us don’t always. We need each other. My photographer daughter Kimmee was a second shooter at an Anglican wedding recently where they sang this song with its lovely words reminding us to walk Home together.

“The Servant Song by Richard Gillard

Brother, sister, let me serve you, Let me be as Christ to you;

Pray that I might have the grace to Let you be my servant, too.

We are pilgrims on a journey, And companions on the road;

We are here to help each other, Walk the mile and bear the load.

I will hold the Christ-light for you, In the night time of your fear;

I will share your joy and sorrow Till we’ve seen this journey through.

When we sing to God in heaven, We shall find such harmony

Born of all we’ve known together Of Christ’s love and agony.

Brother, sister, let me serve you, Let me be as Christ to you;

Pray that I might have the grace to Let you be my servant too.”

My reader friends, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? We aren’t here to criticize and see through one another; we’re here to see one another through. In person and online, with whatever time we have left, let’s walk the mile and share the load.

The End
***

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

The Three O’clock in the Morning Chat

by Donna Poole

“Hey, are you awake?”

Huge sigh. “I am now. What do you want? And why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I can’t sleep. You know prednisone does that to me. So, I’m counting my blessings. Like the song goes, ‘I count my blessings, instead of sheep…’”

“Please! Stop singing! It’s bad enough listening to you sing in the shower in the mornings. I really can’t now. I have a headache.”

“Sorry! I know my voice isn’t the best. It begins as a lovely melody in my heart though.”

“Yeah? Well, it sure gets mugged somewhere before it comes out of your mouth.”

“You’re a bit grumpy tonight, aren’t you?”

“For Pete’s sake; I’m not grumpy. I want to sleep! And it’s not night, it’s morning. In three hours you’ll be singing in the shower, and I’d like to get a little shut eye before then!”

“I’m sorry I woke you. I was thinking about all the good things that happened in the hospital the past three days, and I wanted to share them with someone. Go back to sleep. I’ll just talk to God.”

“Oh, go ahead and keep talking. I’m wide awake now anyway. But blessings? How about when we had to wait all that time in the hallway for a room to open up? You were so cold you put on your winter jacket and pulled the hood up!”

“True, but then I felt cozy, and the padded bench was comfortable. I was tired from getting up extra early to get to Ann Arbor on time, and I had a good nap sitting on that bench. And then we got the call the room was ready, and they said for sure my husband could stay with me. That about made me cry; I was so happy.”

“Everything makes you cry when you’re happy. How about when the parking garage was full and you had to get out at the door by yourself and find your own way to your room in that big hospital, you and your cane and your horrible sense of direction, with no arm to lean on and no one to help you?”

“Well, that was a blessing too! Everyone was helpful. The first lady sent me to the second lady. She called to be sure my room was ready, and it was.”

“‘I hope you can give me simple directions,’ I told her, ‘because I hold the world’s record for getting lost.’”

“She laughed. ‘It’s easy. Go past that big blow-up Superman, and you’ll come to the elevators. Go to floor eight, and you’ll see a desk. They’ll give you more directions from there.’”

“I found the desk, memorized my room, number six, and I only had to go back once and ask her to repeat the directions. Then off I went, feeling like a little girl setting off alone for the first day of kindergarten, proud to be on my own.”

“Get real! Kindergarten at age seventy-five? And you were only on your own for a few minutes.”

“Let me finish, okay? I found the right hallway and room number six. I stopped in front of it and read a sign that said something like ‘sanitized linens.’ The nurse’s desk was right behind me.”

“I said, ‘Hi, I’m Donna Poole, and I have room six, but I don’t think that’s it?’”

“She laughed. ‘No, that’s definitely not it. Keep going down that hall a bit and you’ll come to your room.’”

“A man coming toward me saw my confusion. ‘You’ll see your name on your room. Tell you what, I’ll take you there!’”

“And he did! Now isn’t that a blessing? And that room! It was impressive! It had a mini fridge, a love seat that opened up into a bed, and a recliner. The hospital bed was even more comfortable than my bed at home!”

“I heard you tell the doctor that. She laughed and said it was the first time she’d ever heard anyone say that!”

“I put the quilt my friend Missy had stayed up all night making for me before I’d gone into the hospital the last time on my bed. Everyone who came into the room loved it.”

“I suppose you’ll rave about the bathroom next.”

“Well, it was nice. Big and very clean.”

“Oh yeah? How’d you like having to measure and record your pee?”

“Do you always have to be so negative? I’m trying to focus on the blessings. The food was good!”

“It must have been. I heard you say you’d gained a few pounds you didn’t need while you were there.”

“Oh, come on. It was almost like being on a vacation. I met so many nice people, and we shared stories….”

“That’s another thing. What’s with you and sharing stories? It happens everywhere you go.”

“Sharing stories is a way to connect. It’s how we let other people know they aren’t alone in the world.”

“So that’s why you gave that girl who was cleaning your contact information when she told you about her sad family situation and her lack of friendships?”

“Yes, that’s exactly why. I listened to her. It might have been the first time in a long time someone cared enough to listen to her story. And I told her I didn’t want her to ever feel alone, so she could get ahold of me if she had a problem, or a prayer request, or just wanted someone to talk to. Wouldn’t you have done the same?”

“I can honestly say I’ve never done that and never will, and sometimes I think you’re an idiot. I suppose you think the side effects from your cancer treatment, the shivering, the horrible muscle and bone aches, the burning eyes, the unbearable neck pain, and the headache from h…”

“Hold on. We don’t use that word.”

“Okay, okay! So, I suppose you think the headache from…Stygian was a blessing too?”

“Stygian?”

“Look it up.”

“I will sometime. The side effects weren’t fun, but you have to admit the fast help I got from the nurse and the doctor were blessings. They didn’t even mind being disturbed at two o’clock in the morning.”

“Look, Miss Pollyanna, that’s what they get paid to do. They were just doing their job.”

“No, they did more than that. They did it with compassion and cheerfulness. They could have been grumpy, like some others I know!”

“You’re talking about me, aren’t you? I am what I am. We’re different, but we’ve come a long way together, haven’t we?”

“Yes, we have, and don’t think I don’t appreciate you because I do! Do you want to hear more blessings?”

“I’m probably going to hear them whether I want to or not. But can you cut this short? I have a feeling you could write a book about your hospital stay, and I’m not in the mood to hear it!”

“Well, you know how I love that verse from the book of Esther in the Bible that says maybe she was exactly where she was ‘for such a time as this?’”

“Must we go there again? You’re always thinking you’re right where you are ‘for such a time as this.’ It’s ridiculous. Don’t you realize things might happen by chance?”

“Nope. It’s Providence! Things happen by design! I think the best blessing was getting to meet the woman I’d been talking to online. You know, the one whose husband is so sick with a rare kind of lymphoma, sicker than I’ve ever been. If not Providence, how else do you explain that we were both in the hospital at the same time and only two doors apart?”

“I don’t know.”

“God did it, that’s what. And it gave me a chance to share one of my books and a little love and encouragement. And she encouraged me too. I really was there ‘for such a time as this.’”

“Whatever.”

“And even though the side effects weren’t fun, I didn’t get CRS like last time, and I got to come home on Friday. God brought us safely home through blowing snow and drifting roads, and Kimmee and Drew fixed us two kinds of delicious soup and yummy cupcakes. Then it was time to crawl into our cozy bed. Coming home was a little glimpse of what heaven will be like, don’t you think?”

“That trip shook me up, going and coming. I’m even greener that usual and look at all my white bubbles and froth. I don’t believe heaven is in my future. Why are you laughing?”

“I’m laughing at myself. I can’t believe I’m having a middle of the night imaginary conversation with a bottle of green mouthwash. I’m going back to bed now, but thanks for coming to the hospital with me. You were a lifesaver. Everyone who got close to me probably appreciated you too! See you in a few hours. Sorry you have to listen to me sing in the shower!”

“I’m sorry too! If I only had money and hands, I’d pay someone to give you singing lessons!”

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

This! This is the Day!

by Donna Poole

It was a great Christmas season at the little church on the corner of two dirt roads, weeks of wonderful holiday celebrations at our old farmhouse, and its music still lingers in my heart. It’s not over; I’m not ready to let it go, because this was my year!

I don’t know if I’ve ever enjoyed a Christmas season more! Oh, it wasn’t perfect. Pneumonia and two other nasty infections invaded, required seven weeks of antibiotics, and forced me to miss long anticipated holiday events at the grandkids’ schools. I had to skip my cancer treatments too. My husband, John, also got sick. Unwelcomed guests in form house repairs showed up.

But oh, the joy that rang through it all, echoing yet like the old bell at our country church. Have you ever seen the beautiful frozen fog that sometimes forms on trees and makes you catch your breath with delight when the sunrise hits it and the world for just a second sparkles like a diamond? That’s what this season was like for me. I wish I could package it all up, put a big red bow on it, and let you peek inside so you could share my joy.

I think I’ll try!

Let’s begin at church. You’ll have to drive up a dirt road to get there and try not to get muddy when you get out. It’s an acquired art, and one I haven’t yet mastered. This was our fiftieth Christmas here; we were twenty five when John came as pastor. Like any small country church, we’ve known times of feast and famine when it comes to attendance. Right now, we’re big on love but small on numbers, and we didn’t really have enough children to pull off the traditional Christmas program. Someone suggested we skip it.

Skip the program on John’s fiftieth Christmas here? I don’t think so! Over my dead body!

My daughter Kimmee helped me, and we wrote a program that featured all ages. We called it “The Invisible Woman.” Everyone at church was willing to help. The choir sang three awesome numbers; the angels glowed, and each child and old person played their part to perfection. We had beautiful special music too. We felt again the ancient awe as we worshipped the God who loved us and sent his Son!

The program ended and people clustered around the Christmas table at the back of the church. Everyone got a bag packed with candy people brought to share with each other. Each year our family makes Christmas ornaments to give away; this year Kimmee did most of the work. People took the ornament they wanted off the tree on the table. Cards and hugs were exchanged. And when people said, “Merry Christmas!” they meant it.

George Fee used to attend our church until God called him home many years ago. After every program George smiled his famous smile and said, “That was wonderful. Couldn’t have seen anything better, not even in New York City!”

And if you don’t think I heard George say that to me after our Christmas program this year, you need to go to the doctor and get your imagination checked.

Oh, and we had my favorite, the candlelight church service. That’s an informal time; everyone who wants to can read, or sing, or play an instrument. Carole Knowlton always reads A Cup of Christmas Tea, and then, each year, it’s suddenly Christmas for me. John closes with a short devotional; we dim the lights, and we sing “Silent Night.”

Now come over to our farmhouse, the one given us by a sweet neighbor years ago, called to heaven just a few months ago. But that beautiful story is one I’ve already told, and I’ll probably tell it again another day.

We start preparing for our big family Christmas early. We get the tree the day after Thanksgiving, and this year’s tree was a beauty! She stands to this day, tall and proud, still drinking water, still alive, still, like me, soaking up leftover Christmas joy and not ready yet to say goodbye to it all.

Long before our family gathering we make the Christmas cookies John’s parents made when he was a boy and put them in the freezer. We plan and replan how to fit twenty-four of us at tables. We clean, shop, and cook. I cook the main part of the meal, each of the families brings good food too, and Kimmee makes fantastic desserts.

The hardest part of it all, the part that requires prayer and a miracle, is getting all of us together on a day and time that works for everyone—and not having anyone get sick. This year, it happened on December 22. The rest of my family probably guessed, but only God could see the overflowing joy in my heart as they all came in the kitchen door. When those dear faces gathered together, and our grandson read Luke chapter two, and our granddaughter was home from Physician’s Assistant school and back with us, when my children and their wonderful spouses, and my fourteen beautiful grandchildren crowded together, and made such a delightful noise and mess—I’ve never been happier.

It ended so quickly. John and I stood outside in the soft falling rain and waved goodbye. When we came back inside, not all of the wetness I brushed from my cheeks was from the rain.

Because, you see, living in the limbo of cancer teaches you to treasure like never before each day, each moment when family stories are retold, and new ones are made.

Not long-ago John preached a sermon he titled “This is the Day!” His text was, “This is the day the Lord has made. We will rejoice and be glad in it.”

Oh yes, we will say “This is the day,” this day and every day! Whatever it brings! We will find something to be thankful for, and somedays you don’t have to look too hard, because joy wraps you up so warmly you can hardly catch your breath. Family Christmas was like that for me. I can’t thank my family enough for giving it to me.

Christmas Day itself was quieter here with just the four of us, Kimmee and Drew, our daughter and son-in-law who live with us, and John and me. Kimmee and Drew made us their traditional Christmas brunch with food so delicious I dare not tell you lest you get distracted from the rest of my story. After brunch, the four of us exchanged some gifts.

As we began picking up wrapping paper, Drew said to wait just a minute, because he had received a message for us on his cell. He read, “Hello-ho-ho! This is Kris Kringle, finally taking a moment to catch up on some post-Christmas Night messages to my favorite helper! You may have not noticed, but I had to hide a special gift for John and Donna in the dishwasher. Could you be a dear and tell them about it? It would really make my Christmas Day extra, extra wonderful.”

Out to the dishwasher we went. It had been broken now for over a year, but we’d kept it because its top provided valuable counter top space. Inside we found a gigantic red bow attached to a plastic bag of dishwasher pods. We stared at Kimmee and Drew. This couldn’t mean what we thought, did it? They laughed.

“Your new dishwasher is coming tomorrow.”

Flabbergasted is a good word, is it not? Christmas tears are special, aren’t they?

Our church family, family, neighbors, and friends showered us with love and gifts this year. The monetary gifts alone more than made up for the unexpected house expenses. This was all wonderful, and it made John and me cry. I mean really cry.

There was more, so much more—playing marathon games of Phase 10, going to see Christmas lights twice, eating at a little deli we love, spending time with beloved friends from out of town, a turkey dinner on New Year’s Day.

But what made this Christmas season so very dear to me was the strands of love running through each of our days and connecting us to the one great Love that will still be here when I finally agree to take down the tree and the decorations. It’s the Love that never fails.

God loved us and sent his son. Those seven perfect words change time and eternity.

Jesus willingly came to earth to make a way for us all to go Home for a forever Christmas. No tearful driveway goodbyes. No shutting off the lights and closing the doors of the old country church. No ending the music. No putting away the decorations.  

Here’s how the Bible says it.

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” –John 3:16

Believe what exactly? The rest of the Bible tells us what we already instinctively know. We’ve all got a big problem with sin. Jesus, the God man who never sinned, did something beyond comprehension on the cross. He gathered into his own heart every sin ever committed, suffered the horrible guilt and pain of each of them, and made them not to be. And now every sinner who falls at his feet and believes is suddenly on the road Home to God.

And that is why, even though one day you may stand in the driveway waving a tearful goodbye to me as I leave this earth, or I to you, joy will still remain. Christmas, real Christmas, never needs to leave our hearts. Because we have that long, forever tomorrow, we can say, “This! This is the day!” We can say it sobbing, but we can say it!

I suppose I will have to give in soon and say goodbye to this tree, pack away the decorations, and save the music for another year. Well, maybe not the music.

This afternoon a friend reminded me that January 7 is the day the Russian Orthodox Church celebrates Christmas, and so it’s not too late to say “Merry Christmas.”

It’s never too late. So, if you see me on July 4 and I say it to you, just laugh and hug me. And don’t be surprised if I ask you, “Did you know that this is the day?”

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

And the Needles Kept Dropping

by Donna Poole

What to do next?

That was always the question. Bonnie sighed and looked at her lengthy to-do list on the fridge. Number one: Take decorations off the Christmas tree.

Not that. That always makes me cry. Maybe if I sweep up the pile of needles Ed won’t notice how dead the tree is getting, and we can keep it up longer.

Number four on the list caught her eye. Make Ed’s fruitcake.

She smiled. Ed had devoured the first fruitcake she’d made him even before Christmas. Their grown kids poked fun at his fruitcake addiction; no one else in the family could stand it. He’d looked so sad when he’d scraped the last crumb from his plate. When she’d found the candied fruit half-off at an after Christmas sale, she’d snatched it up. She was going to make him another one for a surprise treat.

The phone rang just as she got started. “Hi, Mom! What are you up to today?”

“I’m making a fruitcake for your dad.”

Becky laughed. “Not another one! I suppose he’s at work?”

Bonnie shrugged. “Where else?”

“Seventy-five and Dad still goes to the shop every day. If he didn’t own the place someone would have made him retire by now. Do you wish he would?”

“Two cups of water, one-fourth cup of oil.”

“What?”

“Oh, sorry honey. If I don’t say recipe ingredients out loud, I forget something. What did you ask me?”

“Do you wish Dad would retire?”

“Yes. But no. He loves it there, and the work isn’t too much for him. He mostly answers the phone, sets up appointments, and chats with the customers waiting for their vehicles. People talk to him about their troubles, and he tells them about Jesus and prays for them. And when an older model car comes in, he still likes to get his hands greasy working on it.”

“But sometimes I worry about you being home alone.”

“I’m fine honey. Two cups of raisins, one cup candied pineapple. Okay. I think that’s it. Give me a minute while I pour this into the bundt pan. Done! Oh bother!”

“What’s wrong? You didn’t burn yourself putting it into the oven, did you?”

“No, I forgot the eggs. I’ll just scrape the batter back into the bowl and add the eggs.”

It was quiet for a minute, and then Becky heard the refrigerator door slam and her mom laugh.

“Well, I guess we’ll see how fruitcake tastes without eggs. We don’t have any.”

“Mom, remember that trick I told you? Put out and measure all your ingredients before you start baking.”

“It’s a great idea, if I only could remember it.”

They both laughed.

“I forgot something else. I wrote the recipe on a three by five card, but I forgot to write down the oven temperature and how long to cook it. I saved the recipe on my cell, but now I can’t find my phone.”

Becky grinned. Should she? She couldn’t resist, and Mom always loved a good joke.

“Look on the counter. No? Check the couch cushions. You often lose your cell there. Not there either? You don’t suppose you put it in the fridge when you were looking for eggs do you?”

“It’s not anywhere! You don’t happen to know the oven temperature for fruitcake do you, honey?”

“Mom, the day I bake fruitcake is the day you know I am one. Do me a favor, okay? Go look in the mirror.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

She heard her mom start laughing. “Becky Joy if I had you here, I’d…”

“I take it you found your phone?”

“Honey, do you think I’m getting dementia?”

“Nope. I did the same thing I just did to you to my friend the other day. He was talking to me on his cell and couldn’t find it, and he’s only in his thirties.”

“You’re as much of a tease as your dad. But now I have to stop talking and look up the oven temperature. Love you.”

“Love you too. I’ll call you back later.”

Becky did worry though. She didn’t think her mom had dementia, but she did have some memory problems. She wished Dad would stay home more. Her parents seemed happy with their lives, but she hoped they could enjoy a few years of retirement before God took one of them home to heaven.

She whispered a prayer and then chuckled. “Another fruitcake! She’ll probably make him one for Valentine’s Day too!”

Bonnie turned the oven to 350 degrees. The old thing took a long time to preheat; what should she do while she was waiting? She glanced at the list again. Number seven: Find old Bible.

She was tired of reading the Bible on her cell, though the kids had installed three versions for her. She wanted to hold her old Bible in her hands, the one with dates, underlining, and tear stains, the one she’d had since the kids were little. She didn’t care that the spine had fallen off. She’d go find it while she waited for the oven to preheat.

Short of breath by the time she got to the top of the stairs, Bonnie stared at the empty shelves in the study.

Where in the world are all our books? Oh, that’s right. We put them in boxes on the closed in porch so we could get this room ready to paint. Where is my brain today? Oh, look, there’s a box of the kids’ baby pictures!

Bonnie sat down in a chair and laughed and cried her way through photos for the next hour before she headed back downstairs. A warm blast of heat met her near the bottom,

Why is it so hot down here? Oh! The oven! I forgot!

Bonnie popped the fruitcake in the oven, set the timer, and sat down on the couch to read her Bible on her cell. No way could she manage to find her old Bible in all those boxes on the porch. Engrossed in reading and a bit deaf, she didn’t hear the oven timer go off. Eventually, her nose told her Ed’s favorite dessert was overdone.

She ruefully set the fruitcake on the counter to cool, and its black edges looked condemningly back at her.

“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t turn you into a complete charcoal briquet. Not quite.”

Since the oven is hot, I might as well think about supper. Did Ed say something about supper? I can’t remember. Well, I have that roast thawed out in the fridge. I think I’ll brown it and pop it in the oven with some potatoes and carrots.

After fifty-five years of making pot roast, she knew that recipe by heart. She even remembered the cream of mushroom, cream of celery, and dried onion soups. Soon the kitchen smelled heavenly. She could barely smell burned fruitcake.

Bonnie tackled more things on her to-do list. She swept up the needles under the tree, but as soon as she did, more fell. She ignored them and went on to other tasks. She disregarded her aching muscles too; she knew she was overdoing, but it felt good to get a lot done. The phone never rang to interrupt her.

The kitchen door opened earlier than usual, and Ed hurried inside, snow on his shoulders, and a grin on his face. He put a big pizza box on the counter, swept Bonnie into his arms, and danced her around the kitchen.

“What are you doing New Year’s Eve?” he sang to her.

“This is New Year’s Eve?”

“You forgot?”

“I guess I did.”

“Remember, I told you I’d be home early and bring our favorite pizza.”

“Whoops. I made your favorite pot roast.”

They both laughed. “I’m eating roast,” he said.

“I’m having pizza!” she answered.

“I tried to call you several times to remind you about the pizza.”

She patted her apron pocket. “Oh dear. My phone. I seem to have lost it again.”

He went right to the couch and pulled it out from between the cushions.

“How did you know?”

“Lucky guess. You missed four calls from Becky. You better call her back. You know how she worries.”

Ed ate a piece of fruitcake even before supper and said it was delicious. They curled up in bed right after they ate and turned on a movie Bonnie had been wanting to watch, “The Man Who Invented Christmas.”

A few minutes into the movie Ed glanced over at Bonnie. She was sound asleep, and it was only six o’clock. He grinned, muted the movie, and slipped out of bed. They’d planned to undecorate the tree tomorrow, but that job always made her cry. He’d do it now and get it over with. And then he’d wake her up and tell her his good news. He took down all the red ornaments first. He couldn’t believe how many needles fell from the tree. How had it died so quickly? It had been alive just a few days earlier.

An hour later he went to wake Bonnie. Her wispy white bangs had moved to the side and he could plainly see her dented forehead from the brain surgery and the purple star shaped plate that bulged out. His throat tightened as he thought of the times he’d almost lost her. They’d have some good years yet. Wait until he told her his news.

“Bonnie!” He shook her shoulder. The patchwork quilt covering her wasn’t rising and falling; she wasn’t breathing! He thought of the pile of dead needles dropping from the tree and could barely catch a breath between sobs.

“Bonnie!” He groaned and pulled her to his chest, tears flowing.

“Ed!” She pounded him. “You’re hugging me too tightly. I can’t breathe!”

She pushed away and stared at his tear covered face. “You didn’t think I was…?”

She laughed. “Honey, you need new glasses!”

He climbed in beside her and told her his plans for semi-retirement, and she listened, a contented smile making her look as beautiful to him as she had when they’d married at twenty. They talked on as hours passed. He felt God still wanted him at the shop part time for the people who needed him, and she agreed. They’d always tried to let God love others through them, and Ed was in a good place to do that.

Bonnie didn’t tell him, but she wasn’t ready to give up her quiet hours of reading and writing either. This was a happy compromise; it would be wonderful to be together more.

“Happy New Year, honey,” Ed said when the grandfather clock struck twelve.

“Oh! Is that today?” she asked.

He nodded and kissed her.

“I think it will be our best year ever!” she said, and he agreed.

They fell asleep holding hands. And in the living room the needles kept dropping from the tree.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Jasmine, Kate, and the Christmas Cups

by Donna Poole

Jasmine and Kate had been unusually close as toddlers, teens, twenty somethings, and they still were in their mid-seventies, but twins are often like that.

Steam from the dishwater fogged Jasmine’s glasses as she worked her way through the pile. The kitchen was a bit chilly when the wind blew from the east, and the hot dishwater felt good.

Kate curled both hands around the cup of coffee Jasmine had fixed for her. The steam from the delicious brew was clouding her glasses too. She pulled back a bit, looked at the cup, and laughed.

“Still have your Christmas cups out, I see.”

“Yes, and the tree is still up too. I suppose you took yours down the day after Christmas.”

“Wrong! We opened gifts early Christmas morning, and then the kids were all off to celebrate with their in-laws. I got busy and had the tree down and decorations put back in the attic by late afternoon.”

Jasmine pulled her hands from the sudsy water and turned to stare at her sister. “Kate! On Christmas Day! How could you! Did you put away your Christmas cups too, even the ones Mom gave us?”

Kate nodded. “Jasmine, you’re so sentimental. Out with the old, in with the new. The house looks so fresh and clean without the clutter. And I think I have too many Christmas mugs; no one uses them. We all use the disposable ones at family gatherings. I might just donate the cups to charity. So, when are you going to take down your tree? You’re getting quite a pile of needles on the floor there.”

Jasmine sighed. “If I had my way, I’d leave it up until February. I love to sit with my coffee in a Christmas cup, look at the tree, and try to remember every single minute of the holidays. They were especially beautiful this year.”

“That’s what you say every year.”

“Well, it’s true every year.”

“It looks the same in here every year, I’ll give you that. Don’t you ever want to do something different, like, oh, I don’t know, decorate with purple and black instead of red and green?”

Jasmine’s mouth dropped and Kate laughed.

“I’m kidding, but you know I’m right. You have a hard time with change. You bawled like a baby all over four college campuses when you left your kids there. And I bet you still cry when the kids and grandkids leave after family Christmas, don’t you?”

Jasmine pictured herself, standing in the driveway in the drizzling rain waving as the cars turned out of the driveway, leaving one by one. When she’d gone back inside, the moisture on her face hadn’t been all from the rain.

Kate sat down her coffee and hugged her sister. “It’s okay. I love you just like you are. I know you don’t really wish the kids were all little and home again. You’re as happy for them as adults as I am for mine. You do seem especially nostalgic this year though. What gives?”

Jasmine wiped away a tear. “It’s been a good year, hasn’t it Kate? And we don’t know what sorrows next year might bring. We already heard about a sweet friend going on Hospice. And our own health isn’t so good either, and…”

Kate pulled her closer and patted her back. “I know, honey. I know. But remember what we said to each other on Christmas Day? We’ve seen a Great Light, and it will grow brighter and brighter all the way Home! We can trust God to take care of us and the people we love. And you know perfectly well, not putting away those Christmas cups isn’t going to help you hang on to what’s beautiful now. Ready or not, the future is coming for us with is sorrows and its joys. Remember, God is already there!”

Jasmine laughed and hugged her sister. “You’re right, as usual. What would I do without you?”

“You’d be a mess.”

Jasmine laughed again and returned to the dishes.

John came into the kitchen. “Sorry, Donna, I found some more dishes. And are you talking to yourself again?

“Just listening to Jasmine and Kate.”

“Oh, is that a podcast or something?”

“Or something.”

“You aren’t crying, are you?”

“Not anymore. Hey, what do you think about leaving the Christmas tree up until February?”

She looked at his face and laughed. “That’s what I thought. “Well, can we keep the Christmas cups out awhile longer?”

“That we can do.”

She went to work on the new pile of dishes John had brought her and looked out the window. The clouds parted and sun poured in, flooding the kitchen with light, sparkling off the bubbles in the dishwater, and making new dreams.

The Street Kid

by Donna Poole

The street kid knew things; he’d always known things. At nine Davey had known he’d die if he’d stayed home any longer. It was only his mother who’d kept his father from killing him in one of his drunken rages, and with her gone he knew he’d suffer way more than beatings and being thrown against the wall.

His dad had killed his mom on Christmas Eve; Davey had seen him throw her down the stairs. He’d also heard him tell his cop friends she’d fallen. His dad would get away with it. In that big city the blue wall of silence was a real thing; Davey and his mom had learned that the hard way when they’d tried to report his dad’s abuse to his fellow officers. Like I said, Davey knew things, things a nine-year-old shouldn’t know. So, the night his mom had died, he’d hit the streets.

What he hadn’t known on the streets he’d learned in a hurry. Sometimes the victim, sometimes the aggressor, he’d survived seven harsh winters since the Christmas Eve he’d left home at nine years old. With the wail of sirens and cops crawling all over the house, it had been easy for him to escape unnoticed.

He’d wiped away one tear when he’d looked at his mom crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. She’d still had on her red apron, the one she’d worn earlier in the day to make him Christmas cookies. The frosted Christmas tree cookies were still on the table when he’d left, but he hadn’t taken one. He’d thought about them often in the years that followed and wondered what had happened to them. His father hadn’t liked sugar cookies.

That tear was the last one Davey cried. Street kids don’t cry. Only the strong survive, and they survive any way they can. I won’t tell you the horrible things that happened to Davey or the terrible things he did to others, because they’re too sad. This story has already been sad enough, and it’s a Christmas story.

Once, when he’d been about thirteen, a girl his age had asked him, “Don’t you ever get homesick?”

Davey had laughed, a bitter sound. “Homesick? For what? Home is the last place I’d ever want to go. If you want to go home, why don’t you?”

She’d shrugged. “I have my reasons.”

He hadn’t asked what reasons. He’d kept a small circle, watched his back, and looked out for number one. That’s how you survive on the streets.

Sixteen now, Davey was as tough as any man in the northside homeless camp. Fists or knives, Davey could hold his own…until he couldn’t. A wound to his calf festered for weeks, and then the fevers and nightmares started.

Davey woke from a dream with tears on his face and heard the laughter. Someone mocked, “Did you hear him call for his mama?”

He didn’t know it; his fever was so high he didn’t know much of anything, but it was Christmas Eve again when he stumbled out of the camp, once again afraid for his life. The weak didn’t survive there, and he was weak. That much he knew.

Davey stumbled down dark streets and lurched into buildings, feeling warm tears freeze on his cheeks. It was snowing, and the snow wasn’t gentle. The wicked winds from the north blasted through his clothes, and he began shivering uncontrollably.

Then he smelled them, those sugar cookies. And he saw her in her red apron, smiling at him.

“Mama?”

He slid down a building into the snow.

Davey felt someone shaking his shoulder. “May I help you, son?”

He looked up. The man was tall, taller than he was. Davey tasted the fear.

“Get away from me!”

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before!”

Davey lurched to his feet and bent to reach for the knife in his boot but toppled forward. The man caught him.

“Son, do you want to go home? I can help you find home.”

“Are you crazy, man? Home is gone. No one can help me find home.”

“Come on. You’re going home.”

Too weak to protest and half-conscious Davey felt the man half lead, half carry him through the blinding snow. He felt the man lay him down and smelled sugar cookies.  

When he woke, he was lying on a couch and covered with blankets. A young couple was smiling at him.

“Are you feeling better?” the woman asked. “I’m a doctor. I hope you don’t mind, but blood was seeping through your jeans. I cut off the bottom of them, dressed your wound, and gave you a shot of antibiotic. I don’t usually keep that kind of medication at home, but I had a bad infection myself after I had the baby.”

Davey just stared at her.

“I think you need to give him a minute to wake up, Mary,” the man said. “I don’t think he knows where he is.”

“Where’s the man who carried me in here?” Davey asked.

“What man?” Mary looked puzzled. “Did you see a man when you answered the door, Joseph?”

He shook his head. “There wasn’t any man. You were just pounding on our door mumbling “mama.” You looked half dead. We would have taken you to the hospital, and we will as soon as the roads get cleared from this storm.”

Davey tried to sit up. “No! No hospital. I don’t have any money. No insurance either.”

The two of them looked at each other. “Listen. We try to do something to help someone every Christmas. Please, let us help you.”

He tried to say thank you, but the words got stuck. Joseph patted his shoulder. A baby cried, and Mary hurried out of the room. Davey fell asleep again. When he woke again Mary fed him hot chicken noodle soup. He sat up, looked around, and noticed a tall tree dazzling with lights.

“Merry Christmas.” Mary smiled at him. “Are you still hungry?”

He nodded. “You don’t happen to have any sugar cookies, do you?”

She laughed. “Matter of fact I do.”

Shadows fell, and Davey dozed on and off. Mary rocked the baby, and Joeseph sat next to her reading.

Davey woke again. “So, Mary, you’re a doctor. What do you do, Joseph?”

“I’m a carpenter; I make custom cabinets and many other things.”

Davey sat straight up. “No way! My mom took me to Sunday school when I was a kid. Mary, Joseph…wasn’t the Joseph in the Christmas story a carpenter?”

Joseph laughed. “We get that a lot.”

Davey nodded at the baby in Mary’s arms. “What’s the kid’s name?”

“It’s Joshua,” Joseph answered, “another name for Jesus. Jesus means ‘The Lord is salvation.’ Hey, we need to talk. I could use an apprentice, and you look like you could use a job. And we have a little guest house out back. You can live there if you want and eat your meals with us. What do you say?”

Davey swore then apologized. “I’m sorry, but are you people crazy? You don’t know a thing about me!”

“Let’s give it a month and see how it goes. Then we’ll reassess. Okay?”

The street kid, who hadn’t willingly shed a tear since he’d seen his mom crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, started to sob. A half a box and several hugs and Christmas cookies later, Joseph opened a Bible.

“We always read from Luke chapter two at the end of Christmas day,” he said. “‘For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.’”

Davey fell asleep before the reading was finished. His last thought was these people are the real deal. I know. I’ve always known things.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Lessons from a Turkey Leg

by Donna Poole

Emma, the old pastor’s wife, woke in the middle of the night and opened the wrong door. Confused, she stood staring at the family room, the living room, and the Christmas tree.

Why is the Christmas tree in the bathroom? Wait. Where’s the bathroom?

She shook her head to clear it, closed the door, and opened it again—the same door. She remembered one definition of insanity, “repeating the same thing and expecting different results.” But she wasn’t out of her mind, not quite yet, just tired, so tired. She rubbed her eyes, turned around and saw it. Relieved, she headed for the right door. The bathroom hadn’t disappeared after all.

Back in bed, cuddled under her many blankets, and snuggled next to her softly snoring husband, Emma couldn’t quite wake up, but neither could she drift back into sleep. It was almost Christmas.

Christmas! Her mind wandered off to years gone by and a gift never forgotten.

They’d been young then, she and her husband, and not yet in the ministry. They’d spent a year before they’d gone to their country church as pastor and wife absorbing all they could from Tom and Becky, a young pastor and wife at a thriving church on the outskirts of an Indiana town. And they’d learned a lot.

James had worked full time at American Motors and served as a deacon and a department Sunday school superintendent.

Emma had plunged into every opportunity available for service, and surprisingly, even in that large church, there were many holes to be filled. She taught Sunday school, children’s church, and helped in the nursery. Months went by without her hearing a single sermon.

Finally, she timidly approached Pastor Tom and asked if anything could be done about her workload. He laughed.

“Sure! I’ll find someone to cover something for you. But remember, around here, we only grease the wheels that squeak.”

She filed that thought away for future reference. Around here we only grease the wheels that squeak.  

Emma and Becky, the pastor’s wife, became good friends. They both liked to have fun, perhaps a bit too much fun, at least in the eyes of some of the stern older church ladies.

Missionary group was, how shall we put it nicely? Missionary group was dull; there is no nicer word. Emma suggested to Becky they liven things up a bit with a skit, and they enjoyed writing and performing it. In the skit they dressed as two impoverished, elderly, worn-out missionaries and acted the part complete with shuffling walk and quavering voices. They particularly enjoyed two lines they said to each other:

“You poor dear, what is that on your sneaker?”

“Oh, please excuse me. I have dysentery.”

They barely managed the lines without giggling.

Later, Becky told Emma with a sigh the stern older church ladies had not shared their amusement. They’d said the skit had been inappropriate and they hoped in the future Becky would show more decorum.

“No one said a word to me,” Emma replied.

“They wouldn’t,” Becky said. She tapped her chest. “When you’re the pastor’s wife, the buck stops here.”

Emma filed that away for future reference. When you’re the pastor’s wife, the buck stops here.

Quite a few families with money attended the church so Emma and her husband James were surprised to see Tom and Becky’s home with its threadbare carpet and sparse furnishings. They were even more surprised to discover the church paid their young pastor a meager wage, not that Tom ever complained, but it wasn’t too hard to figure it out.

The four of them sometimes enjoyed a meal together at Tom and Becky’s. They shared a turkey leg and a can of vegetables. The first time the turkey leg was a bit tough.

“I should have cooked it longer,” Becky said. “Next time I will.”

“Do you eat turkey legs often?” Emma asked.

Tom and Becky looked at each other and laughed.

“We do when we can afford them,” Becky said. “Sometimes you can get them on sale for nineteen cents a pound. And a big one makes a couple of meals.”

There was no apology for the meager meal and no dessert. There was just love, laughter, and fun around the table. It was a gift of hospitality never forgotten.

Share what you have and serve it with love and laughter. Emma filed that thought away for future reference.

The year passed quickly. The two couples hugged goodbye, and James and Emma went off to begin their ministry in a little church on the corner of two dirt roads. Emma’s favorite thing was to fill their home with family and friends, love and laughter. She never served a turkey leg, but she sometimes made a third of a pound of hamburger into a casserole that fed many. She discovered that a few loaves of homemade bread still warm from the oven go a long way toward covering a multitude of sins in the culinary department.

The years at the little church passed quickly also, too quickly. Emma calculated in her head, whispering so she didn’t wake James. Could it be? Yes. This was their fifty-fifth Christmas as a married couple and their fiftieth at the church they both loved so much.

Memories flooded in of the many meals she’d served over the years. Some had been large and lavish; some had been sweet and simple, but all had been served with love. And after each group of family or friends had left, and she’d crawled into bed tired and happy, she’d imagined she’d heard the Lord saying, “Thank you for a wonderful meal, Emma. I really enjoyed that.”

A tear trickled down her cheek. Cancer treatments had kept her immunocompromised for a few years. She was only allowed to invite family for meals, no more large groups of friends. She remembered years gone by when she’d invited everyone from their little church to come enjoy a meal around Christmas time, but once again, that couldn’t happen this year.

“Maybe next year,” she whispered to herself. “Let’s see. I’ve done Italian, Mexican, soups and sandwiches. If I can ever have my big Christmas party again, maybe I’ll serve turkey legs!”

And she fell asleep with a laugh, a hope, and a dream.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

The Lady Wore Red

by Donna Poole

No one did Christmas as well as Ruthie; her family was sure of that. She almost looked like Christmas all year round, always wearing her pearl earrings and often wearing red. When she wore her red suit to church, she was the most beautiful woman there, even when she was sixty years old. Her dark eyes sparkled; her dark hair didn’t turn gray, and everyone agreed red was her color.

And if Ruthie was Mrs. Christmas, her husband, Claytie was the best Mr. Christmas in history. He didn’t let her do a thing alone; he was there for it all, the shopping, the wrapping, the decorating, the cookie baking.

And when the kids and grandkids came home for Christmas, Ruthie spared no effort to make the Christmas magic happen. Her heart was in her home, and never more so than at Christmas time. Porcelain angels bowed low, stretched their arms high, or danced with one another on every shelf of the hutch. Santa and Mrs. Claus sat on the round side table next to the couch perched on crocheted doilies. The perfectly decorated Christmas tree stood center stage in front of the bay window, and behind it, on the window shelf, Ruthie’s collection of antique red glass sparkled.

A red cardinal tablecloth covered the dining room table every year; cardinals were Ruthie’s favorite bird, and cardinal ornaments and knickknacks were tucked into every nook and cranny. A set of cardinal Christmas lights wound around the banister, and Ruthie, in a red apron, waited with face aglow at the door to welcome her family home for Christmas.

“Come in! Come in!”

And Claytie was right behind her, enveloping everyone in huge hugs, making even the in-law out-laws feel wanted and at home.

If hugs and kisses could have made it so, their family would have stayed forever.

Each year the menu included every one’s favorites; a HoneyBaked spiral ham, sweet potato, green bean, and carrot casseroles, stuffing, dinner rolls, and Ruthie’s home canned bread and butter pickles. Oh, and the potato salad. Though the recipe passed down to the next generation, no one was ever able to make that potato salad the way Ruthie did. It was worth driving one-thousand miles for. Dessert wasn’t too shabby either—homemade pie and apple crisp, delicious chocolate fudge and penuche, and spritz cookies, forever after called “Grandma’s cookies” no matter who made them.

Love and food meant practically the same thing, so Ruthie spoiled her family with both. No one ever forgot her delicious lasagna, or spaghetti topped with sauce she’d made from garden tomatoes and kept freezer ready for the holidays. Scalloped potatoes and leftover ham were on the menu too.

The red tablecloth stayed pristine clean, only because it was protected with a thick, clear plastic covering. When it wasn’t holding a heavy load of food, it found itself covered with board games and elbows of people leaning forward to talk and laugh with the person across from them or at the other end of the table.

Gift opening was wonderful too, but it would have been Christmas even without it. Often there were homemade gifts from Ruthie under the tree; she was a beautiful seamstress and a creative crafter.

And then each year, Claytie put the icing on the cake. The family called it “Grandpa’s party.” They would all go down to the family room and enjoy the treats he’d made or gone out to get; pizza, hot spiced apple cider, popcorn balls, summer sausage, cheese, crackers, little Pepperidge Farm breads, fun and games, love and laughter. There never was another party like it; I don’t believe.

It seemed to the family those days of coming home for Christmas would never end, but even the sweetest of fairy tales draws to a close. Claytie’s health failed before Ruthie’s did, and the two of them bought a small house in the south to live closer to their daughter.

The home of so many Christmases was sold.

A few years later, Mr. Christmas went home to be with God, and Ruthie lived part of each year with her daughter, and the other part of the year with her son. Her dementia worsened year by year.

One year she said to her son and daughter-in-law, “I can’t remember what home looks like.”

Out came the pictures of each home she’d lived in, but she just frowned at each one and shook her head. “No, that’s not it. That’s not it. I miss home.”

She seemed to enjoy Christmas with her son and daughter in law each year, and they did their best to keep up the family traditions, but it wasn’t the same, even though all the family still gathered together. She smiled politely at her gifts, often something red, a sweater, another cardinal, but she often had a far off look in her eyes.  

Her daughter-in-law noticed. She’s missing Dad and days gone by, but there’s something else too. What is she missing? I think she wants to go home, even though she can’t remember where it is.

More years passed as years do; the chapters in the book seemed to write themselves more quickly now. A severe infection sent Ruthie to a care home. She was happy there and didn’t seem to remember she’d ever lived anywhere else.

Except for that one day. Her son and daughter-in-law tried to visit her every day they could. One day she saw her son coming down the hall and her face lit up the way her daughter-in-law remembered it looking when she’d stood at the door at Christmas.

“Have you come to take me home?” she asked.

Tears filled her son’s eyes.

A nurse gently said, “You live here now, remember?”

“Oh, yes!” Ruthie said, sounding happy but still looking confused.

“Do you know who this is?” the nurse asked, gesturing toward her son.

“Why yes! He’s my husband!”

“No, he’s your son.”

“That’s right. He’s my son.”

The daughter-in-law’s eyes filled with tears too. Husband. Home. There’s no going back, is there? On the way out of the care home that day she clung a little tighter to her husband’s arm, looking back at the windows of the home, and wondering how long it might be before one of them might be there without the other.

One of the gifts they bought Ruthie for Christmas that year was a beautiful mobile with eight glass cardinals hanging from different lengths of string. They looked like they were flying. They were Ruthie’s favorite bird, and her favorite color, but by then she didn’t remember that anymore. Still, she sometimes looked at them and smiled. She had some of her porcelain angels in her room too, and other things she’d once loved, but none of them seemed to matter anymore.

Ruthie did love visits from family though, right up until the end. The nurses told the family she didn’t remember they’d been there two minutes after they’d left, but that didn’t matter, because when they were together, sometimes, just for a brief moment or two, a flash of memory would return, and often it would be about Christmas.

“Hey, Mom, remember how you got the kids blanket sleeper pajamas every year and took a picture of them by the Christmas tree?”

She nodded. “Except for Karen. She wanted nightgowns.”

The son and daughter-in-law looked at each other in surprise. “That’s right! And you and Dad got the grandkids Hess trucks every year.”

“Where is Dad? He was here just a minute ago. Be sure you find him and say goodbye before you leave. He’ll feel bad if you don’t.”

“We’ll look for him on the way out, Mom.”

Winter faded into spring, because no matter how cold the winds blow or how dark and short the days, spring always comes. And one evening, when Ruthie was cozy in bed, an angel came for her. She was surprised to see him; he didn’t look at all like her sweet, cuddly porcelain angels.

He was tall and bright like lightning, but she wasn’t afraid. She caught her breath with joy and felt like a child at Christmas.

He said, “Ruthie, I hear you want to go Home.”

“Oh, I do! Would you mind if I put on my red suit before we go?”

He laughed, and it sounded like an echo of faraway thunder. The windows in the care home rattled, but still she wasn’t afraid.

“Make it snappy,” he said.

And soon, while everyone else in the home slept, two figures soared upward, one an angel looking like lightning, and the other a lady. And the lady wore red.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

A Late Thanksgiving and Making Do

by Donna Poole

Shortly before he died, President Calvin Coolidge made this phrase popular among our parents and grandparents who were struggling through the the Great Depression, “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.”

“Make do.” It’s an interesting concept, isn’t it? It means, “Okay, I guess that’ll do,” in the sense “it’s not quite right or what I would have wanted, but it will suffice.”

Who first used it? Charlotte Bronte penned “make it do” in “Jane Eyre,” the beloved novel she wrote in 1847.

I guess being flexible is one way of “making do,” and if we don’t learn to bend with circumstances life will be difficult indeed.

We had a make-do-late-Thanksgiving this year. Our original plan was grand; family was coming from near and far. The big birds were in the freezer next to a ginormous ham. We knew exactly how we were going to decorate the tables in three rooms; it was going to be spectacular, and of course Kimmee and I would bake our legendary array of pies.

But life happened. Sticky, germ filled, too busy life. Instead of tables full of family in three rooms we finally managed Thanksgiving last evening with just the four of us who live here. We cooked one of the three huge birds we had in the freezer and made the trimmings we could. Instead of many pies we decided on just three; a pumpkin for Drew, a peanut butter one for John, and a blueberry peach for Kimmee and me. Kimmee is allergic to the other two.

The blueberry peach pie became blueberry turnovers when we discovered one of the turkeys in the freezer had eaten the frozen peaches; he must have. Why else were there no peaches when all four of us were sure they were there?

Two doctor visits that lasted much longer than anticipated put the offending turkey who’d eaten the peaches into the oven quite a bit later than we’d hoped. We staved off starvation with a snack of cheese, crackers, and sparkling grape juice. Finally, around nine o’clock, the turkey decided to come out of the oven. By then some of us whose normal bedtime is seven thirty were getting tired. I never exaggerate; please remember that.

We didn’t decorate any table at all; we decided to eat in the living room and put all the food on the coffee table, so no one had to go back to the kitchen to get seconds, because who had the energy?

But we did something I’ve always wanted to do that won’t work when you have people sitting at several tables in three rooms. Instead of carving up the turkey before people come through a serving line, I’ve always wanted to serve the turkey whole on a platter, the way you see it done in pictures in magazines and in old movies on television. And so, we did!

We managed to crowd all the food onto the coffee table around the huge platter of turkey.

“Who’s going to carve it? Do you want to, Dad?” Kimmee asked.

“Not me! I don’t know how to carve a turkey!” John replied.

“Okay, you do it Drew! I have directions!” Out came her cell phone.

“First you…”

We put lids back on the crock pots so the food wouldn’t get cold.

Drew was a magnificent turkey carver, and that turkey—the one Kimmee had brined and made a spice rub for, and that she, Drew and I, had rubbed all over it, and the bird had complained, and we’d told him to hush, he deserved far worse after eating all of our frozen peaches—that bird was the best tasting turkey any one has ever eaten on the face of the earth. And I never exaggerate.

Kimmee’s rolls and bread were delicious. John pronounced my mashed potatoes, gravy, and side dishes a ten out of ten. Everyone somehow had room for dessert.

And then I called for the maid to come clean up.

“Yes?” Kimmee answered.

“You are not the maid,” I replied.

“Are you sure?”

We laughed. We looked at all the leftovers and sighed. I headed to the kitchen to scrape, rinse, and wash the dishes. That left the rest of them to put away leftovers, my least favorite job in the entire universe, and I never exaggerate. When we all finished it was about eleven o’clock.

I think we told each other goodnight? I remember crawling into bed; I don’t remember hearing a single verse from the chapter of Proverbs John plays for us every night before we fall asleep. But I do know two things. The four of us are very grateful for each other. And we have enough turkey—the one who ate the frozen peaches—left for many meals yet to come, perhaps enough for a month of Sundays, and I never exaggerate.

Also, Drew loves leftovers. They are his favorite thing. And I never lie either.

This, however, is true. It was a late, make do Thanksgiving last night, and it was lovely!

We woke this morning to find our old furnace, the one I’ve christened “Dragon Breath,” had decided to die. And we found a message from the University of Michigan that my cancer treatments are up in the air because I’ve missed so many visits because of pneumonia. We don’t know what comes next, and they don’t either. They are reaching out to the sponsor of my trial drug to try to come up with a plan.

Life is full of make-do situations, and you know what? It’s still a wonderful life. We thank God for it! And we’ll make do. God will help us.

He’ll help you too. God bless us, everyone!

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

The Thanksgiving that Wasn’t

by Donna Poole

The Thanksgiving that Wasn’t

by Donna Poole

You have to give a lot of notice if you hope thirty-two people can arrange their schedules to gather together in the same place at the same time.

I sent my first message on July 11, 2023: “Hey family! I know it’s early, but I wanted to let you all know we’re going to have family Thanksgiving this year on Saturday, November 18 at 1:30 p.m. at our house. Love you all!”

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, and I couldn’t believe it when thirty-two replied they planned to come. Happy? That’s an understatement!

The months flew by, as months always do. As Thanksgiving time grew closer, we hoped for sales, and soon our freezer held the biggest turkey available and a large ham. We planned side dishes and desserts, and family members started telling us what they planned to bring.

I arranged and rearranged the house trying to figure out how to set up enough tables so everyone could sit comfortably and no one would feel isolated. I did this in bed at three o’clock in the morning when I woke up too excited to sleep.

“Traditions are stories families write together,” and our family had been writing its Thanksgiving book for many years. We wrote most of the chapters at my sister Eve’s home. From the time our children were small we always went “over the river and through the woods” to celebrate Thanksgiving with Eve and Bruce and their family, my sister Ginny, her husband Bob, and their children, and whatever other assorted people might be there. Eve and Bruce were famous for their hospitality.

At first the cousins were so little they lay on blankets and chewed on teething rings at Aunt Eve’s. Then they got a little older. I remember one of our children sitting in a high chair, eyes wide at the huge array of food, and pointing at each dish.

He said, “I want dis, and dat, and dese, and dem, and dose!”

Growing still older led to cousin dart games and wrestling in the basement. Someone usually put a movie in the VCR to settle them down.

One by one the cousins grew up, married, had children of their own, and some still came back to Aunt Eve’s and Uncle Bruce’s to celebrate Thanksgiving. As adults they offered to fix some of the dings to walls and woodwork they’d caused when they’d been kids, but Eve said, “Don’t you dare touch a thing. Those are my precious memories.”

Saying goodbye at Eve’s on Thanksgiving night was hard and done the midwestern way. It took awhile for everyone to find their shoes in the pile in the entryway hall. Then the hugs and kisses began in the hall, kitchen, and living room, and spilled out into the driveway, only to be repeated again.

“Did I hug you yet?” “Did you remember your leftovers?” “I love you!” “Be careful driving home!” “Everything was perfect; thank you!” “I can’t wait to see you again!” “I’ll be praying for you!”

And then car after car would back out of the driveway and Eve and Bruce would stand there alone, waving until the last of the tail lights was out of sight. Just like that it was over, and all we had left were the memories, but that was okay, because there would always be next year.

Until there wasn’t a next year. Cancer took Eve home to heaven, and Thanksgiving chapters began to be written at our home. I couldn’t write them like Eve had, but I did my best, and we had some good times. Thanksgiving 2023 looked to be one of the best yet. Why? One family, who had never come, was going to join us, our son, daughter-in-law, and seven grandchildren. You know the phrase “over the moon”? That was me.

Over the moon we all were—until we got under the weather.

When pneumonia hit it was a heavy weight brawler of a boxer and I went down for the count. Sure that I could beat the bug quickly, I waited to cancel Thanksgiving until the doctor said I had to. Another message went out, a sad one this time, telling people not to gather at our home. My husband John got pneumonia too, and our daughter and son-in-law who live with us got sick. A person with Xray vision could have probably seen the tiny germs giving each other high-fives and dancing up and down the walls.

We’d had monthly events lined up like a row of dominoes standing on a table, and pneumonia gave them a rude push. Everything started falling. We had to cancel many doctor appointments not related to the treatment of pneumonia. University of Michigan postponed all cancer treatments until I’m 100% normal—as if I ever was. John wasn’t able to preach Thanksgiving Sunday, and it was his fiftieth one at our little church on the corner of two dirt roads. Sadly, we also had to miss our church’s community harvest dinner, but we hear they managed to have a good time without us, if you can imagine that!

Sad at things missed? Yes, but I feel a strange kind of contentment too, like being wrapped in a cozy blanket in front of a fire on a cold night. As John and I follow doctor’s orders to nap three hours a day we’re contemplating with a smile a quiet Thanksgiving at home. Oh, yes, we’ll miss our family, but they’ll be here soon for Christmas, Lord willing and germs cooperating, and we’re looking forward to that.

So tomorrow, Thanksgiving Day, the two of us will rest. We’ll count our many blessings, not the least of which is still having each other. We won’t forget to thank God for eternal life, for a wonderful church family, for amazing friends, and for the best family anyone could have. We’ll nap; we’ll hold hands and watch the Thanksgiving parade like two happy kids, and we’ll eat a good dinner.

And we’ll say, “Oh, blest be God for love and laughter, today, tomorrow, and hereafter.”

The Thanksgiving that wasn’t? Not in this house, not tomorrow. It will be a wonderful Thanksgiving. Evening shadows may be falling, but we say with William L. Stidger,

“Father, we thank Thee for this day

For food, for fun, for life, for play;

And as the evening shadows fall

We bring to Thee, dear Lord our all;

And as we pray, we ask Thy grace,

Upon this happy, happy place.”

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Jim’s Punctuation Ordination

by Donna Poole

Darlene settled into the pew next to Jim’s parents who’d come all the way from New York State for this landmark day in their son’s life. After Jim had served as pastor of the little country church on the corner of two dirt roads for over a year, Deacon Pete and the board figured it was about time to get their young preacher properly ordained. Then he’d be Reverend Jim Peters.

Darlene glanced around the tiny auditorium and smiled at the people she knew and loved. The women all dressed in simple cotton dresses; some of the men wore denim overalls.

Jim sat in a chair on the platform looking handsome in a leisure suit coat made by his mother, an excellent seamstress. His mom smiled at him proudly. Mom Peters was the only woman present in a store-bought suit and heels, the only one wearing makeup and jewelry, the only one with a beauty parlor hair style, and for sure the only one wearing so much perfume. Darlene coughed a bit at the heavy scent of “Charlie” filling the auditorium. Dad Peters grinned at his son. Dad’s leisure coat was opened, probably because it couldn’t quite button anymore, and he chewed gum and smiled his infectious grin everyone loved.

Dad reached for baby Jimmy and Darlene smiled at him gratefully. She knew she’d have her hands full keeping April, just a toddler quiet for however long this might take. She would have been horrified had she known then exactly how long.

As Darlene waited for the service to start, she did a mental checklist. Was everything ready for the dinner next door in the old one-room country schoolhouse they used for a fellowship hall? Meatloaf and lasagna warmed in the oven; crockpots were plugged in; the ancient refrigerator with the broken handle only she and a few others could manage to open was stuffed with food. The ladies at Corners Church were famous for their cooking. Darlene had covered the antique tables with white paper and set out the dishes and silverware. She only hoped the inevitable mouse who’d manage to escape the traps would stay off the tables long enough for this service to finish and the celebration dinner to begin.

Wait. There would for sure be a celebration, right?

She’d never heard of an ordination council not voting to approve a candidate, but she and Jim knew so little about these things.

Darlene looked up at Jim and caught his eye. He smiled his I’m nervous grin at her, and she smiled her I love you and I’m praying for you one back at him.

And then it started. The members of the ordination council, pastors who’d been invited from near and far, filed in as a group and sat together in the front pews. Their footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors. Only a few of them were smiling.

What an austere bunch! These guys look like they’re out hunting for a fox that’s been eating someone’s chickens! All they need are guns!

Darlene barely managed to stifle a giggle as she pictured the reserved, dignified pastors, mostly older men, tramping through muddy fields in their spotless black suits and shiny shoes, carrying guns.

Whoops. I forgot to check Jim’s boots for mud. Too late now. It’s about impossible not to have a speck of something on your boots when you live on a dirt road.

But then some of the pastors looked over at Darlene, nodded, and smiled. She breathed a sigh of relief. They didn’t look so bad after all, except for the one, the youngest of the group. He dusted the pew with a white handkerchief before he sat and looked around with an unmistakable sneer.

Oh boy. He’s going to be trouble with a capital T!

It wasn’t too bad at first. They started the service with hymn singing as they always did at Corners Church. Darlene almost forgot to be nervous for Jim as she joined in the praises to God that filled the tiny auditorium and went straight to heaven.

Jesus is here. He’s with Jim. It’s going to be okay.

And then the questions began. Jim stood alone behind the pulpit. He looked so young. Minutes ticked by and became hours. Darlene noticed the sweat on his forehead. From every side the questions came covering all the ologies she’d ever heard of and a few she hadn’t: theology, Christology, soteriology, pneumatology, eschatology, bibliology. Did he prefer topical preaching or expository and why? What were his views on inspiration, predestination, justification, propitiation, and punctuation?

Okay, maybe they didn’t ask about punctuation, but they asked about everything else and then some. Her babies were getting restless. She was getting restless. Jim looked like he might get sick.

Is the food in the fellowship hall burning? It’s way past lunchtime.

Darlene glanced behind her and saw a few women were already on their way out the door. She knew they were going to check on the food. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Darlene glanced uneasily at Jim’s mom. Mom Peters didn’t take kindly to anyone giving Jim a hard time, but she didn’t seem to realize that one of these pastors was doing just that. The young one seemed to be trying to stump him. Mom just kept smiling at Jim and occasionally whispering to Darlene asking if she didn’t think he was doing well and looking handsome.

Darlene knew it wasn’t very Christian of her, but she started thinking of the man haggling Jim as “Pastor Smart Alec.”

Finally! A kind looking older pastor said, “Gentlemen, I think we’ve asked this young man enough questions, and he’s done quite well. Why don’t we wrap this up? I call for a vote.”

Pastor Smart Alec stood. His face was red. “I don’t think he’s done all that well. Several answers were not thorough enough for my liking. And I have one more question. Jim! Could you stand up straighter when you reply to us? What’s the definition of unction and how important is it to you in your ministry?”

One look at Jim’s face told Darlene all she needed to know. He was exhausted, rattled, and his brain was empty. She tried sending her thoughts to him; they’d taken the same classes.

Jim, you know this! It’s the anointing of the Holy Spirit. It’s his convicting, empowering work when he calls someone to do a job. It’s vital for every Christian, but especially for those teaching and preaching God’s Word.

Her mental telepathy failed. Jim looked wearily at Pastor Smart Alec and said, “I’m sorry, brother. I don’t know.”

Whereupon the said brother stepped out in the aisle, up onto the platform, and with arms waving delivered an incredibly detailed, lengthy, and angry exposition on unction. He concluded with, “Perhaps this little pastor might be good enough for this little church on the corner of two dirt roads, but I say even they deserve someone better!”

It was a good thing thoughts didn’t appear in bubbles over heads. Darlene’s would have said, “And you, Reverend Smart Alec, just showed us what unction isn’t. Or if you had unction, you sure didn’t get it from God!”

The auditorium sat in stunned silence. Darlene risked a quick glance at Mom Peters. Mom was smiling but she had a look in her eye. Darlene grinned. Smart Alec was sure to hear from Mom before the day was through.

Doubtless, had there been a place to vote in private, the pastors would have gone there. But the little church had no such place, not even a bathroom, and the outhouse wouldn’t have held that many distinguished guests. They couldn’t go outside; it was pouring.

The gentle looking older pastor stood. He gave Reverend Smart Alec a look of his own, but all he said was, “I call for a vote.”

It was a unanimous yes. Well, almost. One loud “No!” sounded from the midst.

And then Jim came down from the pulpit, knelt on the floor, and the pastors, minus one, circled him, laid their hands on his head, and prayed for him. Darlene cried.

With one last joyful hymn, the congregation dismissed for a lunch so late it was almost supper.

Mom Peters made her way straight to Reverend Smart Alec and extended her hand. He barely touched it. Conversation stopped, and everyone in the auditorium looked at the two of them.

Mom Peters said, “I just want you to know that I’m going to pray every day for this little pastor, my son. And I’m going to pray that this little church on this little corner will be a lighthouse until Jesus comes!”

“Huh!” he scoffed. “As if that could ever happen.”

“Oh my!” she said, looking surprised. “Don’t you know the meaning of faith as small as a mustard seed?”

There were more than a few chuckles.

Then Mom Peters went back to where Dad and Darlene were each holding a sleeping child. She opened her purse and pulled out her rain hat and tied it carefully under her chin.

“Ruthie.” Dad laughed. “You don’t need that. It stopped raining. The sun’s out.”

“It might be windy. I don’t want my hair to blow.”

Dad and Darlene grinned at each other.

Dad said, “Your hair couldn’t move in a hurricane!”

Darlene laughed. It was true. Mom used so much hairspray; her hair was a force to be reckoned with, and come to think of it, so was she.

“Let’s go next door and eat,” Darlene said. “I’m starved.”

Everyone headed to the schoolhouse fellowship hall except for Reverend Smart Alec. He used his elbow to wipe a speck off the door of his black Lincoln, got in, and drove off without a backward glance.

Suddenly Darlene felt sorry for him. He didn’t know what he was missing. She stopped walking and prayed silently for him.

“Come on, Darlene; hurry,” Mom Peters said. “Jim is probably waiting for us. I think he looked handsome; don’t you? And don’t you think he did a good job?”

Darlene laughed and wondered how she’d feel about her babies when they were grown up. “Yes, Mom, to both. He looked very handsome, and no one could have done a better job.

The End

***

If you enjoyed this short story about Jim and Darlene, look for an entire book about them on Amazon, “Corners Church,” by Donna Poole

The photo is a picture of a painting done by Megan Poole.

Making History

by Donna Poole

I wish I had been there!

I wasn’t there, but I can see the look of determination on his face. I know it well.

Yesterday, Reece, our grandson, ran with his school’s cross-country team in the regional meet. He led most of the race but got passed in the last one-hundred fifty yards. Reece set a PR of 16:20.4. He’s now the fastest junior in his school’s history. His team hasn’t lost a race yet this year, and they’re headed to Michigan International Speedway next Saturday to run in the state meet. The girls’ team qualified for state too. Fire up, Colts!

Cross-country is a sport that builds character. It takes dedication, determination, and teamwork. It requires listening to the coaches and following directions. Because the runners go such long distances, they have to do more than run fast; they have to run smart. They must know when to pace themselves, when to push past their limits, and when to use that last bit of reserve to propel across the finish line. It’s not a “hey look at me” sport. A good team encourages one other.

I think cross-country is a lot like life. It’s the old saying in motion, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

Some people say John F. Kennedy’s father first used that phrase. Others say it became popular in football locker rooms in the 1950s and Texas coach, John Thomas, first used it.

Ralph Waldo Emerson understood the concept of when the going gets tough. He wrote, “What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are tiny matters to what lies within us.”

Dale Carnegie said, “Most of the important things in the world have been accomplished by people who have kept on trying when there seemed to be no hope at all.”

And Confucius said, “Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.”

I’ve seen runners ignore what was behind and ahead and reach inside for the determination within. I’ve seen one keep running and finish last when there was no hope of winning, and yet I called her a winner. I’ve seen runners fall, get up, and keep going, and I’ve thought, there goes a hero in the making.

Cross country runners who stick with it year after year have the stuff.

John and I enjoy fall camping and when it’s cold we say about the others camping nearby, “They’ve got the stuff.” We laugh when we say it, but we mean it. It’s a compliment. When it’s almost cold enough to snow, and it’s pouring rain, and we see a tent pitched in the woods, we say, “They’ve really got the stuff.”

We camped this fall for the first time in three years. First, we went north in Michigan, and it was cold. We braved a stiff north-east wind, walked to the channel at Muskegon, and watched the boats go out into Lake Michigan. We huddled around a fire, laughed, and told each other, “We’ve got the stuff.”

Next, we went to Indiana, and Indian Summer arrived. It was glorious.

“John,” I said, “I want to hike a trail.”

“You mean you want to go for a walk?”

“No! I want to hike a trail. A real trail. Come on! Let’s try! We’ve got the stuff.”

He laughed and looked at me dubiously.

“I don’t know, honey. You haven’t hiked in three years, and you still have trouble walking. What if you get out there and can’t get back? I can’t carry you!”

I knew he was right. And wrong. Cancer took so many things. Walking is still very difficult for me, but hiking used to be my passion. Just ask my kids.

“Mom!” Our son John groaned more than once. “Do you have to hike every trail in this park?”

“I do! You don’t have to come with me though.”

They came with me. Kimmee had a broken toe when she climbed up ladders on the sides of rock cliffs to hike with me. In my defense, I didn’t know she had a broken toe.

This Indiana campground had no rock cliffs, no mountains, no steep paths leading to waterfalls, no place we might meet a bear with her cubs—none of the excitement of trails past. It just had trails through meadows and up gentle hills.

“Please?” I begged.

John gave in.

When I put my feet on that trail, I was giddy with excitement. There were times I’d thought I’d never hike again, times when just brushing my teeth left me shaking with exhaustion.

“You sure you can do this?” John asked.

“We’ve got the stuff!” I answered.

He laughed, and we started hiking. Okay, hiking may be a bit of an exaggeration. I’m not sure what you’d call it, with me leaning on my cane with one hand and on John’s arm with the other and limping and hobbling along the path. Once I began, the old feelings returned, and I didn’t want to go back. I knew I’d passed my limit of endurance, but I still didn’t want to quit.

“That’s it,” John finally said. “You’re too tired. It’s a long way back to the car.”

“Please, let’s just get to the top of that hill. I want to see what’s next from up there.”

He gave in; we struggled up the hill. When we got to the top, we couldn’t see a thing. The path wandered away through thick underbrush. Disappointed is an understatement—until John touched my arm.

“Look,” he said softly, helping me turn around so I didn’t lose my balance.

We stood looking back at the way we’d come. I caught my breath at the beauty. The path was illuminated in shades of gold and red autumn leaves dressed in their best for their farewell party. Puffy white clouds drifted by in a brilliant blue sky. It was quiet, except for the distant hum of something that sounded like muted cicadas. We held hands, and my heart filled with worship.

Maybe that’s what it’s all about, not seeing where we’re going, but looking at the beauty of where we’ve been, and thanking God for the memories, even for the struggles that got us where we are today, at the top of the hill, looking back.

After a few minutes we started back.

“You okay?” John asked.

I nodded and laughed. “We’ve got the stuff.”

Actually, we don’t. We have God. He’s the one who gives us the determination, the will to fight, the resolve to keep trying against all odds, to keep on going when life gets tough.

And so, we hobbled back down the trail together, two people, three-quarters of a century old. The car was farther away than I had remembered it. John says we walked a mile. I don’t think so. I think he just felt that way because his arm hurt from me leaning on it. But together we made it back to the car and to the campground.

That was several days ago and I’m still sore. But it was worth it. I didn’t make the history Reece made, but I made my own kind of history. Maybe someday I’ll even be able to hike every trail in the campground again. I wonder if my kids will want to go with me?

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have five other books on Amazon as well, three soon to be four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Going, Going, Gone!

by Donna Poole

It was October first, but the soft evening breeze on our faces still felt like late summer. The sun dipped low over Lake Michigan. John and I stood where the white sand meets the black asphalt ready for our nightly vacation ritual of watching the sun set.

The sun never sets the same way twice over the lake. Last night was John’s favorite way. Without a cloud in the sky, the fiery orb sunk lower and lower until it entered the lake with a hiss. Only John can hear the hiss, but he insists it’s real, and who am I to argue? I’m so deaf I can barely hear a locomotive.

I did hear the sounds on the beach soften as the sun began its downward journey. Little children stopped playing and watched, enchanted. In the last millisecond before the sun disappeared, they shouted, “Going…going…gone!”

Then they resumed their play.

We watched a bit longer through part of blue hour, admired the reds, purples, and blues that painted the sky, and thanked the Artist who is far lovelier than his most beautiful creation.

It was on just such a clear night as this two years ago that our young friend Amber lay on a trampoline with her sister, Aubree, and watched the stars fill the night sky. She loved sunrises, sunsets, the stars, and their Creator. None of us guessed that before the sun rose on October 2, Amber would be in heaven, and we would be whispering through tears, “Gone.”

Gone too soon? She was only twenty-two years old.

Amber loved standing with me, holding the railing on the little cement porch of our old country church, and watching the sun set over the fields, spring, summer, fall, winter. She went to heaven on a golden October day; never again would we watch the sunset over those fields.

Amber’s mom said to me this morning, “More than anything Amber wanted a ministry for God. She didn’t know she already had one.”

Oh, she did. You can’t describe a person’s life in three words, but if I had to pick three for Amber, they’d be light, love, and laughter. And she brought those things into every life she touched.

God took Amber softly, gently. She was here; she was gone.

But it didn’t feel gentle for those of us who loved her. It was a thunderclap, a tornado, a hurricane, and I don’t suppose we’ll ever “recover” if by that word we mean we’ll be the same we were before.

Once we could pick up our assorted pieces and see through our tears, we could see Amber everywhere; in a restored marriage, in a heart turned back to God, in a child’s laughter, in the golden leaves of October, because those are Amber days.

We’ve lost other family and friends too since Amber slipped away without a goodbye, and we’ve whispered, “Going, going, gone.”

But last night at the beach when I heard the children shout those three words I thought, And somewhere on the other side of the world someone is saying about the sun, “coming…coming…here!”

When my stubborn Morticia cancer refused to respond to treatment I often pictured Amber, leaning over heaven’s gate waiting for me, the way she and I leaned on the railing and watched the sunset over the country fields we both loved. I could see her smile. Then I got the unexpected news, “No active cancer.”

Honestly, I felt two ways. I’m glad to stay here with people I love and who love me. I’m happy to continue whatever work God has for me until it’s done. But part of me felt like I’d finished packing for a wonderful once-in-a-lifetime trip and it had been indefinitely postponed.

“Stop hanging over the gate waiting for me,” I said to Amber. “Looks like it’s going to be awhile.”

Amber would have laughed at this story: Yesterday we left home at 5:30 AM so we could get to our camping place in time to go to church. When you’re married to a preacher, at least if he’s my preacher, vacation includes church.

Despite our best intentions, we were twenty minutes late. Regardless of how I may appear to you in my writing, I can be a shy person. Into this church I go, hunchbacked now because of scoliosis and radiation damage, wearing a mask because I still have to take cancer treatments so I’m immunocompromised, and tipsy even with my cane.

My medical team still has me on restrictions: “Stay out of groups, and if you must go wear a mask and sit in the back.”

This lovely church reminded me very much of ours in many ways including this: the back seats fill up first. It was also quite crowded. I hesitated. Where to sit?

“Sit up there,” John whispered, but he has to whisper loudly enough for me to hear, so everyone else heard too.

The pastor stopped mid-sentence. He had a great voice for a preacher. “Welcome!” he boomed.

At that the few people who weren’t already looking at us turned and did so.

It didn’t bother John a bit. He’s a people-person.

Once I slunk into my seat and forgot about me, the sermon was just what I needed. The pastor told us to look back at the cross where Jesus died for our sins. Then he told us to look inward at ourselves, the person we see in the mirror. Is that who we want to be?

“Look ahead,” he told us next.

Heaven is what is waiting for us if we’ve trusted Jesus as Savior from sin.

We took communion together. It was a sweet time, but somehow, I managed to knock over my cane. It was loud, and I think I heard Amber laugh.

They sang mostly newer songs at that church, ones John and I didn’t know, but we knew the last one. It was, “In the sweet bye and bye we shall meet on that beautiful shore.”

I forgot about my hunched back, my mask, and my cane. All I could think of was meeting on that beautiful shore where Amber has been for two years today.

A few years ago, back in 1678 to be exact, John Bunyan wrote, “There you shall enjoy your friends again that are gone thither before you; and there you shall with joy receive even everyone that follows in the holy place after you.”

It will be wonderful, Amber, but God’s not ready for me just yet. So, this evening, I’ll go back down to Lake Michigan with John and watch the sun hiss when it hits the water. I’ll thank God for such beautiful days as this and wonder how much lovelier yours are there. So don’t hang on the gate waiting for me, but don’t get too far away either.

When the people who love me on earth whisper, “Going…going…gone,” you shout, “Coming, coming, here!”

Maybe there will be a little country church somewhere in heaven’s vastness, and a railing, where we can watch the sunset and talk. We have a lot to catch up on.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have four other books on Amazon as well.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

The Golden Gift

by Donna Poole

The old lady’s eyes were closed in prayer, but she knew the scene by heart. Seven half pews lined each side of the tiny church, just as they had for the last fifty plus years her husband had been pastor here. The bare wooden floor, worn and stained from one-hundred-fifty years of use, still creaked in the same places. The views outside of the six windows, three on a side, changed with the seasons. Today they showed empty fields gifted golden with round bales of hay. The last cutting of the year.

Eyes still closed, she pictured Macy, her granddaughter sitting next to her, light brown hair in one thick braid tied with a pink ribbon and hanging over her shoulder, paisley ruffled dress, and brown and turquoise cowboy boots. How she loved this granddaughter, the one who found school lessons difficult but spoke expertly a language few can master, the language of love.

It was communion Sunday. The pastor, her husband, had said what he’d always said. She knew those words by heart too.

“To be sure our hearts are right with the Lord, let’s spend a few minutes in silent prayer before we begin.”

A baby whimpered, but other than that, she heard only a holy hush that called her spirit to prayer.

Lord, I think things are better between you and me than they’ve ever been. Today’s the day we eat the broken bread and drink the cup, symbolizing your death when you gave all you had to give so we could have eternal life. I put my faith in your sacrifice long ago, and I know that’s all I need to do to live in heaven with you. But because I love you and your people, I’ve tried to follow in your steps. I’ve given everything I have to you.

Have you though?

She knew in an instant what he was talking about. Not that. Please, not that. But if everything isn’t everything it’s nothing.

What to do? The old lady knew well joy comes from giving, but this was almost too much. A tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it quickly away before Macy noticed. Always compassionate, Macy lived the motto: your pain is in my heart. She could not, she would not worry this woman-child.

I’ll do it, Lord. I’ll give that too.

Softly she slipped passed Macy and out of the pew. What would she say when her granddaughter noticed she was leaving? But Macy seemed unaware.

She tiptoed up the wooden floor trying not to make a sound, hard to do with a cane and her lack of balance. She caught herself on a pew and stepped down hard on a creaky place, but no one opened their eyes. Strange. She looked around. Even the fussy baby had her eyes closed now.

She glanced out of the windows as she continued to the front. The fields whispered back to her, See, we’re empty now; our round bales say how happy it is to give until you have nothing left to give.

The old lady went into the room where the children had junior church. They were still in the pews; her husband didn’t dismiss them until after communion. She found what she was looking for. She’d left it there the previous Christmas, and in that little country church, no one threw out anything.

She unrolled the sparkly gold paper, fit for a gift for the King, and cut off the right size. She wrapped her gift quickly; she didn’t have much time to get back to her pew. With a smile, a tear, and a prayer, she left her gift on the communion table.

Here, my sweet Lord Jesus, this is for you. I promise I’ll never ask for it back. You deserve so much more, but I’m old now, and this is all I can think of to give you that I haven’t already given.

She was amazed on her return trip to her pew. No one seemed to hear her cane tapping on the hard wooden floor. Macy didn’t notice when she slipped back into the pew.

Macy nudged her. A deacon was offering the silver plate with the broken crackers.

“Grandma,” Macy whispered, “you’re not supposed to fall asleep in communion!”

Confused, the old lady looked at the communion table, but her precious gift wasn’t there.

She put the cracker in her mouth and bowed her head.

I guess the golden gift was a dream, Lord, but I do give you what was inside the package—my precious hope of retiring someday. I’ll never ask my husband about it again. I see the pain in his eyes when I do. But you’re going to have to help me because I’m a tired eighty years old. I’d hoped for a little place for the two of us. I’d imagined coffee on the porch in the mornings with quiet days stretching in front of us and nothing to do except maybe welcome the grandkids running in and out. . ..

Macy patted her hand. A deacon was offering the tiny cup full of grape juice.

Her husband was quoting the words of Jesus as he had done for more than fifty years, “‘This do as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.’

He added, “Let’s remember him together.”

Together they raised their cups and drank. Together they remembered.

After church Macy hugged her, a worried look in her blue eyes. “Are you okay, Grandma?”

“Never better, Macy. Never better.”

She walked slowly to her car, leaning heavily on her cane, smiling at the harvested fields as she passed.

Was it her imagination, or did the fields look a bit sad? Maybe it was just that the shadow of a passing cloud hid the sun, and the golden field looked a drab brown.

In the rustle of the late-summer breeze, she thought she heard the fields speak.

It’s okay to be sad about the death of a dream. Just remember seasons change; they always do. And a season better than any dream is coming soon for you.

“Thank you,” the old lady said.

Macy came up behind her and touched her arm.

“Who are you talking to, Grandma? No one’s out here. I think I better help you to your car.”

The old lady laughed. “I think you better.”

And they walked slowly on together, the young woman child who knew the language of love and the old dreamer of dreams.

Solo Flight

by Donna Poole

So many things signal the back-to-school season. Here in Michigan, the slant of the sun comes from farther south; the fireflies are gone where good lightning bugs go, and it’s quiet outside. Sumac leaves are just beginning to redden. Yellow buses pick up kindergarten children who are wearing new sneakers and backpacks, and moms wipe away tears as their little ones take their first solo flights.

I can’t remember my first day of kindergarten. I don’t know who walked me to school or who my teacher was. I have only one memory of my time in that school. I wore a fuzzy white jacket to school in the morning, but it was warm when school ended. I stood on some steep cement steps, held the jacket over one arm, and clung to an iron railing. Somehow, I dropped my beautiful jacket and watched with tears in my eyes as thousands—it seemed to me—of bigger kids poured out of school and trampled my beautiful jacket underfoot as they ran down the stairs.

Finally, my big sister Eve, seven years older, appeared in the crowd.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

I couldn’t speak; I pointed at my jacket.

“Why didn’t you just pick it up?”

And then with a true hero’s bravery she reached between the herd of thundering feet, grabbed my jacket, took my hand, and helped me down the stairs. I must have had short legs, because those stairs were terrifyingly steep, but with Eve holding my hand, I could do anything.

We moved half-way through kindergarten, and I had to go to another school. I remember two things about my first day. The teacher plunked down a small cardboard carton of milk and said, “In this school, we drink all of our milk. No excuses.”

I opened my milk, put in the straw, and saw it. A dead fly was floating on top. But in this school, we drink all of our milk. No excuses.

I drank that milk until there was just a tiny drop left at the bottom with the dead fly lying in it. Would it be enough? Would the teacher make me drink the fly too? I remember the relief I felt when she picked up my little carton and never glanced at it. I didn’t have to drink the fly.

Then it was play time. I’d been noticing a huge playhouse built out of giant-sized Lincon Logs. I couldn’t wait to see inside. I’d barely bent over to look when another child pushed me back.

 “She can’t come in here. She’s a new kid.”

“Yeah! She’s a new kid. She can’t come inside our playhouse.”

I stood frozen, telling my feet to go back to my desk, but they wouldn’t move.

Then a little girl with dark brown curls and beautiful blue eyes took my hand. “She can come in here. She’s my friend now, and I say she can play with us.”

Instantly I had a whole classroom full of new friends, but my best friend until we moved again was that little girl with the dark brown curls and beautiful blue eyes, Maureen O’Riley. I’ll never forget her. I lost her in our many moves.

It’s that time of year, the time for solo flights. Children all over are starting kindergarten, or junior high, high school, college, or grad school. I hope they all have an Eve to rescue a trampled jacket or a Maureen O’Riley to say, “She’s my friend now.”

I took a solo flight of my own today. I went for a short walk alone outside for the first time in three years. Three years of cancer treatments can leave an older person weak and unsteady, but I’ve been working to get stronger.

John was in the yard doing some chores when I took my walking stick and headed down the driveway. He saw me.

“Hey! Where are you going? You’re not supposed to be doing that by yourself!”

“I think I can, honey. I really want to.”

“Okay, but don’t go far. Only walk to that next driveway up there, okay?”

I nodded. It felt a little scary walking on uneven ground, just me and my walking stick with no one’s arm to hold, but it felt exhilarating too. Walking down our dirt road, just God and I, used to be my favorite thing.

It was a hot, humid morning, but the breeze felt wonderful on my face. There was no traffic; there seldom is. Like most September mornings, it was quiet. I’d forgotten how I love the sounds of silence. A few of the maple leaves are turning; I saw one on the ground and stopped to take a picture.

A voice from far behind me called, “Are you okay?”

I laughed. “I’m fine, honey. Keep working. I just stopped to take a picture.”

The road called my name and suddenly I realized I’d passed the driveway where I’d promised to turn around. I wanted to keep going, but I didn’t. I headed back; I’d gone such a short distance, so I was surprised at how exhausted I was.

Suddenly a young woman with dark curls and beautiful brown eyes came hurrying toward me. “I couldn’t find you in the house, and I couldn’t find you outside. Dad said you were taking a walk.”

“I went to kindergarten,” I said. “I went all by myself.”

“Did you?” She laughed and didn’t ask any more questions. After all these years, she’s used to her mom. “I need to go to the garden,” she said. “Do you want to come with me?”

She offered her arm, and I took it.

It’s that time of year, the time for solo flights. Children all over are starting kindergarten, or junior high, high school, college, or grad school. I hope they all have an Eve to rescue a trampled jacket or a Maureen O’Riley to say, “She’s my friend now.”

And if the ones taking solo flights are old ladies who walk a little too far to get safely home alone but don’t want to admit it, I hope they have someone come find them, offer an arm, and help them get home by way of a beautiful garden.

The End

Photo credit for gladiolus: Kimmee Kiefer

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have four other books on Amazon as well.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

The Gamblers

by Donna Poole

He’d lived with her for four years and thought by now he knew everything there was to know about her, but who knows anyone, really? This was the first time he’d suggested playing cards for money. She hadn’t wanted to, but he’d talked her into it. His stash was getting a bit low, and he’d thought she’d be easy money.

I wish I’d never started this game, but I can’t quit now.

He tried not to fidget or give away his nervousness. A good gambler never does that; no one had to tell him. He knew it instinctively. Gambling was in his blood.

He studied his opponent. Older than he was, she probably wouldn’t have been his first choice to live with, but when you’re down on your luck, you take what you can get. Her hair was getting the tiniest bit gray around the temples, but she was still beautiful. Her blue eyes met his with a smile, but he didn’t smile back.

She held her smile.

If he only knew how I’ve lied and cheated in this game. He doesn’t know I have it in me. But when the stakes are this high, you gotta do what you gotta do.

The smile made him even more nervous than he already was. His hands felt clammy.

What cards is she holding? I can’t tell by her face. She’s scaring me.

He glanced at the money he had left on the table. That pile and one more thing, his prized possession, were all he had left. She’d taken everything else. He studied his cards and her face. Everyone always said about him that he had a gift for knowing what people were thinking, but it wasn’t working this time, not with her.

Had he ever known what she was thinking? He wasn’t sure. And then he lost that hand. And the next. He knew he should quit, but he couldn’t. He shoved his prized possession to the middle of the table and glared at her.

When he’d lost the last hand he’d felt like crying, except he’d never cried once. Not in the four years he’d lived with her.

He loved her, but he was so angry he couldn’t even look at her. She’d known what this game had meant to him, and she’d taken everything.

“I’m going to bed.”

He hadn’t looked at her, and she hadn’t answered.

She sat at the table, calmly gathering the cash into a pile, thinking I couldn’t let him win. Yes, he had a lot to lose, but I had more. If only I’d steeled my heart against that other gambler, I wouldn’t have lost my beautiful house. I wouldn’t be living in this stinking, low-income apartment fighting roaches and bed bugs and listening to drunken brawls through thin walls every night. I’ll never let another gambler win, not if I can help it, especially not this one I just took for everything he’s got. I love him too much. Gambling’s in his blood, I know it is. And I don’t know if I can flush it out, but God help me, I’m going to do my best.

She was exhausted, more tired than she’d ever been, but she went to check on him. The night was chilly, and she wanted to be sure he wasn’t cold. She pulled a blanket up carefully, trying not to wake him. She wondered how long he’d be angry with her.

He woke up and looked at her with those beautiful blue eyes so like her own.

“Goodnight, Grandma. I’m not mad at you anymore. Gambling’s stupid, isn’t it?”

And then he rolled over and popped his thumb in his mouth.

Four-years-old might be too old to suck your thumb, but she never tried to stop him. Poor baby. His father, her son, had staggered drunkenly into her apartment and had dropped him on her table on a cold winter’s day. The newborn had worn only a soaking wet diaper. His mother had died in childbirth a few weeks earlier.

“Here you go, Mom,” her son had said. “I’ve gambled away everything you own and my own life, but don’t say I never gave you anything.”

He’d disappeared into the night before she could say a word. The court had given her custody of the baby.

She didn’t know if her son was dead or alive.

She went back to the kitchen and sat at the table. Then she dropped her head to her arms, confessed her lying and cheating, and prayed for her son.

“Lord, help us all.”

She cried for a while. Then she wiped her face.

She looked at the mess on the table and laughed.

She put the pile of pennies back into the piggy bank, his dearest treasure, the one engraved with his name, Thomas J. Thompson II. Tonight had been Tommy’s first experience with gambling, hopefully it would be his last. If not, she’d be smarter than she’d been with her son, Tom. She knew what to watch for now, and she knew where to get help.

She picked up the cards from the table. Then she picked up the ones she’d hidden on the chair next to her to win the last hand. She put them all back into the box.

“Go Fish,” she whispered.

The Benches

by Donna Poole

Sometimes, it’s simpler to text.

On June 1, 2020, I texted family members, “I had an X-ray today and it showed an atypical mass peri-hilar region. I need a CT and a pulmonary consult. It could be pneumonia, but they need to be sure ‘it’s not something worse.’ The doctor said whatever it is, it’s the reason why I’m wheezing, short of breath, have chest pain, and am tired. Let’s keep this in the family until we find out what it is. I don’t see any sense in terrifying everyone at this point…. Love you all. Don’t worry. I’m not going to die. I have too many books to write and jokes to tell.”

It was the “something worse.”

George Matheson said, “Show me that my tears have made a rainbow.”

Yes, I found many rainbows on my cancer journey, each uniquely beautiful, some even double. Yes, God has been good, and there have been blessings, love, and laughter. But there’s no denying the tears.

 I’ve prayed; I’ve laughed whenever I could, and I’ve enjoyed every possible minute of life, but only God and another cancer patient knows how tough non-stop cancer treatment is and what three years of it does to a person’s body and mind.

Still, in August of 2023, I thought I looked pretty good for my age, just another average camper at Lake Michigan Channel Campground. I was walking from the channel back up to our campsite with my two faithful companions, my cane, and my husband, John, when a couple headed the other way met us.

She looked straight at me.

“Good for you!” Her voice was loud. “You’re walking! That’s the best thing for you!”

What? Do I look that bad? I’m just an ordinary looking older camper, aren’t I?

I looked down at myself. It was a super-hot day, according to John. Most people, even the few in wheelchairs, wore swimsuits or shorts, tank tops, and flip flops. I still shivered in my jeans, long sleeved shirt, sweater, warm socks, and loafers—I’d forgotten my tennis shoes. And my balance was so tipsy I needed both my companions to remain upright.

I guess I do look that bad.

But I smiled at the woman and kept walking. She’d meant to encourage me. And I was encouraged. It was the first time in the three hard years John and I had gone camping, and there’d been times we doubted we’d ever go again. Now that we were holding our dream in our hands, we didn’t want to waste a minute of lake breezes, sand dunes, gorgeous sunsets, and crackling campfires. We begrudged even having to leave to get a few groceries and a can opener.

Knowing I had to go for more scans when we got home made our time together even more precious. The four days came gift wrapped from heaven, and God didn’t add any sorrow with them.

Our favorite activity was walking down to the channel that connects Muskegon Lake and Lake Michigan. The walkway is lined with benches where you can sit and watch everything from little kayaks to huge ships carrying cranes and other machinery.

Sometimes you can hear the conversations of the people on the water. Two guys on jet skis were talking as they flew by us going way too fast; the channel has a strictly enforced speed limit.

“Once I got too close to the ferry.” one young man said to the other. “They called the coast guard on me.”

They looked up, saw us sitting on a bench, and grinned at us. I couldn’t help it. So much life and laughter—I smiled back, even though I knew what our son, a marine patrol officer would say, and he did say it when I told him.

“I would have given them a ticket.”

Yes, you would have, Danny, and rightly so. Too much youthful enthusiasm can cause destruction and even death, and you’ve seen that in your other job as a fireman. But I recall two brothers who drag raced each other down a road not far from their home and didn’t tell their mom about it until many years later. I’m sure one of them wasn’t you.

Well, I suppose more than a few of us have given our guardian angels a run for their money. We didn’t keep ours too busy though, just sitting on the benches. We weren’t just watching life go by from those benches though, we were living it. I loved reading the inscriptions on them. Here are a few, just as inscribed:

“In memory of Jeff Januska

Dedicated with great love from family and friends

So guess what…. have a seat, tell a story, catch a fish, give a hug.”

“Don & Carol Herrgord

Faith and Family

To God be the Gory”

“In memory of Herm & Alice Stafford

Of all the paths you take in life,

Make some lead to the channel.”

“In memory of ‘Peachie” Witham

Memories made while camping are in our hearts forever

Your loving friends

Rosemary ‘Peach” Witham

You still live on in the hearts and minds of your loving family

We’ll meet again”

“Always in our hearts

John and Dini Viveen

Devoted Parents-Devoted Opa and Oma

‘The most important thing in the world is family and love’”

The time came to leave our dream come true and head home, but we have a good life at home, a wonderful life. We returned home and got more scans for me, a PET and two CTs. They’d tell me the status of the cancer. What would they say? We’d followed closely the news of the drug trial I’m on; we knew I’d already far passed the statistical time of a good response on it. Still, “hope” is our word. We hoped and prayed it would be the same as what we’d been hearing since I’d flunked chemo and radiation and entered the clinical drug trial: Stable. Stable means the cancer is still active but isn’t spreading.

After each scan, my oncology team assures me “stable” is a good word, and the best word I can hope for at this stage of the game. “Complete response” is too much to expect at this point, but anything except disease progression is wonderful news.

I’ve gotten pretty good at deciphering PETs and CTs; I’ve had lots of practice. John estimates I’ve had over a dozen PETs and almost two dozen CTs, but when these results arrived in my patient portal I looked and looked again. I read them to John.

“Does it mean…?” he asked.

“I don’t know. This time I have to ask.”

Sometimes, it’s simpler to text.

 On August 17, 2023, at 2:55 PM I got a message from an oncologist at my cancer center. It read in part, “Hi Donna. You are in complete response. Meaning we can not see any active disease on PET.

In the trial you are on, epco continues until disease progression. So as long as you are responding, no plan to stop therapy.”

Complete response!

John and I thanked God together for this rainbow, one more beautiful than we’d ever hoped to see this side of heaven.  

I texted family, “Who’s ready for some incredibly good news?”

Then in my imagination I took a path back to the channel and sat on a bench, the one that says, “To God be the Glory.” I pulled my sweater close around me, watched the yachts sail by, and put some thoughts in order.

On June 1, 2020, I’d texted my family, “Love you all. Don’t worry. I’m not going to die. I have too many books to write and jokes to tell.”

How silly of me. Of course, I’m going to die; everyone does, but it seems I’m not going to heaven as soon as I expected. And as much as I love the benches at the channel, when my time comes to say, “See you later,” a bench isn’t what I want to leave behind.   

When I die, I hope to leave a heart-memory that says this: “She loved God. She loved her family. She loved her friends. And she thought of everyone as a friend.”

Even strangers who holler encouragement in voices a bit too loud.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have four other books on Amazon as well.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author.

The Kite

by Donna Poole

The clouds threatened rain and the chilly wind echoed their warning. The usually crowded beach at Lake Michigan was almost empty except for the two people flying kites, a grandpa, and his little grandson.

The grandpa had three kites in the air already. Then he helped the little boy launch his kite, a beautiful butterfly, translucent blue, yellow and red with four long tails. The kite was taller than the boy was. The wind tugged at the kite and tousled the boy’s sandy blond hair. He danced with excitement, bare feet sometimes in the sand and sometimes at the edge of the asphalt parking lot. With Grandpa’s help his kite soared effortlessly high into the sky. Grandpa handed the string to his grandson, and the kite began wobbling erratically. Then it plunged to the sand.

I caught my breath as the child ran to his kite, sure it was broken and waiting for tears, but no, the kite was unharmed. Patiently, the grandpa helped the boy launch his kite again. It remained airborne for a few seconds longer this time, but again nose dived to the ground.

This time the grandpa didn’t help. He all but ignored the boy’s efforts. The little boy struggled to even pick up the kite, taller than he was. He dropped it once, twice, three times. The third time he tangled himself in the long red tails, but he just brushed them aside and tried again.

I guessed the boy to be three, maybe four years old, a little thing in a long-sleeved t-shirt and tan shorts. I kept waiting for him to call for his grandpa’s help or for his grandpa to offer, but neither thing happened. I only managed to stay in my own lane and mind my own business because I can barely keep my balance with my cane; I’d be no help to a little boy trying to get his kite in the air.

He was a determined little kid. The fourth time the kite lifted up, up…I held my breath. But no. Down it came with a crash. The fifth time he let the string out and the kite soared up high and higher into the sky above the lake.

“Yay!” he hollered. “Look! Look!” And he danced across the sand looking up at his beautiful butterfly kite, translucent blue, yellow and red with four long tails.

His grandpa looked; I looked; my eyes filled with tears. You go, little boy. Oh, the places you’ll go. Your grandpa won’t always be here to help you. Old ladies watching from cars with their canes won’t be able to help you. But I hope you know the Someone who will be able to help.

I sent the video I’d taken of the little boy with his kite to our granddaughter, Megan. She’d just finished her first semester of Physicians’ Assistant School. It had been hard. Megan is brilliant; if she says something is tough; it’s tough.

I knew if something had been difficult for Megan it would be impossible for me. She’d graduated cum laude with a degree in bio-chem from Hillsdale College. Bio-chem? I’d barely passed high school biology, had flunked high school chemistry once and just passed it the second time. So often during Megan’s semester I’d wanted to help her, but she was flying the kite, one shaped like a white coat. I was the old lady sitting in the car with my cane. But an old lady with a cane can pray for a beautiful young woman with blond hair and one dimple struggling to fly a kite taller than she is.

When I sent Megan the video of the little boy with his kite I texted, “He is you.”

 She texted back, “Little buddy was having a hard time for a minute there.”

When it came time for finals Megan was sick. Now she was struggling to fly her kite over Lake Michigan in a thunderstorm. And the old lady watching from the car with her cane cried. And prayed. And cried some more.

I hope that little boy with his kite learns to know the God Megan knows well. She worked impossibly hard, and she prayed even harder. And she flew her kite, the one taller than she is. It’s somewhere out of sight now, and all of us who love Megan are cheering! Her white coat ceremony is in a few weeks.

I just hope at the ceremony I can keep from pointing up and hollering, “Yay! Look! Look!”

Because if no one else there sees a kite shaped like a white coat dancing way up at the ceiling, they need an old lady with a cane to help them see it.

The End

Photo credit for Megan and me: Kimmee Kiefer

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have four other books on Amazon as well.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

The Preacher

Fiction based on fact

by Donna Poole

The preacher’s gnarled hands gripped the steering wheel, and he struggled to keep his eyes opened. He didn’t need to look in the review mirror to know his hair was white and his face lined; he only hoped the discouragement didn’t show on the outside.  As he drove to town he thought of his wife and sighed. There’d been so much he’d wanted to give her through the years, especially now, but so little he’d been able to do. Mostly she’d just wanted more time together, but now the two-week vacation he’d promised her had been reduced to five days at the most and even that was iffy.

She wouldn’t complain; he knew her well after sixty years of marriage. She understood when people needed him, he didn’t leave town. Some pastors might, but he couldn’t. She not only understood, she loved that about him. Still, it was hard. This was to have been their first camping trip in three years.

Cancer had taken a lot from her.

He sighed again. It was lonelier now going to preach at the Medical Care services. She’d always gone with him BC—before cancer, but now her oncology team didn’t think it wise for her to be in a small room crowded with older, sick people. So, he went alone. He’d gone many places alone the last three years. Yes, he was used to it, but it didn’t make it any easier.

The old preacher thought of something his father-in-law had said years before. His wife had asked, “Dad, does life ever get any easier?”

She’d been young then, with long, brown hair and an easy laugh. She still had the easy laugh, but she’d lost all her hair with the chemo treatments, and it had returned thin and white as worn bleached cotton.

Her dad, an old man himself back then had studied her a minute then smiled. “No, honey. Life never gets any easier. But Jesus gets sweeter.”

It’s true. Jesus gets sweeter. If I ever get too old and tired to preach anything else, I can always preach that.

The old preacher was almost to Medical Care. He felt too tired to get out of the car, but he did it. He always did what he had to do.

He walked down the hall and pushed the elevator button. The old people were already singing when he got to the little room.

Why do I call them ‘the old people’? Some of them are younger than I am.

He sang with them and looked around the room. Many of the faces were familiar. Some of the usual ones were gone. That happened more and more often. They were getting older, just like he was, and no one lives forever.

Leah was there. He smiled. If anyone would live forever, it would be Leah. His wife had always liked talking to Leah; they had a connection. They’d both had surgery for brain aneurysms. Leah’s ruptured aneurysm had left her a patient in the Medical Care she’d once worked at.

Leah loved life. She loved Jesus. And she loved telling the other patients what to do. That sometimes didn’t end well. The others didn’t always understand that Leah only bossed them for their own good. They didn’t see her beautiful heart; they only saw one more person telling them what to do, and since this person didn’t have a uniform or a badge, they weren’t having it.

He got up to preach and, as usual, began with a prayer. Instead of starting his sermon he heard himself say, “I’m sorry if I seem tired tonight. My wife and I spent the afternoon in a hospital in Toledo visiting a very sick friend. I had just five minutes at home. Then I visited another woman here in the hospital in Hillsdale and came here to be with you. You may remember my wife isn’t allowed to come here because of her cancer. Tomorrow, we have to leave at five o’clock in the morning because she has a long day at U of M Hospital.”

He gave himself a verbal shaking. Get a grip. You might think you need some rest, but these people would give anything to have the busy life you have. You might feel bad your wife can’t be with you. Some of these people would love to have a mate even if that person was battling cancer.

He shot a silent prayer for help heavenward and began preaching with the love and compassion he was known for, but he was slightly distracted. Leah kept motioning for an aide and whispering loudly.

Oh, no. Is Leah not feeling well?

The aide removed something from Leah’s neck and put into her hand. It didn’t matter that the preacher was in the middle of his sermon. When Leah had something to do; Leah did it.

She wheeled her chair up to the side of the pulpit and motioned for him to put his head down to hers.

“What is it, Leah?”

“Hold out your hand,” she ordered.

He obeyed.

She dropped a cross necklace into his hand.

“This is for your wife. She needs it more than I do. I want her to remember Jesus is with her when she goes to the hospital. Jesus is with her wherever she goes.”

“Well, thank you, Leah.”

“You’re welcome.” She smiled. She wheeled herself back to her place.

He continued with his message, but he really didn’t need to. The preacher had already delivered her excellent sermon.

The old preacher wasn’t as tired going home as he had been driving in. He thought of his wife, exhausted from the long afternoon hospital visit, and probably sleeping. There’d been so much he’d wanted to give her through the years, especially now, but so little he’d been able to do. Mostly she’d just wanted more time together, but now the two-week vacation he’d promised her had been reduced to five days at the most and even that was iffy.

But he had a gift in his pocket he knew would make her smile. He’d wake her and give it to her. She loved Leah.

The cross was a crucifix, and his wife was a Baptist pastor’s wife. She didn’t wear a crucifix, because she worshipped a risen Savior, not one still on the cross, but she’d keep this gift forever. She knew from talking to Leah that she too was trusting a crucified and risen Savior to save her from her sin, not any religion or church, not Catholic, not Baptist. Just Jesus.

And Leah had preached a powerful sermon with her gift, a sermon of one word with four letters. Love.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Sweet July

by Donna Poole

Just in time for the fourth of July, the fireflies add their celebration to the nighttime skies. Maybe you call them “lightning bugs.” If you live in the west or in the New England states, you probably say “firefly.” But if you’re from the south or the Midwest you’re more likely to say, “lightning bug.” It’s kind of like you say soda, and I say pop. Or perhaps you use the generic term “coke.”

Long ago our brother-in-law, Mississippi born and bred, asked if we wanted a Coke. We told him we did.

“What kind of coke do you want?” he asked. He then offered what they had, root beer, Pepsi, Mountain Dew, and I can’t remember what else.

It’s the same with the firefly versus lighting bug, only it goes by even more names! You might be one of the people in the United States who calls it a lamp bug, glowworm, will-o’-the-wisp, jack-o-lantern, firebob, or firebug. Call them what you will; they are the same insect, but there are about 170 species of them each with its own color and flash.

I know the scientific reason for their glow, but no one can really define the magic they bring to a summer evening. I hope you’ve been lucky enough at some time in your life to stand in a large yard or in a field full of them like I was on a warm evening not long ago.  

“Look!” I said to my little granddaughter Ruby as we walked out to the bonfire waiting for us in her side yard, “Fireflies! Lightning bugs!”

She nodded and laughed. “I’ve been trying to catch some.”

No matter what you called them when you were a child you probably chased them on a warm July night, caught a few, watched them light up in the darkness of your curled hand, and then set them free. And as you watched them fly away, if you were a wise child, perhaps you felt something you couldn’t put words to yet.

When I see the fireflies, I know it’s really July. In sweet July the golden wheat waves in the fields, the corn keeps its promise to be knee high by the fourth of July, and wildflowers add colorful beauty to dusty country roads. The blue skies stretch to infinity.

July is the month for swimming in lakes and creeks, for camping and hiking, for picnics and potlucks. It’s a wonderful month for family, and friends, and fun. It’s the perfect time for picking berries and making pies.

The July days pass quickly, the golden wheat darkens, and it’s harvest time. Tomatoes begin ripening on the vine. That corn, knee high at the beginning of the month, tassels out and the earliest ears are ready. It’s best fresh picked, grilled, and slathered with butter. If the butter doesn’t run down to your elbows when you eat the corn, you haven’t put on enough.

In July, some families pack up and vacation to the beach or the mountains. Maybe they go camping, one of the best ways ever invented to make memories. If you’ve never laughed around a campfire with family or friends, munched a smore, and lingered until the last embers, you haven’t really vacationed. Keep your cruises; give me a trail to hike, a sunset to watch, and a campfire to fall asleep by.

July is a good month to be alive. But by the end of the month the days are already getting shorter; July 25 brought us our last 9 PM sunset of this year. We won’t see another one until May 28 of next year, and that’s a long way off for a girl who loves the long hours of daylight.

I’d like to ask July to linger a little longer. Oh, sweet July will return next year, but it won’t be the same July; it’s different every year, and always it glides into August so quickly we barely notice summer slipping through our fingers.  

By the last day of July, the fireflies aren’t quite so numerous in the dark corn fields. Mornings are quieter; some of the songbirds have already flown south. These are subtle reminders that all good, sweet things end—or do they?

For those who know God as he spelled himself out in the person of his Son, the Lord Jesus, the most beautiful moment we’ve known here is just a dream-shadow of what’s coming.

“All the beauty and joy we meet on earth represent ‘only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited,’” writes Philp Yancey, quoting C.S. Lewis.

And I love what Matthew Henry wrote way back in the 1700s, “Heaven is life, it is all happiness…. There is no death to put a period to the life itself, nor old age to put a period to the comfort of it, or any sorrow to embitter it.”

Today the calendar puts a period after July; tomorrow is August first. Soon enough September 22 will put a period on what we call Summer. But the day is coming, joyful beyond our wildest imaginings, when we’ll no longer have any use for that punctuation mark we call a period.

 But for now, treasure sweet July because on her best days, when she isn’t having a temper tantrum of thunderstorm or deciding to turn up the thermostat to furnace degrees, she gives us something wonderful. With her starry night skies, and fields of fireflies, with her golden wheat and ripening corn, with her generous scatterings of wildflowers, she makes us feel something we can’t quite put words to yet. We glimpse it and then it’s gone, like a firefly in the night sky. It’s music we hear in a dream and can neither forget nor remember when we wake.

Goodbye, July, and thank you. You gave us something too breathtakingly beautiful for our limited vocabulary, a feeling too deep for words. You cracked open a door and we heard it for a second. It was a whisper from that far country calling us home. Even a child can follow the road. It’s found in John 3:16.

The End

First two photos by Kimmee Kiefer

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

My Broken Spirit

a fiction story by Donna Poole

based on a true story by Katherine Clow

I don’t love you more than your siblings; I really don’t. I think my feelings for you are so intense because you’re my first daughter, Vivianne, the one I got to hold in my heart but not keep in my arms. I still have all this love I’ve never been able to give you. I never rocked you to sleep. I couldn’t comfort you when you were sick. I never tiptoed into your room and tucked money under your pillow when you lost your first tooth. You’d be eleven now, probably all long arms and legs, still a little girl, but not for long. I wonder if you’d smile and laugh all the time, the way I did when I was eleven. I think you’d love being big sister to your four little sisters, and I know they’d adore you.

I’ve missed you so much through the years. I’ve remembered you on every one of your birthdays and tried to imagine what you’d look like and what you’d be doing if you were still here with us. Every Christmas I’ve pictured you baking cookies with me, helping decorate the tree, and whispering secrets as we hid a gift for your dad. Sometimes, I’ve almost seen you as one of the angels in our church Christmas program. I’ve had to look twice to convince myself it wasn’t you.

Would you have loved the first swim of the summer? Shouted with joy when it snowed the first time each winter? Would chocolate have been your favorite ice cream flavor? I’d love to know all these things and so many more.

But it wasn’t to be. God took you to heaven. I didn’t blame him, and I wasn’t bitter, but only another mother who has lost her infant daughter can understand my grief. When he took you, he took a piece of me too.

I don’t know who said this, but it’s so true; “You never arrived in my arms, but you will never leave my heart.” 

You never did leave it, and you never will.

Everywhere we’ve moved I’ve taken your little lamb and your memory box. We’ve moved often because your dad is in the navy. You’d be proud of him.

Things happen when you move. On this last move, they lost a third of our belongings. Things are just things, right? But they lost my memory box of you. When that happened, all the love I’d never been able to give you became grief so powerful it broke me.

It shattered and broke my spirit. I broke even more when they tried to trace the box but couldn’t find it.

“Just file a claim,” they said.  

Just file a claim.

How could I file a claim? Nothing could replace the treasures in that memory box. I know I’ll see you again in heaven someday, but that box was irreplaceable.

Sweet baby girl, I did what I always do when I’m broken. I poured out my heart to God, the God who’s holding you in his arms. I begged him to help me be content with losing your memory box. And somehow, he did. I was still sad, but he healed my broken spirit the way only he can.

You’ll never believe what happened next, but maybe you already know. Perhaps God told you. Last week I got a phone call. They’d found the lost vault with our things. They delivered it just this past Monday, and you guessed it, there was your memory box, as intact as my love for you! We didn’t get back everything we’d lost, but I didn’t care. I praised God as I put your memory box where I’ll see it every day, and I put your little tan and white lamb on top of it.

Sunday, we went to church, and they sang one of my favorites, “Victory in Jesus.” It was the last hymn E. M. Bartlett wrote before he died. The words at the end of the second verse meant more to me on Sunday than they ever had before: “And then I cried, ‘Dear Jesus, come and heal my broken spirit.’ And somehow Jesus came and brought to me the victory.”

The chorus and the third verse shout with hope:

“O victory in Jesus, my Savior, forever!
He sought me and bought me with His redeeming blood;
He loved me ere I knew Him, and all my love is due Him.
He plunged me to victory beneath the cleansing flood.

“I heard about a mansion he has built for me in glory,
And I heard about the streets of gold beyond the crystal sea;
About the angels singing and the old redemption story,
And some sweet day I’ll sing up there the song of victory.”

Vivianne, you’re already there, beyond the crystal sea. Mommy will join you someday when my life here is done, but meanwhile, I have happy work to do. I have your dad, your four sisters, and many other people to love, and I plan to do just that.

I’ll keep your memory box close, and sometimes a tear or two might find its way down my cheek, because I only know you in my dreams. Someday, though, I’ll get to know you and hug you with the love I’ve been holding in my heart all these years. Our whole family will be together, and we’ll all sing with the angels. Maybe we’ll even sing “Victory in Jesus!”

You be watching for the rest of us to come, okay?

The End

Photos by Katherine Clow

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Pliable Pete

by Donna Poole

Back when I was just a piece of pliable plastic, PVC, Polyvinyl Chloride to be exact, I had a lofty goal. Some of my plastic friends hoped to become window frames, or drainpipes. Others wanted to go into high fashion and footwear. Many hoped to enter the automotive industry and become car interiors and seat coverings and contribute to that new car smell everyone loves. The brainy ones aspired to careers in medicine; they wanted to become medical devises and blood storage bags.

Not me!

I wasn’t interested in any of that. I had my own ambition, even though my friends laughed.

“Pete, you gotta be kidding! You want a job where you bake outside in the summer and freeze your base off in the winter? For what? Where’s the glory in that?”

They didn’t get it. I wanted to be a traffic cone, a pylon, and not just any pylon; I aimed for the top. I didn’t want to be just a six-inch pylon used for driver’s ed classes, or a twelve-inch one marking out an athletic field, or an eighteen-inch one used for landscaping or in parking areas. No sir: those weren’t for me. I aimed sky-high; thirty-six inches high to be exact.

I wanted to warn people of danger on roads. I would save lives, hundreds, maybe thousands of lives! What could be more glorious than that?

I knew I had what it took. I was the right color, Orange-152, blaze orange, the high visibility color. I was sturdy but soft and pliable enough so I wouldn’t dent vehicles that might hit me. I practiced my flexibility exercises to get prepared for my dream job. I had courage too; it takes courage to be a pylon. You can’t flinch when semi-trucks come within inches of you.

Not every piece of plastic is cut out to be a traffic cone. Pylons must be patient. They can’t lose their tempers when a stray dog decides to add a bit of yellow to their orange or when a disgruntled construction worker tosses them into a truck with unnecessary force.

I was ready. I was waiting. Would they pick me?

Finally, my day came. I was what I’d always dreamed of being: a traffic cone, a channelizing device, a pylon. Not just any cone; I was Pete, the Pylon! When they loaded me on the truck my orange heart almost beat out of my chest.

Where are they taking me? Chicago? New York City? Los Angeles? Atlanta?

Don’t laugh, but even Pylons dream, and I’d always dreamed high as you may have noticed by now. So, at first, I was more than a little disappointed when they plopped me down on a little two-lane road in rural southern Michigan where they were doing construction. But my dismay didn’t last long. Unless you’ve been part of something bigger than yourself, you have no idea how it feels to stand soldier straight in a line with others, doing your duty in all kinds of weather.

The cone next to me was weathered and dented. He told me I could call him Mr. Bill. He said he was the oldest cone he knew; he been made by the Kelch Company.

“I think I’m about forty years old now, kid,” he said. “I belong in a museum somewhere. Some cones like us only last minutes.”

“What happens to us?”

“Oh, a semi runs over us, or some kid steals us for a T-ball stand or a soccer field marker. It’s a misdemeanor to steal us or deliberately run over us, but about one million of us are taken every year. Some people use us to advertise their garage sales!”

Pliable Pete shuddered.

“You okay there, kid?”

“Yeah, it’s just I’ve dreamed my whole life of standing straight and true warning people of danger, and I don’t want to end up advertising some old lady’s garage sale.”

Mr. Bill laughed. “Your whole life, huh? That can’t have been very long. Tell you what. You have a good heart. I’ll do my best to look out for you.”

Through the long, hot Michigan summer the two cones stood next to each other. Pliable Pete told Mr. Bill he wanted to live to be the oldest traffic cone in history and save hundreds, maybe thousands of lives. Mr. Bill told Pete stories of when he’d been in the Big Apple, the Windy City, and within sight of the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Do you think I’ll get to go any of those places, Mr. Bill?”

“Maybe, kid. Never hurts to dream.”

And then it happened. One rainy September day a semi barely missed Mr. Bill but clipped Pete. Dented and crumpled, he tumbled on his side partway into the ditch and began to cry.

The last thing he heard was Mr. Bill saying, “Hey, kid, you did what you could for as long as you could. No one could do more.”

A car was passing, windshield wipers whipping away the deluge. There were almost as many tears inside as outside; the husband was trying to comfort his wife. Neither of them saw the long line of straight warning soldiers, Orange-152, but at the last minute she spotted the traffic cone lying on its side partway in the ditch.

“Honey, be careful!”

He swerved just in time to avoid joining Pliable Pete, and who knows, two lives may have been saved.

They continued their journey to the cancer center at the University of Michigan.

“I just feel so useless these days. I can’t do one-tenth of what I used to do,” she said.

“Rest when you need to,” he said, “and then do what you can for as long as you can. No one can do more.”

She wiped her face and nodded. “Do you think I’ll ever get well?”

The rain had stopped. He took one hand from the steering wheel and squeezed hers. “It never hurts to dream. And pray.”

And they did.

The Hoarder

by Donna Poole

He refused to talk about it.

He didn’t even want to hear about it.

“Listen, honey,” Charlene said to him, “it’s a disorder, a real condition. You need help with it, and I can help you. Please, let me help.”

Orville grunted and frowned. “And where’d you hear this? One of your whacky Facebook friends? I don’t have any ‘disorder’.”

“My Facebook friends aren’t….”

She took a deep breath. She refused to get sidetracked. Not again. She didn’t know how it had happened, but she and Orville were both eighty now, and if they didn’t get the job done soon, it wasn’t going to happen. She tried again.

“I read it on the Mayo Clinic website. This disorder can run in families. You know your mom had the same problem.”

He got that look in his eye. “Leave my mom out of this!”

She knew when to back away. She really didn’t want to argue, but this was important. She whispered a silent prayer for wisdom.

“You remember how when you had cancer you had to have that chemotherapy? It was painful, and you hated it, but it helped you. Now you’re in remission.”

Another grunt. “I could hardly forget chemo. But what’s that got to do with this?”

“Well, I read on that website that what we’re about to do can make you angry, and it can be emotionally painful, but we’re going to clean up a dangerous situation, one that can be a fire hazard or cause falls. It’s unsanitary and might even cause diseases. And you need help to tackle it, just like you needed help with the cancer.”

He turned back to the old western movie he was watching on the television. She just stood there, waiting.

Finally, he clicked the remote, and the screen faded.

“Couldn’t we tackle this job later?”

“That’s what you’ve been saying for years. Come fall, we’re moving out of this big house and into that little one-bedroom apartment we’ve been on the waiting list for. We have to get this done!”

“Okay, okay, don’t get your tailfeathers twisted. I’m coming.”

He struggled out of his recliner and grabbed his cane.

Together they went through the side door into his domain, the garage. They hadn’t been able to park the car in there for decades. Charlene had shoved aside enough clutter to make room for a chair, and she guided him to it.

“Sit here, and I’ll bring you things, honey. You decide whether to give them away or throw them out.”

“Throw them out! There’s nothing in here that should be thrown out. It’s all good stuff.”

Charlene glanced at the pile of old Reader’s Digest magazines that reached from the floor almost to the ceiling. She blinked away a tear. Crying wasn’t going to help.

Where can I begin? What’s in here that he isn’t going to feel he might need someday?

Charlene grabbed the closest box to her. It was filled with old, dust covered light bulbs.

“How about these? Throw them out?”

“Put them on that shelf over there. Those are bulbs I’ve saved from other cars, turn signals, back up lights. Never know when I might need one.”

“Honey, there’s no room on that shelf.”

“Save them somewhere.”

Charlene started bringing him jars and cans of nails, screws, nuts, and bolts.

“Keep those too. Never know when I might need one.”

“How many of these have you used in the last five years? We’re only going to live here a few more months. Where will you put any of this stuff when we move to that one-bedroom apartment in the fall? You won’t have a garage there or even a shed.”

He looked around hopelessly. The garage was packed floor to ceiling with old, warped wood, sleds, broken bikes, jars of nails, screws, nuts, bolts, mildewed cardboard boxes, metal pipes, broken power tools, newspapers, magazines, and that was only what he could see. Who knew what was under it?

He tried making a feeble joke. “You know that old tom cat that ran off five years ago? You don’t suppose he’s under all this do you?”

“I hope not!”

“Smells like he could be, doesn’t it?” he asked. “I really loved that cat.”

“I know you did, honey.”

“I really am a hoarder, aren’t I?” he asked in a voice so low she could hardly hear. “I don’t think I can do this.”

And then Orville did something Charlene hadn’t seen him do since his mom had died twenty years earlier. He buried his face in his hands; his shoulders started shaking, and he sobbed.

“I wish it would all just disappear. I can’t decide what to do with it.”

Charlene put her arms around him and held him close. “Never mind. We’ll work something out. How would you like to get away and go to Lake Michigan for a few days?”

Lake Michigan was their happy place, but they hadn’t been there in years.

He looked up at her. The tears on his face wrenched her heart. “Where would we get the money?”

“I have a little I’ve been saving. Let’s go in the house. You take a nap, and I’ll make the arrangements.”

Orville fell asleep almost instantly. Charlene felt uneasy about his color; he looked so much the way he had when he’d had cancer.

Life’s too short for this. He can’t change the hording any more than he can his eye color, not now. And only God know how much I love this man.

She went to another room where she wouldn’t wake him and started making phone calls.

Her eyes widened when she discovered how much the cost of hotels in Muskegon, their favorite town near the lake, cost now. She moved her search inland an hour from the lake; they could still drive and spend the day in Muskegon. The hotel clerk told her it was a good thing she only wanted Wednesday and Thursday nights; weekends cost triple and were booked the rest of the summer.

What in the world? Where do people get this kind of money?

Next Charlene called their six grandsons, wonderful young men. “It’s a mess,” she warned them. “Bring gloves. Bring boxes and bags for garbage.”

“Is it really that bad, Grandma?” Their oldest grandson chuckled. “I always wondered why Grandpa never let me in his garage.

“It’s worse than bad.” She sighed. “I don’t know how we’ll ever thank you. And even with the six of you working, you won’t be able to get it all done in the few days we’ll be gone, but I’ll be grateful for whatever you can do.”

The time at Lake Michigan was wonderful. They felt almost young again. They ordered take-out spaghetti from their favorite place, ate it sitting next to the channel in Muskegon, and watched the yachts sail out into the lake. They talked about what life might look like without having to keep up with a big house and yard. They held hands a lot, and Orville didn’t grunt or frown even once.

Charlene was a little nervous when they neared home. Orville had said he’d wished the mess would disappear, but how was he going to feel when he saw their grandsons carrying things out of his garage? How angry would he be?

They pulled into the driveway. There were no grandsons in sight. She was a bit disappointed.

I’m sure they did their best. They have their own lives to live too. Even if they did just a little, it’s better than nothing.

“What are you doing?” Orville asked when Charlene pushed the garage door opener. They hadn’t used it in years.

To her surprise, it still worked. The garage door slowly creaked upward, and even from the car they could see the amazing transformation. The garage was empty except for the clean shelves that still lined the walls. The floor looked freshly swept and even mopped.

Orville raised his eyebrows.

“Our grandsons,” she explained.

He got out of the car and slammed the door.

Orville walked around slowly, inspecting his perfectly clean, totally empty garage.

Charlene followed him, waiting for him to say something, anything.

Please God, don’t let him be too angry.

“Well, well, well.” He chuckled. “Stay here.” Then he went through the side door into the house. After several minutes he returned carrying a plastic bag.

“Now I have room for these!” He began taking empty medicine bottles out of the bag and carefully lining them up on the shelves.

“Orville!” Charlene was laughing and crying at the same time.

He put his arms around her.

“Woman, be glad I’m a hoarder. We hoarders don’t throw anything away. Why do you suppose I still have you?”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed his weathered cheek. “I’m the best thing you ever kept. And you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

They went into the house arm in arm smiling, but Charlene looked over her shoulder at those empty medicine bottles.

Enjoy your shelf life, because tomorrow you’re going in the garbage.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All of seven of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

My Little Big Sister

by Donna Poole

Eve was only seven years old when I was born, but Mom gave her the task of taking me for long walks in my baby carriage. Eve hated it, not because she didn’t love me, but because I was a chubby baby, and all her friends laughed at how fat I was when she walked by.

Mom said I talked early and was potty trained before I was a year old, and that was Eve’s job too. Eve went by her given name, Eva Lee, back in those days, and I couldn’t say that, so I called her “Wee Wee.” She had to watch me while I played outside, and when I needed to use the bathroom, I hollered, “Wee wee, Wee Wee!”

Her friends, who played with her while she watched me, found that even funnier than my chubbiness, and poor Eve was mortified.

I don’t remember any of this. Nor do I recall taking her porcelain doll off her bed, the doll I’d been told not to touch. I was at the top of the stairs and Eve at the bottom when she saw me carrying her doll.

“Donna! You put my doll down right now!”

I put it down. I threw it down the stairs. I’m glad I don’t remember Eve’s tears when she saw her favorite doll shattered in pieces.

My birth turned Eve’s life upside down in many ways. Mom often told us she’d never planned to be a mother; her dream was to become a lawyer. That dream didn’t come true, but she loved her job working outside the home when Eve was little. Raising Eve fell to Grandma Peters, Mom’s mother, who lived with us. Eve adored Grandma.

By the time I was born, Grandma was getting older and not feeling well. When Mom was at work and Eve at school, Grandma Peters cared for me, but she let me fall out of my highchair once too often.

“June,” Dad said, “I married you, not your mother, and you need to quit your job, stay home, and take care of this baby.”

Mom quit her job to take care of Eve and me, but she wasn’t happy about it. I don’t imagine Eve was thrilled either; she loved having Grandma care for her.

I have only one memory of Grandma. I remember a lady in a twin bed pushed up against a wall. She had her face turned to the wall, and she was lying very still. People were crying.

Eve said that memory was the day Grandma died of cancer.  

When I was older Eve told me, “The day Grandma died, my world fell apart. I felt like I’d lost the only person who’d ever really loved me.”

Of course, Mom and Dad loved her, but Grandma had been Eve’s best friend, the one who’d held her, wiped her tears, and shared her joys.

My sister Mary was born when I was fifteen months old, and Eve’s workload grew. When I was five our baby sister Ginny was born. As soon as she was old enough to sit up in a big tub, Mary and I gave her baths. I’m sure Eve was glad we were old enough to help!

When storms thundered and lightning slashed night skies, Mary ran and crawled in bed with Eve. I felt bad because she didn’t come to me; Mary and I were almost like twins. Deep down I knew why she ran to Eve; that’s where we all felt safe.

I was a disobedient and mouthy little girl at home, but terrified and quiet in public. When I was in kindergarten the teacher told me to drink all my milk. I drank it with tears running down my face because I was too afraid to tell her a dead fly was floating in it. One day when class ended, I carried the fuzzy white jacket I loved and hurried out of kindergarten to meet Eve.

As I started down the cement steps with its black round railing, I dropped my jacket. The bigger kids came pouring out of school behind me, looking like a herd of thundering elephants. Eve found me clinging to the rail, crying.

“What’s wrong?”

I pointed at my jacket, trampled by so many dirty feet.

“Why didn’t you just pick it up?”

And then she reached into that tremendous herd of thundering feet—or so it seemed to my five-year-old self—grabbed my jacket, took my hand, and walked me home. I don’t think she noticed my adoring eyes. She was my brave hero! I’d love her forever.

Eve babysat us often. She said I gave her more trouble than any of the others. I guess my love for her didn’t always extend to obedience.

I was in grade school when some of the “popular” kids invited me to join their informal club at school, but to become a member I had to know the meaning of a certain word. At supper that night I asked what the word meant. The table fell silent, but the look on Mom’s face said things I didn’t want to hear.

“Donna Louise,” Mom said, “we do not use words like that at this table!’

Oh no. Here comes the dreaded bar of soap.

Surprisingly, no soap came. Mom said, “Eva Lee, take your sister in the bedroom and tell her what that word means.”

I was afraid; I didn’t know I’d said a bad word.

Eve hugged away my fears. “You didn’t say anything bad, Donna,” she assured me. Then she explained certain facts of life in a way that glorified God and His creation. She made me look forward to becoming a woman.

Eve was only a girl herself, but even then, she had God-given wisdom and sweetness that never left her.

When she finished talking, she said, “Whatever that club is, you probably shouldn’t join it.”

When I was twenty and Eve twenty-seven Mom had a devastating stroke. Eve and I joined hands and begged God not to let her die, to give her more years. Mom lived five more years, but they were difficult, unhappy years for her. Then a second stroke took her to heaven.

Perhaps because we didn’t have Mom, the older we got the closer we four sisters became. We loved every minute we spent together. Three of us struggled with weight and health problems, but not Eve. Can you believe it; she could eat an entire bag of her favorite candy, M&M’s, and not gain an ounce! The other three of us gained five pounds each just watching her.

When Eve was diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer, our times together became even more precious. For six-and-one-half years Eve fought. She’d be in remission a few months, and then the monster would return.

The treatments were brutal.

“Donna,” Eve said when she was first diagnosed, “please don’t ask God to give me extra years. You remember what happened to Mom when we prayed that. Just pray I’ll glorify Him with the time I have left.”

The eight of us; Eve and Bruce, Mary and Steve, Ginny and Bob, and John and I had some wonderful “sister reunions” during her cancer years. We were together, the eight of us, walking on a pier out into Lake Michigan when Eve got a phone call and heard the word “remission” for the first time. Six of us dropped behind as she and Bruce looked at each other, faces full of joy. She put her head on his shoulder; he put his arm around her, and they walked ahead of us into hope.

Eve kept hosting her magical Thanksgivings the way she always had, though her last few years she couldn’t do much. It was more than enough for the rest of us just to have her there. Our adult kids, who’d gone to Aunt Eve’s every Thanksgiving since they’d been babies, came with their own families and shared in the love and laughter.

Shortly after Eve’s last Thanksgiving, Shari and Shelly, her daughters, put up her Christmas tree, and she loved seeing it. A few days later she went blind. When her ovarian cancer had metastasized to her brain, doctors had treated her with radiation and had warned blindness might be a side effect.

 “The darkness isn’t like closing your eyes,” Eve told me. “It’s a horrible blackness like nothing you can imagine.”

She was so frail by then and not eating much. Still Eve was Eve, trying to smile and make others comfortable, asking about our lives, and always telling me to pray she’d glorify God with the time she had left.

The last time I saw Eve I knew she was dying. My sister Ginny knew it too. We held hands in the driveway behind the car where we couldn’t be seen from the house, and we cried.

Even then I didn’t ask God to give Eve more time; she was suffering too much. She was blind from November until June, and then she could see forever.

I wrote this on my Facebook page nine years ago today: “Last night my sweet sister Eve peacefully left this world. She left behind her cancer, her blindness, and every pain…. She was and is an amazing woman. She loved, gave, encouraged, and cheered on so many. What fun times we shared! When she opened her eyes in heaven, she was no longer blind! I wish I could have seen her face when she looked into the eyes of her loving Lord and Savior. Because we share faith in the Lord Jesus, I know I’ll see her again, but I’ll miss her every day until I can hear her laugh.”

So much has changed in nine years. Eve’s husband, a son-in-law, and a brother-in-law have joined her in heaven. Many babies have been born into the family who know her only from our stories.

Life goes too fast. How long is life anyway? Often, it’s not as long as you think it will be. Better get ready.

For most trips we pack. To get ready to go to heaven we unpack. We unpack a lifetime of sin by believing God meant what He said: Jesus died for our sin. When we confess our sin and accept His sacrifice by faith, God unpacks our sin as far as the east is from the west.

Eve, you asked me to pray you’d glorify God with the time you had left. You sure did that. I saw Jesus in you.

Now it’s my turn to fight cancer, my turn to ask people to pray I’ll glorify God with the time I have left. I’ll be happy if I can share half the courage, love, and laughter you did! See you at Home! And don’t eat all the M&M’S before I get there!

Eve and Bruce’s 50th wedding anniversary.

The Man Who Never Grew Old

by Donna Poole

I could lie and tell you my dad was perfect, but I’d get called out on that. There are people still alive who know better!

Dad wasn’t perfect, but I adored him when I was a little girl and I miss him still. Dad told me when I was very young, he worked two jobs, one for the railroad and one as a mechanic. Each required a different uniform. He said when he kissed me goodnight or told me good morning, I started giving him funny looks.

Dad said, “Then one day you said, ‘I know! I have two Daddys!’” Apparently, the two different uniforms confused me.

Dad always laughed when he told me that story, the laugh I loved to hear. It was a funny laugh, a kind of heh heh heh!

Dad was the storyteller in the family, the one who loved to laugh. I loved listening to his stories. He’d worked on the Lehigh Valley Railroad, been an auto mechanic, owned his own garage for a short time, and then had become an airline mechanic and inspector. So, he had lots of stories to tell.

He told sad stories; as a little boy he’d never owned a toy except for a broken one he’d taken from someone’s yard and then felt guilty about it. He’d quit school in sixth grade because the kids on the playground had teased him about his Italian heritage and had egged him on to fight with calls of, “Dominic Chick!” He’d usually won too, until he’d decided going to school wasn’t worth the trouble. He got his G.E.D. when I was in high school.

When Dad was a boy, the railroad laid off Grandpa and almost everyone else. Each week a big box of groceries mysteriously appeared on the steps to help feed the family. When the railroad called Grandpa back to work a box came that week, but the day Grandpa got his first paycheck the boxes stopped.

“It was the Mafia who brought the food, wasn’t it Dad?” I asked when he told us that story.

He nodded. “Nobody said the word, but we all knew it was them. They were good like that. They’d cut their own grandmother’s throat if the mob boss told them too, but they loved family, and they took care of their own.”

“Was Grandpa in the mob?” I asked.

Dad laughed. “No, honey. He would have been a lot richer if he had been. But we were Italian, and that’s all that mattered back then.”

Back then all the Italians in Sayre, Pennsylvania lived in the part of town called “Milltown.” And there was a lot of discrimination; Milltown was “the wrong side of the tracks.” To me, Milltown was a charming place where aunts, uncles, and cousins congregated at Grandma and Grandpa’s on Sunday afternoons, a place where the sunporch smelled like geraniums and the kitchen smelled like garlic and good things cooking.

Dad called his parents “Ma” and “Pa” and treated them with great respect as did all his siblings. Dad regretted the time they’d rebelled as children; they’d refused to speak Italian at home, so Grandma and Grandpa had to learn English, but in the process, Dad and his brothers and sisters forgot how to speak Italian.  

Most of the stories Dad told were funny, like trying to run away to California as a boy and throwing all his clothes in the back of an open box car and then not being able to run fast enough to hop on the train.

He told about working as a mechanic for Al Theetge Chevrolet. Al put a fire extinguisher in each mechanic’s bay. But he didn’t give an extinguisher to one man who was an excellent mechanic but challenged in other areas. That made the guy mad. So, one day, when a car caught on fire in the man’s bay, he just sat there and said quietly, “Far. Far. Far.”

Fortunately, someone heard him, rushed in, and extinguished the fire.

Dad never said if they gave the man an extinguisher after that or not, but I can still hear Dad laughing when he told that story.  

 Dad believed with all his heart you get to heaven only by faith in Jesus who died for our sin, and not by good works, but nevertheless, church was important to him. If we kids said we were sick and needed to miss church, Dad wanted to know exactly how sick we were.

Once I died early on a Sunday morning, and Dad told me to get up, walk it off, and get ready for church.

Dad never disciplined us kids, maybe because he was always a kid at heart himself. Poor Mom had her hands full.

Dad never thought of himself as old. When his years started to add up, Dad rode his bike up and down the steep hills in New York State to keep in shape. He planted dozens of rose bushes with a tomato plant next to each one to help prevent black spots. He gave away bushels of tomatoes. He mowed his own yard and shoveled his own snow all his long life.

There was the time, after Mom died, that dad dated a series of younger and younger women. I think he was in his eightieth decade, or close to it, when he got himself engaged to a young woman commonly known as the “town tramp.”

How young? She was younger than any of my sisters or me. My older sister, Eve, wanted me to help her talk Dad out of marrying the woman. I objected.

“He’s not going to listen to us. What reasons can we give him he doesn’t already know?”

Eve was near tears. “Just suppose Dad goes through with it and marries her! Think about that! What are you going to call her?”

“I’m going to call her ‘Mom.’”

I thought the mental image of me calling someone younger than myself “Mom” would make Eve laugh. It didn’t.

The marriage didn’t happen. When Dad finally broke up with his fiancée all she said was, “Can I keep the ring?”

Then she showed up at church on Sunday with Dad’s good friend, deliberately picked the pew right in front of Dad, and sat as close to the guy as she could get.

Dad said, “If she thought that was going to make me jealous, it didn’t work. It made me mad. I’d felt bad before then, but after that, I was just glad I hadn’t married her.”

Dad didn’t quit dating. He had a bumper sticker that said, “If you’re rich, I’m single.” But he never got engaged again. It’s probably a good thing, because, except for my mom, Dad had truly terrible taste in women. Clara was the one exception.

Clara was a wonderful Christian woman and Dad’s age. I wouldn’t have minded if Dad had married Clara, and Clara thought it was an excellent idea, but Dad wasn’t having it. She proposed to him one too many times.

Dad said, “Clara if you say one more word about getting married, that’s it. We’re through. We won’t even be friends. I won’t write you anymore letters. When you’re up here in New York visiting family, we won’t go out anymore.”

I asked Dad why he didn’t want to marry Clara; she was richer than he was, and she was single! I thought perhaps Dad objected because she looked so much older than he did, and Dad always thought of himself as a young man, but that wasn’t it. His reason surprised me.

“She likes to galivant all over the country, honey, and I like to stay home.”

Clara stopped proposing to dad and married another gentleman. He didn’t live long.

“See?” Dad said to me. “Told you so. She probably killed him with all that traveling.”

Once again Clara turned her attention to Dad, and he agreed to write letters and keep company when she was in the area, but only if she promised never to mention marriage. She agreed. She and Dad remained good friends until one day tragedy struck. Clara was bent over, working in her garden, when a teenager snuck up behind her and shot her in the back of the head.

The police said poor Clara probably died instantly and never knew what happened. I hope so. She was a good friend to my dad, and he mourned her loss.

When the detectives asked the young man why he’d shot Clara he shrugged and said, “I got up that morning and wondered what it would feel like to kill someone.”

Clara and Dad had this in common; they both trusted Jesus as Savior from sin, so they’re both in heaven now. Mom is there too. I bet Dad is glad Jesus said there’s no marriage in heaven. Otherwise, he might still be running from Clara, and Mom might have something to say about it too!

Dad lived to be ninety and a half and was healthy until just about a month before his death. When he was dying in the hospital he asked, “What am I going to say to June?”

My sisters assured him that because of Jesus’ death on the cross, God had forgiven all his transgressions and Mom had too.

I listened to my sisters, and I knew they were right. Because Dad had trusted Jesus as his Savior, God had forgiven all Dad’s sins, the ones we knew about and the ones we didn’t. And he’d forgiven all of mine too. I looked at Dad as he listened to my sisters. He looked relieved. I couldn’t resist.

“Dad, just in case they’re wrong, if I were you, I’d duck when I saw Mom.”

Dad laughed. Heh heh heh.

Dad was still driving right up until he went into the hospital, though he probably shouldn’t have been. Riding with him was a death-defying adventure.

When Aunt Mary walked into the hospital room, Dad was only semi-conscious.

“Aunt Mary!” Someone exclaimed. “You didn’t drive yourself here, did you?”

She was in the process of explaining that my cousin Tom had dropped her off at the door when Dad roused from semi-consciousness. He sat straight up and said, “I drive!” Then he fell back onto his pillow and continued sleeping. That was Dad, determined to be young and independent until the end.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. You weren’t perfect, but you were my dad, and I love and miss you. See you at Home, around the Big Table. I don’t think Mom will still be mad at you. I can’t wait to hear you laugh again.  

Dad and Mom

My grandparents

Grandma in front of their house in Milltown.

Cookies in Bed

by Donna Poole

Pa in his kerchief and I in my cap had just settled down for a sweet spring nap when what to our wondering ears should appear but a knock on the door of our boudoir-ere!

It was our son-in-law, the one who lives with us.

“Hey, we’ve got these two cookies left. Want to try them?”

I took one look at the deliciousness. “Thanks, Drew!”

Forget the fact that I’d already brushed my teeth. Never mind the fact I’d just commented to the aforementioned “Pa,” who I never call by that name except in absurd poetry, that sleeping in clean sheets was one of my favorite feelings. We’d just washed ours that very day.

I mean, how old are we? Surely people almost three-quarters of a century old have mastered the art of eating cookies in bed without leaving a trail of chocolate crumbs between clean sheets.

Those cookies were delicious. Fantastic. They didn’t measure up to our daughter’s homemade ones, but for store bakery cookies, I’d never had anything like them. And yes, I did get up and brush my teeth again. I remember Dad saying he had a goal of dying with as many of his original teeth as possible. At the time, I thought his aspiration was pretty funny, but now I share it.

We got up in the morning and started making the bed, John on one side, I on the other. We looked at the bed. We looked at each other. And we laughed.

I still don’t know how two small cookies could have left so much chocolate or how we managed to get it in that many places, both on the bottom and the top sheets. I wish I’d taken a picture. But you can use your imagination.

How old are we? Apparently, we aren’t old enough to know better. We had to strip the bed and wash the sheets again. But it was worth it! When we told Drew how much we’d enjoyed the cookies, he went out and bought us a whole package of them. Had we learned our lesson? Did we refrain from eating them in bed? Keep reading.

In spite of our combined health problems—we won’t bore you with the list but their name is legion—there’s something fun about growing older together. The simple joys are more delightful than ever.

Remember being young and spending the day at an amusement park? When the lights came on, and the moon rose over the roller coaster, you knew the day was ending. Everything looked more beautiful than it had at high noon.

Then a voice came over the speaker: “Park closes in thirty minutes. Make your way to the gates.”

Maybe there was time for one more ride; what would it be? That last ride was the best of the day. Then with sore feet and a sunburned face you trudged out of the gate. Perhaps you looked wistfully over your shoulder at the Ferris wheel still spinning against the stars and listened for the last strains of music as you walked through the parking lot to your car. One last glance; you’d be back, or would you? Nostalgia can sweeten life even for the young.

I think growing older is like that; nostalgia sweetens life. At least it does for John and me. I don’t call us “old” just yet; someone said “old” is always at least ten years older than what you are. But we can’t deny that we’re older. And so, the simple things bring delight: morning coffee together, a drive down a country road to admire the wildflowers, a cool morning breeze, and mama robins singing their babies to sleep at twilight.

Times with family become the sweetest part of life. Change comes too quickly; we don’t want the park to close so soon.

A while back, our little Ruby held my hand with her tiny one as I walked on uneven ground. “I don’t want you to fall, Grandma.”

I wish I could paint you a picture of Ruby’s energetic sweetness; tiny, cartwheeling through life, brushing blonde hair away from beautiful brown eyes, always in a hurry, but always ready to stop and help anyone in need.

“I don’t want you to fall, Grandma.”

I smiled at her seriousness. In her mind her tiny self could keep Grandma from falling.

“Ruby,” I said, “please don’t grow up.”

“I can’t help it, Grandma. When you turn six you grow up. That’s just the way it is.”

Ruby’s right, you know. That’s just the way it is; life changes, and when we get closer to the end of the day than the beginning, we know it. Even kids know it instinctively; that’s why they beg for “just one more ride.”

Knowing life has an expiration date is a feeling that deepens with age, and that’s not a sad thing. It makes us love deeper and live sweeter. It makes us enjoy laughter as we never have before.

I tried to put it all into words to the medical assistant who was checking my vitals before my last cancer treatment. He nodded and smiled.

“And the wisdom? Did you get that?”

I laughed. “I’m still waiting for that to show up.”

At least we’re wise enough to know this: those little grudges and hurts? We don’t have time for them anymore. We’re too busy looking for the last bits of beauty before earth’s sunset and the eternal sunrise.

A little boy asked his grandpa why he read his Bible so much. The grandpa told him he was studying for his final exam.

That’s a cute reply, but we aren’t worried about the final exam. Jesus passed the test for us when he died on the cross in our place, and we made his substitution ours when we accepted it by faith. We’re ready for the eternal sunrise and looking forward to it, but meanwhile, we plan to enjoy every minute before sunset.

So, we eat cookies in bed. Even if we must wash the sheets in the morning, it’s worth it.

Those cookies though! They’re life’s sweetness baked and packaged. I ate one just now.

Our daughter and son-in-law knocked on the door of our room while I was sitting up in bed typing this story.

“Mom,” Kimmee said, “you have a chocolate chip on your shirt.”

Not anymore, I don’t. I ate it. I hope there aren’t more chocolate chips between the sheets, but there probably are.

A Walk Among Tombstones

by Donna Poole

Just down the dirt road a bit from our country church is a peaceful, old cemetery. A brick pillar at the entrance reads:

Lickly’s Corners

Cemetery

1848—1954

Inside that cemetery rest grave markers of people we’ve loved and lost, friends and neighbors of our church. There we’ve also found tombstones carved with names of roads in our area: Carncross, Tuttle, Lickly, or is it Lickley?  There was some kind of ancient disagreement on how to spell Lickly. I don’t imagine the two families involved stood on opposite sides of the dirt road and hurled insults at each other. Whatever happened, the result was the name of the cemetery is spelled one way, but the road and our church, Lickley’s Corners Baptist, are spelled the other.

One warm Sunday, the day before Memorial Day, my daughter Kimmee and I wandered among the tombstones in that cemetery, fighting off the ever-present mosquitoes. We paused awhile at the marker of Kenneth and May Hale who’d been our dear friends and neighbors for many years.

We found elegant markers and plain ones, gravestones too worn to read, and others still legible. All were fascinating; all told a story. This one is on a tall piece of stone and the letters look hand chiseled.

JOHN LIBY

BORN

FEB. 23 1793.

DIED FEB. 12 1859.

POLLY

HIS WIFE

BORN

NOV. 26, 1795.

DIED SEPT. 1, 1894.

Who were you, Polly, and what did you do all those long years after John died?

On a stone that looks like a triangle perched on a log sits this marker:

DANIEL FIELD

1853—1901 68 YS.

SARAH M. HIS WIFE

1840—1919 78 YS.

And you, Sarah M., you outlived your husband by eighteen years. Did they seem terribly long to you? Were they healthy years for you?

It seems most people buried in our old cemetery lived long years for the time, probably a combination of fresh country air and hard farm work. We found this tombstone that read:

SEPHRONIA

WIFE OF

ELIAS JOHNSON

DIED

NOV. 6 1897

91 YRS. & 10 MOS.

I imagine you were sugar and spice, funny and spunky, Sephronia, just like a lot of the old farm women I knew when we first moved to Lickley’s Corners. I remember them laughing at the idea of Women’s Liberation.

One of them said, “We’ve been liberated to do men’s work all our lives. We wish someone would unliberate us!”

They’re all gone now, the old ones we knew when we first came here to live. They taught us so much about life, how to live it, and how to leave it when the time comes.

Kimmee and I kept wandering through the tombstones with each other and with our memories. We looked for military markers because it was Memorial Day weekend, and we found some. Our favorite was a barely legible marker. Kimmee discovered it in the back of the cemetery in a beautiful quiet spot between three trees. The worn marker read:

UNKNOWN

U.S. SOLDIER

I stood there for a minute feeling grateful for all the members of the military who’ve died to secure our freedom. That, after all, is the real reason we celebrate Memorial Day.

But the mosquitoes were especially bad in that spot between the three trees, and Kimmee and I soon retreated to the car.

I love Memorial Day.

We try to attend the Memorial Day parade every year in our little town of Pittsford. The band may be a bit out of step and not always quite in tune, but I love them. They remind me of my own high school band where our frustrated director, Mr. Pinto, once shouted at us, “You kids can play! And you kids can march! But you kids can never play and march!”

I love the fact that there’s so much time between floats in our little parade we can catch up on old times with surrounding neighbors. We could probably order a pizza and get it there between floats.

My favorite part is when the vets go by, carrying the flag. I put my hand over my heart, and I get tears. Every time. Because I love our country. I’m not blind. Nor am I deaf. I hear the shouts from the left and the right; I hear you. Yes, our country is far from perfect; perhaps we’ve never been in this much trouble before. Some claim America is dying.

Those old markers in the cemetery remind me of each dying bedside I’ve sat beside. They are sacred memories. I’ll share just one, from my dad.

Dad said many things when he was dying, some funny, some heartbreaking.

He said one thing that brought tears to my eyes. He woke up, looked around the room, and said, “So sorry. So sorry. Long ago.”

Each time Dad said he was sorry for something my sister assured him that because he’d trusted Jesus as Savior, all was forgiven.

America has a lot to be sorry for too. And God will forgive us if we repent, but I’m afraid we’re so busy shouting at each other we can’t imagine “our side” has anything to repent of.

I’m not one for standing on street corners and hurling insults at the opposing side, but people have died to give us freedom to do so. How many people?

“Since the revolutionary war ended, 646,596 American troops have died in battle and more than 539,000 died from other non-combat related causes.” –military.com

The fact is America isn’t going to be spelled one way anymore, and I don’t think it ever was. What’s the answer?

I wish I knew, but here’s a novel idea of a way to celebrate Memorial Day, and I wish it could happen every year.

Take my hand and come with me. Let’s walk among the tombstones and remember how short life is; one day our lives too will be just a story someone else is telling. Let’s stop hollering about each other’s sins, confess our own, and let’s pray for our country.

Then we’ll leave the tombstones behind and find a small-town parade. When the veterans go by carrying the flag, I’ll put my hand over my heart, and you put your hand over yours. We’ll silently thank God for the U.S.A. and for the wonderful freedoms we still enjoy! Maybe your eyes will fill with tears. I know mine will.

The End

***

Some of my blogs along with extra stories are now available in three books on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter.

All seven of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

Signs of Spring

by Donna Poole Title by Laura Cooper


Spring fought hard for the win in Montana this year. It snowed five times in April; we got a foot on the twenty-second. My rows of daffodils bloomed that day in the snow. Stupid things, I hadn’t watered or weeded them in ten years, and still they thrived. They were always the first signs of spring.

“May we all be blessed with the resilience and determination of daffodils.”

I pushed away the thought. I’d had a friend named Lonie who’d liked to say that. Well, my resilience and determination died a long time ago along with my friendships. And so did my fondness for inspirational quotes. And for reading. And for everything else.

This Hal Boreland quote had once been a favorite: “No winter lasts forever, no spring skips its turn.”

Yeah, right, Harold Glen Borland. You never met my heart. Spring has skipped right over it for a decade.

I never realized until my entire family shut me out of their lives what a cold, unforgiving place the world really is. So, I’d been a terrible Christian; I admit that.

Back when I’d still loved my books, I’d read something by C.S. Lewis that stuck with me: “The sins of the flesh are bad, but they are the least bad of all sins. All the worst pleasures are purely spiritual: the pleasure of putting other people in the wrong, of bossing and patronising and spoiling sport, and back-biting, the pleasures of power, of hatred.”

There can be a perverse sort of pleasure in hatred. My family hates me for what I did, but I hate myself more. Part of me understands why they turned away when I begged for forgiveness. My husband moved out of state to try to start over. My children, teenagers then, chose to go with him. As years passed and I realized forgiveness wasn’t coming, I tried to forget that part of my life had ever existed.

Sometimes I’d wake at night, though, thinking I’d heard a voice calling, “Mom!”
Sometimes, when I woke in the morning, my pillow was wet with tears.

What had I done? It doesn’t matter to this story. Was I sorry? Ridiculous question.

I guess you could say I’d repented, though I hadn’t talked to God for ten years. I’d think, now and then, about the Bible story of the Prodigal Son and how his father welcomed him home and smothered his apology in a hug. I knew that story Jesus had told pictured God waiting to welcome me back, but I wasn’t having it.

I tried to stuff all thoughts of God into the icebox that had once been my heart.

Music was my enemy. One song returned to my memories every May with the lilacs; it would have made me cry if I’d let it: “Lord, to my heart bring back the springtime. Take away the cold and dark of sin. Oh, refill me now, sweet Holy Spirit. May I warm and tender be again.”

Every spring the lilacs and that song threatened to crack the ice protecting my heart. I hated them both.

Back home, Mom used to say, “My favorite time of year is when lilacs bloom!” She’d fill every room with vases full of them. During the long, cold winters that followed, she’d say, “My heart still smells spring.”

Lilacs were the scent of my childhood and Mom’s favorite flower. She called them “purple sunshine.” Corny, I know, but sweet. My mother was like that.
She’d bury her face in a bunch of lilacs and say, “The sweet smell of spring. Promise me, honey, you’ll always listen when lilacs speak.”

I’d roll my eyes. “Mom, lilacs don’t talk.”

“They do. They say spring always comes.”

Mothers and Daughters. You know how it is; we weren’t much alike, Mom and I. She lived in the sunshine of God’s love, always sure of his smile. She woke every day certain something wonderful was going to happen. I got out of bed expecting the worst.

I’d been hard on myself as a child. If I’d done something wrong during the day, I’d refuse to eat the ice cream our family enjoyed together each evening. No amount of coaxing from Mom could get me to touch that ice cream I loved.

She’d sigh and say, “Honey, don’t be harder on yourself than Jesus is.”

I grew up to be like Mom in one way, though. Lilacs became my favorite flower. I’d married in May and carried a bouquet of them, burying my face in them after we’d said, “I do,” and my new husband had kissed me.

The lilacs had been in bloom ten years ago when my bitter, disillusioned husband had left me, and the children had gone too. I knew from social media I now had a granddaughter I’d never met, a beautiful child with my mother’s smile. Would my daughter even tell her about me? Would my granddaughter, when she was grown, perhaps want to meet me? I tried not to hope. For me, hope was a four-letter word.

Mom had been right and wrong. Lilacs do speak, but they didn’t say what she’d said they would. Their words were memories tearing me apart. I would have prayed the bushes would die if I’d still prayed.

Spring fought hard for the win in Montana this year, so the lilacs were late, but when they bloomed, it was like nothing I’d ever seen. The blossoms were enormous, and the smell hung so heavy in the air I couldn’t bear to open the windows. Memories threatened to leak out of my eyes. One tear, just one, and I’d be undone.

I had to get rid of those cursed flowers. I dragged the ladder out of the shed and clipped off every lilac. Arms full, I headed for the burn pile, but I thought about Mom and couldn’t do it.
So, I set up cinder blocks in the front yard and laid boards between them. I had dozens of vases stored in boxes; in my other life I’d filled my house with lilacs the way Mom had done. I arranged the flowers in vases, added water, and lined them up on the board with a sign that said, “Free.” I left the boxes there too.

Exhausted, I sat in my lawn chair quite a distance behind the lilacs. I couldn’t wait for someone to stop and take them. I knew I wasn’t being rational, but I thought perhaps if the lilacs left, the memories threatening to win this year, the song wanting to bring back the springtime, the tears trying to come, the prayers struggling for release—maybe all these things would leave with them. I didn’t want spring to thaw my frozen heart. Spring hurts too much.

It didn’t take long for someone to stop. An old man got out of his van and began putting my vases into the boxes. He was taking every single one. I watched him for a time. Then something in me snapped.

Just take everything. This was selfishness! This was people for you! This was me!

What if someone else might like a vase? What if one little girl with her great-grandmother’s smile wanted to give a vase of lilacs to her grandma? And this… old lilac man…was going to take them all. Probably he was going to sell them at the farmer’s market.

You could have heard my voice a country mile away as I charged toward him. I called him every name in the book, names I certainly never learned in Sunday school. He listened quietly to my accusations then slowly began taking the vases from the boxes with trembling hands and putting them back on the board.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I live in a nursing home where most residents can’t drive. Many never leave their rooms. I thought I’d take the flowers to them, but you’re right of course. I wasn’t thinking of others who might want them.”

I stared at him for a moment. And then I started to cry. The old man patted my back and mumbled comforting sounds like you’d make to a small child. I thought my tears would never stop.

When I finally finished sobbing, he asked, “Can I do anything to help?”

My whole story came tumbling out to this stranger. He didn’t interrupt; he just listened with compassion growing in his eyes.

I finished. “And there you have it,” I said. “The whole rotten story of me.”

He patted my hand. “Do you know about Jesus?” he asked. “When God’s Son died on the cross for us, he did more than gain forgiveness for our sins. He took sin into his heart and made it not to be. For those of us who believe Jesus died in our place, there’s nothing left for us but the sunshine of the Father’s face.”

I nodded and wiped my face. “I’ve believed that since I was a little girl.”

He said something. I was sure I hadn’t heard him correctly. “What did you say?”


“I said, then don’t be harder on yourself than Jesus is.”

And then, I kid you not, in an old, quavering voice, he started singing, “Lord, to my heart bring back the springtime.”

I started crying again, but this time my tears were a prayer. And while I cried, I loaded the vases back into the boxes. All but one.

Lilacs might not be flowering in my heart quite yet, but there were signs of spring. Rows of daffodils were definitely blooming in the snow.

“Mom,” I whispered as the old man continued to sing, “I think maybe my heart still smells spring.”

The old man stopped singing. “Did you say something to me?”

“Do you like quotes?” I asked. And then I shared the Hal Boreland one. He liked it. He liked it a lot.

After he left, I took the last vase of lilacs and got into my car. My friend Lonie had tried to keep in touch, but I’d been ignoring her for a decade. She’d always loved lilacs, and I had taken her some every May. Would she remember? I could only hope.

What would I say when she answered the door? Maybe I’d say, “Hi, Lonie. Spring fought hard for the win.”

The End

Thank you to everyone who contributed title ideas for this story. Laura Cooper won with her title, “Signs of Spring,” but all your ideas were creative!
Even though your ideas didn’t win for title, the following people will find your titles used somewhere in the story: Mark Trippet: “Back Home,” Bill Baker: “The Old Lilac Man,” Joan Russell: “Behind the Lilacs,” Ron Kratz: “When Lilacs Speak,” Peg Ramey: “Would She Remember?” Carolyn Wescott: “Mothers and Daughters,” Susan Blazer: “Purple Sunshine,” Jackie Pearson Pickinpaugh: “My heart Still Smells Spring,” Linda Barvinchak Hackley: “Scent of My Childhood,” Elisa Margarita Eppstein: “When Lilacs Bloom,” and Ruth Kyser: “The Sweet Smell of Spring.”

“May we all be blessed with the resilience and determination of daffodils”.—Lonie Hutchison

One idea in this story came from a true tale Joan Tejkl told me.

I had fun! I hope you did too. Let’s do it again sometime.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Meme’s Maxims

by Donna Poole

Lucilla felt like she was swimming up, up, up from somewhere deep and quiet.

How long have I been sleeping?

Semi-conscious now, Lucilla was once again aware of her surroundings, but she was still too tired to open her eyes.

I wish the nurses would stop calling my family and telling them I’m dying. I have no intention of leaving until I’ve finished writing my Meme’s Maxims.

She listened to her family talking quietly; it was a comforting sound. Then she heard the quick footsteps she recognized.

Oh, no, not young Pastor Osten, my least favorite pastor from church. Please, Lord, help me be gracious.

Lucilla hoped her inner grin wasn’t showing on her face as she remembered how many times Jerry had asked her to stop calling Pastor Osten “Pastor Ostentatious.”

“Honey,” he’d said, “I know you only call him that at home and would never hurt his feelings on purpose, but what if you slip up and call him Pastor Ostentatious at church sometime?”

“I know you’re right, but he brags about everything, his suits, his car, his degrees; he even said he has more books in his library than all the other staff pastors combined! I don’t know how they put up with him.”

Jerry said, “He’s young, honey. Give him time.”

Memories were forgotten as the footsteps came closer, too close. She could feel his breath on her face.

Ugh! Personal space. His nose must be about touching mine. I can’t stand the smell of that flowery fragrance he calls his signature scent. And he even brags about how much it costs. How does he even afford that stuff on an associate pastor’s pay?

Lucilla held her breath to keep from gagging.

“Oh no!” Pastor Osten shouted. “Is Sister Lucilla no longer with us?”

She forced her eyes to open. “Perhaps,” she said, with just a tiny edge to her voice, “Amazon might have a book on pastoral hospital visitation etiquette.”

She winked at the granddaughter who’d giggled then closed her eyes again, so she didn’t have to converse. She was too tired, and besides, supposedly dying people can die in peace if they so wish.

Pastor Osten mumbled a few hasty words to her family and then prayed for her. It was a sweet prayer, minus his usual formality, and he stuttered a few times, something she’d never heard him do. She felt sorry for him, but she didn’t open her eyes again until she heard his footsteps going down the hall.

Then she looked at her family, blue eyes sparkling with life, and grinned.

“Mom!” a daughter said. “You’re terrible!”

Then the whole room erupted into laughter.

“I guess you have no intention of dying today?” a son asked.

“I do not. So, you might as well all go home and wait for the next call from the nurses. Go on, now. I think you’ve probably been here all night.”

They looked hesitantly at one another. “Well, if you’re sure….”

“I’m sure. Now, go.”

With hugs and kisses they left. Last to leave was a granddaughter, the one who’d giggled.

She hugged Lucilla and kissed the top of her head. “I love you, Meme.”

Lucilla sighed. “I shouldn’t have said that to Pastor Ostentatious.”

“Meme!” Her granddaughter roared with laughter. “What did you just call him?”

Lucilla groaned. “God still has a lot of work to do on me. Please, honey, don’t grow up to be like me.”

“Too late. I already did.”

Lucilla smiled at her, their first-born grandchild, the one Grandpa always called “Number One.” “I’ll love you forever and like you for always,” she said to her.

The room felt a little darker and colder when her granddaughter left, even though a bright warm sun was pouring through the windows.

Then Lucilla took out her notebook and pencil. “Now, let me see, where was I?”

At the top of the page she’d written, “Meme’s Maxims.” There was so much she still wanted to say to all her family, things she couldn’t remember if she’d said a hundred times before or not at all.

So far, she’d written just one thing on the paper: 1. Always do everything you can do and then do a little more.

She tapped the pencil on the paper and wrote, 2. Via con Dios—always go on with God.

3. Remember I love you.

4. Show love to everyone, even people you don’t like. I’m still learning this.

5. You don’t have to let every thought in your head come out of your mouth. I’m still learning this too.

Thoughts tumbled over each other in her mind.

 I think I’m going to need another notebook to get all this down!

She felt the pencil slipping from her fingers.

It was dark when she woke again.

A voice whispered, “Is she still breathing?”

She felt a hand on her chest. A tear dripped on her face.

“I’m still here,” Lucilla said to her daughter. “Have you been taking lessons from Pastor Osten?”

Her granddaughter giggled, and then the entire room erupted in laughter.

A nurse came into the room smiling.

“Nurse, you people need to stop calling my family. I’m not going to die until I finish writing my Meme’s Maxims, and at the rate I’m going, that’s probably going to take me at least another year.”

The nurse laughed. “Hospice has been wrong before. We had another patient, a lot like you. Only every time she had a spell she fell out of bed. Her heart stopped beating; she’d signed a DNR, so we did nothing. She’d wake up and be upset because she wanted to go to heaven. She’d say, ‘Oh no, am I still here?’”

“Well, I want to go to heaven too, just not quite yet,” Lucilla said. “How long did that other woman live after the first time she almost died?”

“At least two years,” the nurse answered.

“What did I tell you?” Lucilla said to her family. “Now you people go home and get some rest.”

“We’ll be back tomorrow,” a daughter-in-law said. “Tomorrow’s Mother’s Day!”

Lucilla smiled. “I’m too tired this year, but next year I’d love it if we could all go to church together on Mother’s Day!”

When everyone was gone except the nurse Lucilla picked up the notebook and pencil. “I want to finish this. I have hundreds of things I still want to say.”

“You look tired. Why don’t you write more tomorrow?”

“Okay. Was that story about the other lady you told me really true? And do you think I might still be here next Mother’s Day?”

“It was true, and I think maybe your family better decide where you’re all going to go to church together next year.”

Lucilla smiled. “I think I want to hear Pastor Ostentatious preach next year. Maybe he and I will both be more grown up by then.”

The nurse chuckled. “Is that really his name? That’s a funny name for a pastor.”

But Lucilla was already asleep and dreaming of heaven, the place she wanted to go, just not yet.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

What Will Take Me Out?

by Donna Poole

Our three oldest children played the “What in Case” game with their dad when he drove them to school in the mornings.

Sometimes the questions were serious, “Daddy, what in case you and Mommy both die? What would happen to us?”

They worried about the free-range chickens they saw near the road. “Daddy, what in case one of those chickens runs into the road and we hit it?”

Most often, though, they laughed as they tried to out do each other with ridiculous questions like, “Hey, Daddy, what in case a plane falls on our car?”

John and I were on our way to one of the many doctor appointments we’ve had in the last month when we started our own half laughing half serious “what in case” conversation.

What in case you die first? What in case I die first?

“Hey, honey,” I said, “sometimes I wonder what will take me out. Do you ever think about that?”

We laughingly discussed some bizarre ways to die; gallows humor runs in our family. Curious, I decided to do a little research on unusual ways to die.

You probably know that most people in the United States die of heart disease or cancer. But some people take far more unusual exits. Allan Pinkerton, who founded the famous detective agency, fell, and bit his tongue. Infection set in, and it took him out.

Basil Brown died of too much of a good thing. In 1974, during a ten-day period, he took 70 million units of Vitamin A, and drank ten gallons of carrot juice. Shot his liver, it did. It turns out too much Vitamin A is as bad for your liver as too much Jack Daniels.

Jack Daniels, yes, the Jack Daniels you think it is, got so angry when he forgot the combination to his safe that he kicked it, mangled his toe, got an infection, and died of blood poisoning. I wonder why that’s not in any of the Jack Daniels commercials.

You’ve heard the catchy tune, “I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas”? Don’t get one. They kill over 300 people every year.

And don’t shake a vending machine either. They’ve killed more than a few people.

Please don’t shop on Black Friday. Greedy shoppers injure and even kill several people each year. I can think of better ways to go out.

You can die by getting hit with a golf ball; that happens, or more often by falling out of bed.

Laughter is good medicine, but don’t overdo that either. Apparently, there’s an entire list of people who’ve died from laughing too hard. But I say there are worse ways to go!

I often tell my family I don’t plan to die of cancer, but I have no idea what will take me out; few of us do. I do wonder what my last words will be if I’m conscious. Being an author, I think it would be funny if my last words could be, “That’s all she wrote.”

There are so many things I’d like to say to my family and friends, paragraphs, and books full of last words, but I don’t imagine at that point I’ll have enough strength left to speak volumes! I guess I hope I can say just this to them, “I love you. Via con Dios—go with God.” That’s what I want for everyone I love, for them to always go on with God.

But it’s not my time to die yet, as far as I know, unless the roof of this century plus old farmhouse suddenly collapses on me. Now that’s one “what in case” John and I didn’t discuss.

“What will take me out?” I asked John. “Hey, maybe we could write a country song about that and get rich.”

It took him about two seconds to start singing his original lyrics to his original tune.

“I don’t know what’s gonna take me out,

But I know who’s gonna take me in!”

(He sang those words three times, the third time in a loud, high falsetto.)

“It was settled long ago,

When my Lord said come to him!”

He looked at me laughing. “That’s the chorus. I don’t have the verse yet. I want to sing it and sit on that box drum thing and play at church.”

“You’re going to get fired from being pastor if you do that. That’s not going to fly in our conservative church.”

He just laughed.

“And,” I warned him, “if you start doing choreography I’m going to get up and walk out.”

He laughed again. He’d been to our grandkids’ school concert the night before and had been impressed with the boy who’d played the box drum and with our first-grade granddaughter’s choreography. He’d even demonstrated it for me. I’m sure it was cute when she did it. But the reenactment by an almost three-quarters of a century old grandpa who’s never danced….

John’s original song was much better than his choreography. The tune and the words stuck in my head. Maybe he does have a million-dollar tune going for him. I know his words have eternal value: “I don’t know what’s gonna take me out, but I know who’s gonna take me in. It was settled long ago when my Lord said come to him!”

I’m impressed, honey. But work on that vibrato! You sound like Tiny Tim!

Mistakes

by Donna Poole

Mistakes. Authors dread them. We might call a character Rose all through a book but for some reason name her Lily on page 103. Not even the best of editors can catch every mistake.

I was pretty proud when our local newspaper published an article I’d written about an Easter ice storm on the front page until I noticed that every time I’d typed “friends from church” they’d printed “fiends from church.”

Then I wondered, had the mistake been theirs or mine? I’d sent them the only copy of my manuscript—beginner’s mistake—so I’ll never know.

Writing mistakes are nothing new. I recently read Daniel Defoe made a rather big blunder when he wrote Robinson Crusoe. When that famous castaway found himself on the Island of Despair he looked out at the ocean and saw the ship sinking. Knowing he’d need supplies to survive, he stripped, swam to the ship, hastily grabbed what supplies he could get, and shoved them into his pockets.

Wait. What pockets?

Poor Daniel Defoe. If only he’d lived in the twenty-first century and had published his book on Amazon. Some helpful reader would have pointed out to him the error of his ways and he could have gone back and edited the manuscript before the next printing. Simple fix.

If only life’s mistakes were such simple fixes.

I’d rather be an author than an inspirational speaker, a teacher, or a preacher. At least we can edit our manuscripts before they appear in public. Someone standing before a microphone doesn’t have the luxury of backtracking a botch before the audience howls or gasps.

Perhaps you’ve heard the true tale of the preacher who, referring to Psalm 6:6, said, “David wet his bed. David wet his bed every night. David wet his bed every night with his tears.”

On the way home from church the preacher asked his wife her opinion of his sermon.

“Honey,” she said, “the tears came three sentences too late.”

Some mistakes are funny; some are awkward, but some are devastating.

We even trip up in casual conversation. Yesterday, the mechanic working on our new to us truck called.

“Wait and let me put John on the phone,” I said to the mechanic. “You guys don’t speak English.”

Silence. Dead. Silence.

“You aren’t laughing,” I said.

More. Dead. Silence.

Kimmee, who overheard the whole conversation because I had it on speaker, later said, “Mom, he could have interpreted what you said as a racist remark.”

I winced.

Of course, he could have. I meant to convey I don’t speak mechanic.

Well, the mechanic called again today, and John wasn’t home. He was perfectly friendly, and we both ignored my yesterday’s gaffe; I didn’t try to explain it. He did explain to me the work that needed to be done, and I learned some words in mechanic, the language I don’t speak. Now, I could tell you what “idler arm” and “pitman arm” are. I could explain today; though, I’ll probably forget by tomorrow since mechanic isn’t my native language. It should be my second language by now, as often as we have our vehicles in for work!

The mechanic had the parts; John wasn’t home, so I told him to go ahead and start working. Let’s hope that wasn’t a mistake. Though from my new understanding, people can’t just go around driving with defective idler and pitman arms; they may encounter a complete loss of steering ability.

We do make some mistakes so disastrous we experience a complete loss of steering ability. We crash and burn; relationships lay mangled on the side of the road. And sometimes they can’t be resuscitated. There’s no going back then and editing out the words or actions that led to the demise of the job, or the friendship, or the marriage.

What then? We apologize to God and others. We spend the time we need to mourning beside the side of the road, but then, with God’s help, we move on and begin to heal.

Scars remain; most of us have memories we wish we could rewrite. But Robinson Crusoe is still a beloved classic, though flawed—a fantastic tale of survival even though the castaway put his loot in his non-existent pockets.

We don’t have to be perfect to be beloved. We’re all sinners; Jesus loves sinners, and he gave his life to wipe our hearts clean of sin.

And if we’re blessed, we’ll find people who will love us too, just like we are, flawed classics made beautiful by Christ in us, the hope of glory.

And what if we don’t find someone to love us? We can find someone who needs our love; broken lonely people aren’t hard to find. If we don’t know where to start, we could visit the nearest nursing home and ask for a resident who doesn’t get any visitors. If we don’t know what to say once we get to that person’s room, we could always read them Robinson Crusoe. We might save them and ourselves from the Island of Despair.

Spring in Michigan and Life Everywhere

by Donna Poole

Spring in Michigan is a guy with hairy legs sticking out of a pair of shorts, feet shoved into flip flops.

Spring in Michigan is a guy with hairy legs sticking out of shorts, feet shoved into flip flops—and wearing a winter jacket, a John Deere knit beanie, and gloves.

Spring in Michigan is that same guy, head down against driving snow, trying not to step on his wife’s tulips as he runs to the mailbox and hurries to get back into the house before frost bite gets his toes.

This April we’ve had summer and winter in Michigan, and that’s what we call spring in these parts. It’s not unusual to have eighty degrees one day and thirty degrees the next. We can say this about our weather: It’s not boring.

When will real spring come, warm weather we can count on to stay with us and not turn fickle tail and run as soon as a north wind blows? This morning the meteorologist said we’ll have it by the second week in May. I say I’ll wait and see.

We have a photo of our oldest daughter, Angie, when she was perhaps three. She’s playing outside in the snow, wearing a yellow fuzzy winter jacket, hat, and mittens. The leaves are fully out on the trees.

The old timers, now long gone, told me to plant peas on Good Friday but not to plant beans until after Memorial Day.

In our part of Michigan, it’s never snowed after Memorial Day in my lifetime, though I don’t doubt it’s happened.

People in Michigan boast about our beautiful summers and then add, “Last summer was fantastic. It happened on the Fourth of July.”

In all seriousness, summer in Michigan is lovely, though sometimes a bit too hot. But for people who can spend time at one of the beautiful Great Lakes that make our state a peninsula, a Michigan summer is pretty close to heaven.

I love camping near Lake Michigan. At one of our favorite campgrounds John and I take our morning coffee, sit on a bench, and watch the large ships and the yachts navigate through the channel and out into the wide blue lake. We like to sit on that same bench in the evening and watch the boats come back in.

Sometimes we hike down the long pier stretching out to the lighthouse and watch the sunset over the lake. When the flaming orb seems to touch the water, I wonder if I can hear a hiss if I only listen carefully. Then we double time it back to get to our campsite before dark.

Breathless and laughing, we make a campfire, relax in our chairs, and talk awhile before bed.

There are few things I enjoy more than camping. For most of our married life we camped in a tent. I loved tent camping, still do. The nostalgic part of me agrees with whoever it was that said, “If you can’t smell the canvas, it isn’t camping.”

We tent camped with our children and sometimes with friends in a rustic state forest in Michigan, a place with no running water or flush toilets. It more than made up for its lack of civilization with a beautiful lake and quiet trails weaving through the forest. The canopy of leaves made it feel like a cathedral.

The kids rode bikes, swam, split wood, and picked blueberries. Now that they’re grown-up they have happy memories of those years…I hope.

Come to think of it, two of our four grown up kids don’t camp and the other two camp in large campers in places that have full hook ups: water, electric, and sewer. Maybe being uncivilized for a week is fun only in retrospect.

We took the kids tent camping in the Smoky Mountains. By then the zipper was broken and we had to pin the flap shut with clothespins. We watched the sun rise over the mountains. We took a hike and saw a mother bear and her two cubs. She took one look at us; we took one look at her, and time stood still. No one moved. Then she growled a warning to her cubs. The first obediently scurried up a tree. The second started up but stopped and looked curiously back at us. She growled louder at it, took her paw, and swatted it on its hind quarters. It let out a yelp and followed its sibling.

We slowly backed away. It was a closer bear encounter than was safe, but oh what a wonderful memory!

No bears entered our tent held together with clothes pins, but we watched a skunk almost go in.

After our kids grew up and our bones grew older it became a bit more difficult to sleep on a tent floor in a sleeping bag. We bought a camper.

We named the camper we have now Old Bertha. She’s a 1988 fifth wheel, and don’t even get me started on the number of repairs she’s demanded John make on her. On some vacations he’s spent more time working on the camper than he has relaxing.

Bertha has no working furnace; we use a space heater. Her main drawback right now is her hot water heater is broken, but we haven’t bothered to fix it. We didn’t think we’d ever be able to go camping again. We last camped in the fall of 2020.

That last camping trip was beautiful. We camped in the remote part of Brown County State Park in the “Little Smokies.” My head was bald from chemotherapy, and I wore a beanie to keep warm. I didn’t have the strength to hike any trails, one of our favorite activities. I could barely climb in and out of the truck.

But the weather was beautiful, and the leaves were gorgeous. We spent hours reading, talking, playing card games, and dreaming around campfires. John drove me through the park countless times so I could see the fantastic views.

When we left to come home, I cried. I had one of my gut feelings we’d never be back, and my gut feelings are seldom wrong.

Our old truck died after that, and at times we weren’t sure I was going to make it either.

But when spring came, I wanted to camp. Without a truck we couldn’t haul Bertha, but we still had our tent, and I begged John to let us try tent camping again. It’s a good thing one of us has common sense. He knew neither of us could get up off the floor, or even a cot, let alone make it to the campground bathroom or outhouse however many times needed in the middle of the night. John seldom vetoes my ideas, but he did that one.

So Old Bertha stayed home, and so did we. There was no camping for Bertha or us, spring, summer fall of 2021; spring, summer, fall of 2022. We mourned the loss of our old truck.

Used trucks are expensive, especially ones heavy enough to pull Old Bertha

Yes, we prayed about a truck, and so did family and friends, but God isn’t Santa Claus, and I really dislike the attitude some people have that he is. I heard a preacher say once that as God’s children we don’t have to take a parking place far from the store, we can demand one close by, and he’ll give it to us, because we deserve it. Say what? I never listened to that preacher again. And no, that preacher wasn’t John!

We don’t demand, as some do, that God do anything for us. We don’t command him to give us a truck, or make my cancer disappear, or help the people we love—and their needs are many. We do ask, with love in our hearts, for him to do those things, but always end a prayer by asking for his will.

Life for everyone is a guy with hairy legs sticking out of a pair of shorts, feet shoved into flip flops.

Life for everyone is a guy with hairy legs sticking out of shorts, feet shoved into flip flops—and wearing a winter jacket, a John Deere knit beanie, and a pair of gloves.

Life for everyone is that same guy, head down against driving snow, trying not to step on his wife’s tulips as he runs to the mailbox and hurries to get back into the house before frost bite gets his toes. And sometimes he doesn’t make it. And sometimes toes need to be amputated.

Through it all we have God. No, he isn’t Santa. He doesn’t promise to rescue us from all life’s troubles, or give us a charmed life, or hand us everything we want. But God does promise to stay with us, to give us strength, and to help us find joy. And if we start to lose hope, he reminds of  the cross and empty tomb and promises to those who believe that an eternal spring is coming.

And sometimes God gives us springtime surprises here on earth too. Today we’re buying a 2007 Chevy Silverado truck with plenty of guts to haul Old Bertha wherever we want to take her. Its rockers are rusty, but what do you expect from a Michigan truck that’s weathered fifteen snowy winters with its salt covered roads? The price was the best we’ve seen, an answer to prayer, and John is pretty happy. Why not? He’s a guy with a truck.

Who knows what other good things may be just ahead? Cancer hasn’t won yet and maybe it never will. Sometimes gut feelings are wrong. Life, like spring, is funny. We never know what’s coming, and every now and then it’s something so wonderful joy runs out of our eyes and down our faces.

Lake Michigan! Brown County! Here we come, so look for us. We’ll be the two people wearing flip flops and winter coats….

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

Follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Just a Jar of Noxzema

by Donna Poole

When I open a new jar of Noxzema to wash my face two magical things happen.

First, I’m a little girl again, and I’m with Mom.

Mom smells clean, like soap and Noxzema. She doesn’t wear perfume. Her aprons smell like sunshine and fresh air because she hangs them outside to dry, even in the winter. Mom’s not much of a hugger, so when I stand on tiptoe to reach the clothes pins and take down the laundry, I hug her aprons and pretend she’s inside.

Mom’s a wonderful cook! I love coming home from school and smelling her homemade spaghetti sauce that’s been simmering for hours on the back of the stove, or her fresh yeast donuts spread out on the kitchen table, or butter browning for potato pies. The kitchen smells wonderful, unless Mom has been cooking meat. Dad won’t eat a hamburger or a pork chop that isn’t crispy black!

The house always smells like Pine sol and Pledge. And when she unrolls the damp clothes waiting to be pressed, I like the scent of the steam coming up from the freshly ironed clothes, but Mom looks so hot.

***

Mom is probably the reason I wash my face with Noxzema every morning; she did the same thing, and I really do think of her many mornings. I’d love to go back to that kitchen one more time. It, like everything else, was impressively clean. A college friend joked that Mom hung everything from the ceiling everyday and hosed down the entire place until it was clean enough to eat off the floors.

Mom always wanted everything neat and clean, inside, and out, including her children. She hated sin in all its forms and didn’t want any part of it to touch us. I didn’t agree with Mom on many things, including her definition of what was and wasn’t sin, but looking back, I do see why my rebellious behavior upset her so much.

Someone said, “Sin ruins everything it touches.”

Mom didn’t want sin to ruin me. The Bible says, “Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft,” and I stepped across every line Mom drew in the sand as soon as I could walk. A stranger, observing Mom and me in my growing up years would have doubted love was part of our equation, and yet it was there. I knew it, even in our most furious arguments, and I hope she knew it too.

I last talked to Mom forty-nine years ago this February. She didn’t call often; long distance was expensive. Besides, Mom didn’t always feel comfortable conversing. A stroke five years previously had left her right arm paralyzed, her right leg weak, and her words sometimes elusive. At first, after the stroke, she couldn’t speak at all. Her speech returned, but she felt embarrassed when the right word wouldn’t come.

“How’s John?” Mom asked me on that last call in February of 1974. She knew he’d graduated from Bible college the previous May and was hoping to become a pastor.

“Honestly, Mom, he’s a little discouraged. He hasn’t heard from any churches, and he’s wondering if maybe God isn’t calling him to be a pastor after all.”

“You tell him for me he’s going to be a pastor. I’ve known it ever since he was a little boy.”

I don’t remember what else we talked about. I do remember tears came to my eyes when Mom said those loving, encouraging words.

The stroke changed Mom in many ways. The tough disciplinarian Mom who hadn’t dispensed many hugs was forever gone. A tender, loving Mom took her place.

Mom was right. John became a pastor in July of 1974, but Mom didn’t live to see it happen. A second stroke took her home to heaven in March, a few weeks after she’d called me.

I told you when I open a new jar of Noxzema two magical things happen.

The second thing is a magic carpet takes me from the past to the future.

When I open the jar, I wonder if I’ll live long enough to use it all. Living with refractory cancer isn’t easy, but it has its blessings. It gives gifts, and a realistic grip on the shortness of time is one of them.

 We don’t know how much time we have left to love the people in our lives. Neither do we know what tiny thing might mean the world to them after we’re gone.

I treasure a scrap of paper in Mom’s handwriting.

After Mom’s first stroke I often asked her to try to write to me, but I never got a letter. After Mom died, my sister found a small piece of paper. Mom had tried to start a letter to me. It began with one “D” crossed out. Then she wrote, “Dear Dona.”

Did Mom notice she’d misspelled my name? Or did she just get too tired to continue? Either way, she’d tried. I treasure that scrap of paper, the last communication I have from Mom until she hugs me in heaven.

So now, I look back from the future where my magic carpet has taken me. I try to guess what my kids, in-law kids, and grandkids might remember about me. Yes, I smell like Noxzema. And unlike Mom, I wear perfume. I’ve worn the same kind for many years, a vanilla scent.

I was wearing that vanilla perfume when our son Danny, now forty-five, was a little boy. He hugged me when he came home from school.

“Yum!” he said. “You smell good, like you’ve been cooking!”

That made me laugh. Just what I’d hoped for, that my perfume would make me smell like the kitchen. I’m sure he’s long forgotten that remark, but I remember. I remember too how he and his siblings loved it when I made homemade bread, and they enjoyed eating it warm from the oven when they got home from school. What things will they remember?

I hope my family and friends will remember my love and my hugs. And I hope they’ll remember that I want the same thing for them mom wanted for me, I want them to be clean, to run from sin, because it really does ruin everything it touches.

And then I tumble off the magic carpet and finish washing my face.

“It’s just a jar of Noxzema, Donna,” the towel says as I bury my face in it. “So quit with the remembering and the forecasting already. And get to work. You have a blog to write.”

When it Matters-An Easter Story

by Donna Poole

Reverend Bill Williamson had been retired for ten years, but today he’d stand behind his old pulpit one last time.

His mind wandered as he waited for the funeral service to begin.

How many funerals did I preach during my fifty years as pastor? My text was always the same, the one that rings out hope, John 11:25-26: “Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?”

He’d recited those verses when young parents had clung to him, weeping, as a tiny casket had been lowered into the ground. He’d shared it with a teenager dying of cancer.

They were verses that helped when it mattered most.

They’d been his secretary’s favorite verses. When early onset Alzheimer’s had hit her fast and furious, she’d wandered the halls of the nursing home repeating them. Word by word they’d slipped from her mind until she could only say, “I am resurrection life.”

Her family had called Bill to come when she’d been slipping away. She’d been moaning and saying, “I…I…I…”

Her daughter had been sobbing. “Pastor Williamson, I don’t know what she wants.”

“Perhaps I do.”

He’d put his hand on the dying woman’s shoulder, leaned close to her ear, and repeated, “‘I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’”

Her eyes hadn’t opened, but she’d smiled. She’d stopped moaning, and a few minutes later she’d slipped softly through the thin door that separates earth from heaven.

He’d preach those verses at today’s funeral too.

Bill sat soberly in the chair on the platform as the organ played and tried not to rub his arthritic knee. Betty had often reminded him not to do that when he’d still been pastor here.

“It’s distracting, honey,” she’d said. “And besides, you don’t want people thinking we’re getting old, do you?”

“We are getting old, Betty.”

She’d laughed, a sound he’d loved. “Maybe you are, but I’m not.”

She had gotten old though, and quickly too. Strokes can do that to a person. She’d gone from jogging a 5k charity run at the age of seventy-five to needing help walking a single step.

“We’ve never had a patient work as hard as Betty,” a physical therapist at the rehabilitation center had told Bill.

“That’s Betty! If she’s anything, she’s determined!” he’d replied.

But when the months of therapy had ended and Betty still had no use of her right arm and limited use of her right leg, Bill had retired to stay home with her. She could no longer stay alone.

Then Betty had done something Bill had never seen her do.

“I quit,” she’d said. “I give up. Help me into bed.”

And there she’d stayed despite Bill’s pleading and prayers.

When the family had come to visit, Betty had turned her face to the wall and had refused to see them.

“Tell them I’m too tired. And close that door on your way out.”

Friends from church had come to visit, and they’d gotten the same response.

When Bill had suggested Betty talk to a therapist about her depression, he’d seen a side of his wife he’d hadn’t known existed. And Betty had spoken words he’d never heard her use.

Spring had come unusually early to Michigan that year. By March it had been warm enough to open the bedroom window for few hours some afternoons. Bill had pulled back the room darkening drapes and let fresh air and sunlight into the room.

Betty had shielded her eyes. “Close that window! Close the… whatever you call those things. The bedspreads. Too bright.”

Bill had turned so she couldn’t see his tears. It was time for tough love. He’d left the window open.

He’d left the room and prayed.

It became their afternoon ritual. Sometimes she’d called the drapes the shower curtain, the sheets, or the bathrobe. She’d begged for darkness. Sometimes Bill’s prayers had been tears; that had been all he could manage. He’d run out of words.

He’d begged her to look out of the window. “It’s beautiful, honey. Spring was always your favorite time, remember?”

Once again, his normally sweet wife of fifty-five years had cussed him out finishing with, “I don’t care about spring now. I don’t care about anything, Bob!”

That’s the first time she’s forgotten my name. Is she getting worse? Staying secluded like this isn’t going to help her get better. Lord, help; what am I going to do?

Bill kept opening the window and letting light into the darkness. A few times, by early April, he’d noticed Betty pushing herself up on one arm and looking out of the window. As soon as she’d seen he’d noticed, she’d turned her face to the wall and closed her eyes.

One mid-April day, Bill had opened the window, and Betty hadn’t shouted at him to close it. He’d been surprised but hadn’t commented. As he’d been leaving the room she’d asked, “Is that the blue wings I hear and the spring peepers?”

“Yep. The red wing blackbirds have been back for quite a while and the frogs started singing a few weeks ago.”

She’d nodded. He hadn’t said anything else; he’d been afraid to push it. He’d been closing the door when she’d asked, “Will you help me get outside?”

“I’ll get the wheelchair.”

“No! If I have to use a wheelchair, I won’t get up. You! You help me. What’s your name? I forget.”

‘I’m Bill, your husband. Of course, I’ll help you.”

She’d giggled and he’d almost collapsed from shock. “You ninny! I know you’re my husband. I just forget words sometimes.”

They’d only gone as far as the bench on the front porch. She’d sat there silently for half an hour, sometimes lifting her face to the sun.

Then she’d reached for his hand. “I’m sorry.”

He hadn’t tried to hide his tears. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“I do. I’ve been so angry at God and at you. And mostly at myself. I wanted the old me back. I’ll try to get used to the new me, but it’s going to take a while. I think I’d like to talk to that therapist you mentioned.”

Bill had put his arm around her and had pulled her close. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“I love you, Theodore.”

“And I’ll love you forever. Honey, tomorrow’s Easter. Would you like to go to church?”

“I’m not up to that yet.”

“That’s perfectly fine. But we could listen to the service over the radio from the church parking lot. Remember, that’s as far as it broadcasts.”

“Okay. If you’ll help me walk to the car.”

“I’ll help you walk anywhere.”

And he had. For the next ten years they’d walked together, a bit farther each day. She’d grown stronger and more alert, though she’d never regained use of her right arm. Her right leg had remained a bit weak, and when doctors had suggested she use a cane, she’d laughed and pointed at Bill.

“I’ve got one.”

They’d been inseparable, and she’d always held his right arm with her left.

God had given them ten more good years together, years they’d shared with family and friends, years of love and laughter.

One April day Bill had taken Betty to the doctor for her annual physical.

“I don’t have another patient your age with such good blood pressure, oxygen level, and muscle tone. I doubt you’ll ever have another stroke,” the doctor had said.

They’d celebrated with a long walk in the park, sat on the bench, and thanked God for their many blessings.

He’d leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Have I ever told you how much I’ve loved having you hold my arm all these years? I love helping you walk. I’d walk you to the ends of the earth if I could.”

Betty had laughed, a sound he’d loved. “I’d love to walk to the ends of the earth with you and keep walking right on up to heaven. But now you’d better help me get home. It’s Thursday, and with all the family coming for Easter dinner, we don’t have much time to get everything ready.”

He’d been helping her up from the park bench when she’d slipped limply from his arms. He’d known it was a second stroke before they’d told him.

The family had gathered for Easter, but Betty hadn’t been there. She’d been celebrating her first Easter in heaven. They’d talked about the funeral, and Bill had said he’d wanted to preach it.

“Dad, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” his son had said. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“I want to do it for your mom.”

And so here he was, rubbing his knee, waiting for the service to begin. He was going to try to follow Betty’s instructions; they’d talked about their funerals.

“If you preach mine, keep it short,’ she’d said. “Remember what Mark Twain said. He doubted any sinner ever got saved after the first twenty minutes of a sermon.”

He’d laughed. “Yes, dear. Any other instructions?”

“Yes. Keep it about Jesus, not me.”

Bill had four pages of notes for this funeral tucked in his worn Bible. He thought he could finish it in twenty minutes, maybe a half hour. Suddenly, he realized it was silent in the church and everyone was looking at him. How long ago had the music stopped?

He stood and walked behind the pulpit. For the first time Betty wasn’t in one of the pews. He knew she wasn’t in the flower covered casket at his feet either; she was with the Lord, and she was forever young and strong again, but he was still here. He wasn’t young, and he wasn’t strong.

Bill hadn’t cried since Betty had died, but the tears came now. Tears come when they want; they have a mind of their own. He opened his Bible. He opened his four pages of notes. He tried to speak.

Instead of his carefully crafted sermon he could manage only two verses, spoken between sobs: “John 11:25-26: Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?”

It took the funeral director a minute to realize Bill had finished preaching. He ushered out everyone but family. Bill apologized to his children.

“I’m sorry; I should have listened to you and had someone else preach. Anyone could have done a better job.”

“Dad, what are you talking about?” his son asked. “Mom would have loved that sermon. It was perfect. Those are the verses that help when it matters most.”

Bill took a deep breath. “They do ring out hope, don’t they?”

His son hugged him.

And then Bill lined up with the pall bearers to carry Betty out to the graveyard behind the church.

“Dad, what are you doing? There are enough of us to carry the coffin. You don’t have to do that.”

“Please, let me. I’ve been helping your mom walk everywhere for the last ten years. I told her I wanted to walk her to the ends of the earth.”

As Bill walked through the grass carrying Betty’s casket, he thought of the Martin Luther quote he’d meant to use in his message but hadn’t been able to because of his tears: “Our Lord has written the promise of resurrection, not in books alone, but in every leaf of springtime.”

Spring was late that year. Bill heard the frogs sing. He caught a flash of a red wing blackbird and remembered when Betty had called it a blue wing. And he smiled.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Fifteen Boxes

by Donna Poole

A mathematician would tell you there are fifteen boxes and begin counting the number of books in each box.

A minimalist would wrinkle a nose and comment about old people hoarding old dust collectors.

A book lover, especially if the book lover were a Bible teacher or preacher, would be in heaven.

But only John and Donna could tell you the true value of those books. They are part of what’s left of their once far more extensive library. They’d sold their beautifully bound sets during a lean time.

Now they’re downsizing their still considerable library. As they dust and sneeze their way through piles of books, Donna wistfully thinks of those beautiful volumes they’d sold and the way the sets had looked on the shelves, the white Alexander Maclaren with gold titles, the red bound books by Charles Haddon Spurgeon, the black volumes by F.B. Meyer, and many more.

She’d exchanged so much of her life to pay for those books when they’d been new, and she’d loved doing it. She’d done it by writing Sunday school curriculum. The job began with hours of research and notes taken in long hand that sometimes trailed off into illegible scribbles when she’d fallen asleep. As much as she’d loved research, it’d been hard to stay awake in the after-midnight hours. Then had come the many rough drafts, rolling paper into the old typewriter, and pounding out word after word.

The final copy had been tedious, because the publisher had required an exact word count for each section of the assignment. It had been good training for a young writer who’d tended to ramble off into flowery descriptions. She’d sometimes winced when she’d had to cut a beautiful passage because it wouldn’t fit into the allotted space.

The final copy had to be typed on the publisher’s paper, the heading repeated on each page, the twenty-five lines one column wide to leave room on the right-hand side of the paper for copious comments and corrections made by the editors who worked for the publisher.

Donna had tried to make the final copy as neat as possible; if the publisher didn’t hire her for more assignments there would be no more book buying. Nor would there be any more special gifts for the children in the family who always looked forward to the “big money” coming in the mail box. Once, instead of books, the “big money” had bought new bikes.

But neat had been hard. The old typewriter had letters that had fallen off, and John had repaired them as best he could, but they hadn’t quite lined up. The many mistakes Donna had made, despite careful typing, had to be corrected with “white out.” Nasty stuff, that white out. Thin it too much, and it wouldn’t cover the letter enough so she could type over it. Thin it too little and it left a raised glob on the page.

John had boxed a finished assignment, and they’d mailed it with a prayer that God would use it and give Donna another one. Then had come the fun of pouring over the Christian Book Distributor’s catalog. They’d often chosen a new set of books long before the money arrived from the publisher. Other times they’d waited for the check, cashed it, and had taken a trip to the Mecca for lovers of Christian books: Grand Rapids, Michigan. They’d always given the kids money to buy a book too.

Donna remembered all this and much more as she helped dust the library and pack it up to give away. She remembered a young pastor, his enthusiasm, the mistakes he’d made, some humorous in retrospect, like his Mother’s Day gaffe.

John had meant to say at the end of his ill fated sermon, “If any of you are not Christians, I sincerely hope you’ll become one before you leave this place.”

Instead, he’d said, “If any of you aren’t mothers, I sincerely hope you’ll become one before you leave this place.”

He hadn’t known he’d misspoken. But he’d seen Donna and her friend Maribel shaking a pew with suppressed laugher.

Donna thought about all the hours, days, weeks, months, and years John had spent, hunched over his desk, studying from those books, so focused on his reading he hadn’t even heard anyone else in the room speaking.

She thought about young John, middle-aged John, and now senior citizen John standing behind the pulpit, sharing with all his heart what he’d learned from his Bible and those study books. She thought about the many years of ministry—nearly a half-century—the laughter and joy, the tears and heartbreak, but all of them good. Good years. Gone years.

How many more will there be?

And then she cried.

John looked up from his dusting. “What’s wrong, babe?”

She couldn’t get out many words. “It’s the memories.”

He nodded.

Their daughter Kimmee saw the tears. She hugged her parents.

“Hey! You guys know you don’t have to get rid of your books if you don’t want to, right?”

They knew, but it was time.

John kept the books he used most; he wasn’t ready to retire from the ministry yet. Besides, he did most of his studying online now, and Donna no longer used the books; she didn’t write Sunday school curriculum anymore. Why not give them to someone who would use them instead of letting them sit on shelves gathering dust?

It was parting with all that the books represented that brought the tears, the laughter of kids running back from the mailbox shouting, “The big money came!” It was the many years of ministry blowing away as quickly as white fluff from an old dandelion.

Forty-nine. That’s how many Palm Sunday sermons John has preached at the old country church on the corner of two dirt roads.

A mathematician would comment another year would make a half-century.

A minimalist might wrinkle a nose and say that’s too long to stay in one place; think of all the junk you’d be tempted to collect.

Palm Sunday was the day John announced his fifteen boxes of books were on tables in the fellowship hall, free for the taking.

“No, I’m not resigning or retiring yet,” John explained. “I kept the books I use most, and I do a lot of my research online now, sometimes three-hundred pages of it for one chapter.”

Dan, the pastor’s son, was leading the singing. He joked, “Now that the pastor is giving away his books, the board has decided to hand out cards to the congregation so you can rate his sermons and say what you think of them.”

Donna listened to her husband preach Palm Sunday sermon number forty-nine. He’d titled it, “The King is Coming.”

It was a good sermon. Donna decided if she had a card, she’d rate the sermon a solid ten. She’d tell him so.

She didn’t feel sad about the fifteen boxes of books anymore. They were a sweet memory, and a memory never becomes a dust collector.

“Please, Lord,” she whispered, “love through us all our days so when it’s time for us to pack up and move on we’ll be a sweet memory too. Because someday, the King is coming.”

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

Follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

The Gardener

by Donna Poole

It was a different time.

The women wore pastel-colored suits to church in the spring; yellow, pink, turquoise, often paired with white lacy blouses. Purses and heels often matched. They all went to the beauty parlor every week, and most had short, permed hair. With powdered cheeks and a touch of lipstick, they looked like a bouquet of spring flowers. Each wore her own brand of perfume, many in flowery scents. Ruth’s favorite perfume was “Charlie,” and she splashed it on with abandon.

Then there was Old Bertha. If the others were flowers, Old Bertha could have been the gardener. Her clothes were worn and dirty, and she wore rubber boots to church with no socks. Ruth and her husband Clayton collected Bertha from her dilapidated house each Sunday and brought her to church with them.

Bertha adored Ruth and often sat next to her in church. One Sunday, during the sermon, Bertha decided to write Ruth a note. She’d never learned cursive, so in her arthritic, crippled printing, she wrote, “Hello Ruth.” But she left off the “o.”

Ruth managed not to laugh, but when she showed the note to her grown children and grandchildren later, they howled.

“Mom! How did you keep from laughing?”

“I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

Unlike the other ladies, Bertha wore no perfume to church. She had a distinctive odor all her own; it could best be described as au scent la skunk cabbage.

One Sunday, after church, a bouquet of pastel-colored suits surrounded Ruth. Fortunately, Bertha was not with her.

“Ruth,” the spokeswoman said, “you must do something about Bertha. She stinks.

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“You’ll have to figure something out. You bring her to church. You talk to her.”

Ruth didn’t say anything about it to Bertha for a few weeks. How do you go about telling someone they smell bad? She didn’t want to do it.

Once again, the bouquet surrounded her after church.

“Ruth, Bertha smells even worse. Have you said anything to her yet?

Ruth sighed. “I know she doesn’t smell very nice. I’ll talk to her. I just haven’t thought of what to say.”

On the way home from church that Sunday Ruth said, “Bertha, some people like baths, and some like showers. I prefer showers myself. Which do you like?”

“Oh, I don’t take either. I use my bathtub to store my canned goods. I just sponge off now and then when I feel like I need to.”

“Oh,” Ruth said.

The next Sunday Ruth approached her flowery smelling friends. “Listen. Bertha keeps cans of food in her bathtub. I’m not talking to her about how she smells. If one of you wants to talk to her, go ahead. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“She keeps food in her bathtub?” a pastel suit asked.

Ruth nodded.

“Oh, my.”

Ruth nodded again. She didn’t mention the note she’d gotten printed in a childish scrawl. No one joked that Bertha was a brick shy of a full load, or that her elevator didn’t go all the way to the top, or that not only was she out to lunch, but she was out to supper too.

The sweet-smelling ladies and Ruth exchanged glances of compassion.

“At least she comes to church,” one flower said.

The others nodded.

Old Bertha continued to attend church every Sunday, wearing her rubber boots without socks, and looking like the gardener amongst the bevy of fragrant flowers. Maybe that’s exactly what she was. She never knew she’d cultivated the fruits of kindness and compassion in their hearts.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

Follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author


Not This One

by Donna Poole

Ivy willed her muscles to relax. It didn’t work.

The padded seats in the church auditorium were comfortable, but Ivy always felt uncomfortable here. And this was her first time being here without Zoe.

She’d hardly recognized Zoe’s voice on the phone. “I’m sick, Ivy, but please go to church without me.”

“I’m not feeling the best myself. I might stay home too.”

Ivy knew it sounded lame, but it was true. The thought of going without Zoe made her stomach churn.

At the last minute she’d run her fingers through her hair, pulled on a pair of jeans, and gone to church.

The sermon had been good, but she’d been unable to relax. This was still so new to her. At this time a year ago, she’d stumbled into the city mission.

Zoe, a counselor, had greeted her. “Welcome! It’s a beautiful first day of spring, isn’t it?”

Ivy had responded with a four-letter word, puked, and passed out. Zoe had caught her on the way down.

How many times has Zoe caught me on the way down since that first time?

Ivy’s thoughts wandered as she sat in church. The sermon had ended, and they were having a praise and testimony time.

Zoe hadn’t flinched when she’d told her about her years of life on the streets. Zoe had stuck with her through the ups and downs of the drug and alcohol rehab programs. And Zoe had introduced her to Jesus.

You’ve come a long way, baby, Ivy thought.

But Ivy didn’t feel proud of herself. She’d made it through withdrawal and hadn’t touched a drink since. Some people had said she’d never be able to kick the Big C, but with counseling and God’s help, cocaine wasn’t her master anymore. But there was one addiction she hadn’t been able to overcome.

She’d complained often about it to Zoe. “Why can’t I quit smoking? I’m a Christian now. I have the power of the Holy Spirit in my life. I should be able to do this.”

“Be patient with yourself, Ivy. How many perfect Christians have you met so far?”

“You. You’re close.”

“You know better. You heard me yell at Doug when you were at our apartment the other day.”

They’d laughed and hugged.

No, Zoe isn’t quite perfect, but I sure wish she was sitting next to me now instead of this stranger. I know I reek of cigarettes. She’s probably judging me.

Ivy had picked an aisle seat, so she’d only have to sit next to one person, and she hadn’t even looked at the woman. But she supposed she looked like most of the other people in this church, a throwback to the 1950s. Her seatmate had arrived quite late.

Ivy tried to pay attention to the testimonies. An older man was talking.

“I wasn’t sure I’d live to see the new building project completed. I’ve been praying for years for this. God is such a good God; isn’t he?” He paused, pulled out a hankie, and wiped his eyes.

He sounds sweet. I wish I’d had someone like him in my life instead of all the foster parents. I might be a different person. I should chew gum. It might help my nicotine breath.

Ivy reached in her bag for her gum and jammed her fingernail into the edge of her wallet. Two things happened. Her nail bent back causing excruciating pain, and Ivy swore.

The expletive wasn’t a cowboy swear word; it was a nastier one that had been part of her street life. Ivy hadn’t used it in a year, but out it came now. And it was loud.

A woman two rows ahead of her stood up and gestured to her three daughters to follow her. The four of them looked like ads for Mary Kay makeup, but the mother’s face was disfigured with anger.

She stopped and glared at Ivy. “I try to protect my daughters from language like that, and I don’t appreciate them hearing it in church. I hope the leadership here does something about you, or we won’t be back. Come, girls.”

And the entourage swept out of the auditorium.

The frail old man giving his testimony began praying and raised his voice louder. “And in addition to your grace in supplying the money for the new building, Lord, I want to thank you for loving sinners, because no one in this building is a bigger sinner than I am.”

Despite his kind words Ivy felt she must have offended everyone in the place. She wanted to get up and leave, but her shaking legs refused to move.

I don’t want to cry. I won’t cry. I will not cry.

But her face was wet, and she could hear her own sobs. The pastor was closing in prayer. She felt a hand cover her own.

When the prayer finished Ivy still sat there with her head bowed, praying.

Lord God, I don’t belong here in your church. This place is for good people. I’m not good people. I promise you I won’t come into your holy place ever again.

She kept praying. Suddenly, she realized the auditorium was quiet and empty, but a hand was still holding hers.

“Hey!” a voice said. “I’m Daphne. Want to talk?”

She shook her head.

“You sure?”

She looked at Daphne’s face, expecting to see another perfect Mary Kay rendition. Instead she saw messy red curls that looked like they’d never been combed, a smudge of peanut butter on a cheek, and mascara smudged eyes.

It was too much. Ivy no longer had any control of her emotions. She laughed.

“What?” the puzzled woman asked.

“You…” Ivy gasped. “You have peanut butter on your face.”

“Oh,” the woman grinned. She was beautiful, despite a gap between her two front teeth. She wiped the peanut butter with a tissue.

“Well, if you don’t want to talk, I will. I had a wum dinger of a morning.”

Ivy was still giggling. “You mean a hum dinger?”

“Call it what you want, I had it! I bet my mascara’s a mess too, isn’t it?”

Ivy stopped laughing. “Maybe a little, but you still look nice.”

“In these clothes?”

Ivy’s eyes widened. The woman was wearing a denim skirt and what looked like a red flannel pajama top with snowmen on it, an unusual choice for the first day of spring.

“Yep. This is a pajama top. We have a new baby, and the laundry kind of gets away from me. I started a load of laundry this morning after I got dressed for church. The washer sprung a leak, and water ran all over the floor. I mopped that up; it took every towel we had. Then I decided to finish my coffee and somehow managed to spill it down the front of my shirt. The baby is teething; he was screaming, and I was crying. Mom stopped by and told me she’d stay with the baby, and I should go to church. I told her I couldn’t; I didn’t have anything clean but one pajama top.

“‘So?’ Mom says, ‘you think God cares what you wear? Go to church.’ So here I am. Why don’t you come home with me for dinner. I’m sure Mom’s fixed something good, and I think my husband’s getting hungry.”

She nodded toward the back.

Ivy looked. The only man standing there was the pastor, looking professional in a suit. She looked again at Daphne’s messy hair, smudged mascara, and pajama top.

The words came out before she could stop them. “You two don’t look like you go together.”

“Oh, we do, believe me. We make a great pair.”

“But aren’t pastor’s wives supposed to dress to impress?”

“Not this one.”

“And aren’t they supposed to sit in the front of the church?”

“Not this one.”

“And why would they invite such a terrible Christian as I am to dinner?”

Daphne smiled. “How would I know what kind of Christian you are?”

“Oh, come on. I know you can tell I smoke. And don’t pretend you didn’t hear the word I said.”

“Oh, I heard it. I think everyone did.”

Tears sprang to Ivy’s eyes again. “Then how can you say you don’t know I’m a terrible Christian?”

“Look, I don’t know your story. For all I know it might take more of God’s grace for you to keep from shouting a four-letter word every Sunday than it takes for my husband to get up there and preach his sermon. And if anyone in this church is a terrible Christian, I’d bet it’s a certain person who walked out, not you.” Daphne snapped her fingers and sighed. “Now I’m judging. Please forget I said that. I don’t know Mrs. Mary Kay’s background either. But I have a hard time with pharisee people. I’m more of a publican one myself.”

“What’s a pharisee? And if you’re a republican and all political, forget me. I haven’t voted in years.”

It was Daphne’s turn to laugh. “I said I was a publican, not a republican. I could explain over dinner. Are you coming or not?”

“You want your house to smell like cigarettes?”

 Daphne shrugged. “There are all kinds of addictions. I eat too much chocolate. Hey, did you know Charles Spurgeon smoked?”

“Who?”

“He was a famous Baptist preacher.”

“In this church?”

Daphne laughed again.

“We have lots of interesting things to talk about. You really should come home for dinner. You can tell me your story if you want. If not, I’ll tell you about pharisees, publicans, and why Spurgeon quit smoking. And be glad Mom fixed the food. I’m a terrible cook.”

“Aren’t pastor’s wives supposed to be good cooks?”

“Not this one.”

The man in the back hollered, “Daphne, bring your new friend and come already! I’m about to die of hunger.”

“We’re coming,” Daphne called back.

She looked at Ivy. “Aren’t we?”

Ivy hesitated only a moment longer. “We are.”

Daphne pulled her to her feet. Ivy noticed there was still a smudge of peanut butter on Daphne’s face.

I’ve regretted accepting some invitations, but I have a feeling I won’t today. Not this one.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Peeling Potatoes and Making Memories

by Donna Poole

I made scalloped potatoes yesterday.

 In my memories, Lonnie was here with me, peeling, slicing, and making me laugh. Lonnie is quiet and sweet, but she can also send a roomful of people into hysterical laughter with her unexpected comments and her puns.

Lonnie is sister to my husband John, his only sibling, and I’ve known her almost as long as I can remember. She’s part of many happy memories. Lonnie and I saw each other every Christmas season from the time we were young married couples until we were senior citizens. Until Mom Poole died at age ninety, our families celebrated every Christmas together. Sometimes we got together other times during the year too.

The last time Lonnie and I made scalloped potatoes we were in Georgia visiting Mom and Dad Poole. By then Alzheimer’s was beginning to steal many things from Mom, including her ability to cook. So, when the family gathered, Lonnie and I made scalloped potatoes. Mom and Dad loved them.

As we peeled and sliced potatoes and onions Lonnie and I bonded all over again, and the months we’d been apart evaporated. Tears from peeling onions rolled down our cheeks, but we laughed often too. You can’t be with Lonnie without laughing.

I remember once Dad Poole, who was almost always cheerful despite his frail health, was pulling his long oxygen hose behind him. It was getting tangled, and we heard from Dad something we seldom heard—a sigh.

Lonnie adored both her parents and spoke to them always with only the utmost respect. But when she sighed, she looked at him.

“Well, up your nose with a rubber hose!” Lonnie said.

And then Dad laughed. The living room full of relatives echoed with laugher so loud I don’t know how the walls didn’t bend outward.

It’s a gift, being able to make people laugh in hard times. Lonnie has it, and so does John. They come by it naturally; their dad was the king of laughter. At his dialysis unit the nurses nicknamed him “Mr. Sunshine.”

Lonnie lives now in a beautiful assisted living home. I don’t know if they call her Mrs. Sunshine there or not, but they should. The home puts funny videos online, and Lonnie is often the star. In that home Lonnie is doing what she’s done everywhere, living her best life, and helping others live theirs.

I missed Lonnie as I peeled potatoes yesterday. The recipe called for six potatoes, but I peeled thirteen, so we’d be sure to have enough. I almost forgot I was fixing scalloped potatoes for only four, not for the crowd who’d gathered in Georgia to visit with Mom and Dad.

There’s a comforting rhythm to peeling potatoes that makes it easy to remember happy times. One of the wonderful things about getting older is how full your memory book is by then. It’s even larger than my old favorite Betty Crocker Cookbook. Like my cookbook, my memory book has some favorite pages tattered from use.

I never remain with memories that hurt; why would I do that? That would be like staring at a picture of a recipe in my cookbook that makes me gag; no thank you! I rifle through the pages of my memory book and settle on one that makes me feel contented, or loved. I linger on ones that bring a smile or a laugh.

I love remembering when Mom and Dad Poole were still alive, Dad with his oxygen–the rubber hose up his nose, and we all gathered at their home: Lonnie and Truman, their children and grandchildren, John and I, our kids, and our granddaughter, the only one of our fourteen grandchildren who’d been born yet. We pulled the heavy roaster pan of scalloped potatoes out of the oven and the rich aroma filled the small house.

As we ate someone said, “Do you remember when…”, and then we were laughing our way down memory lane. It was a beautiful backroad to take.  

As yesterday’s scalloped potatoes browned in the oven, I thanked God for memories. What a precious gift they are; but we aren’t meant to live on them alone. As long as we’re alive we should keep making new memories.

I made a new memory yesterday. When Lonnie and I used to make scalloped potatoes, Kimmee often whispered to me, “Mom, don’t put in any onions, okay?”

I explained I had to put in the onions; that’s how we’d always done it, and that’s how people liked it.

“I don’t like the onions, and Danny doesn’t either,” she whispered. Danny is her brother, and no, he wasn’t crazy about the onions, and I have a hunch some other people weren’t either, me included, but tradition is tradition, right?

But yesterday I didn’t peel or chop a single onion. I used onion powder instead. Kimmee approved, and I think Danny would have too, if he’d been here to eat them. Come to think of it, I don’t suppose any of the family would have complained about the absence of onions if we could only gather one more time to eat, to talk, and to laugh.

And we will someday, in heaven.

But until then, we have old memories to enjoy and new ones to make. I want to be sure to do just that.

After my sister, Eve, left for heaven, my brother-in-law Bruce showed us pictures of good times they’d had together. He looked at us with tears in his eyes.

“Make memories,” he said, “because someday memories will be all you’ll have.”

I cherish my memories of yesterday. I loved thinking about happy family times while I peeled those potatoes, and you know what? I found out a tear or two can roll down your cheeks when you’re making scalloped potatoes even when you don’t peel a single onion.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

I’m on Assignment

by Donna Poole

Stan, the hostler, held out a carrot and rubbed my head.

“Sorry, Bella, but the vet says you’ll probably need to stay penned up a bit longer so your leg can keep healing. He’ll know more after he does X-rays tomorrow.

 X-ray time again. I’m nervous—hopeful but afraid to hope.

I tossed my chestnut-colored mane, whinnied, and nuzzled his shoulder.

Stan laughed. “I believe you understand every word I say to you, girl. I hope you get good news tomorrow.”

Stan left and padlocked the door to the small stable where they were keeping me isolated from the other horses so I could rest and heal. The cozy stable hadn’t been so bad during the winter, but spring was coming. I could smell it in the air when Stan opened the door, and today I’d heard the red wing blackbirds. I looked out the stable window and saw only a few piles of snow remained between the oozing patches of mud. Tiny snowdrop flowers were blooming, and in the field winter wheat was growing green.

Spring called to me. I wanted to go outside, kick up my heels, and feel the warm breeze blow through my chestnut mane. I wanted to challenge the wind to a race around the pasture.

I especially missed training and show time. I remembered the feel of my owner on my back when I’d trotted, head high around the ring, and the pride she and I’d both felt every time someone had pinned another ribbon to my halter. More than once my owner and I’d had our picture in “The Morgan Horse Magazine.”

But now I was stuck here, sidelined by my injury. The stable had been a comfortable place for healing, but I was starting to dislike the very word. Stable. Well, tomorrow’s X-ray might show a change. Either I’d be heading back to training and the show ring or off to the glue factory.

Some of the other Morgan horses scoffed, said the glue factory was just a ghost tale the elders told colts to scare them. But Wise One, the oldest of us all, said the glue factory had once been a cruel end for useless horses. He said now they dispose of our bodies by burying, cremation, or taking us to a landfill.

I told him I didn’t much like the idea of the landfill.

“It doesn’t matter what they do with your body, Bella,” Wise One said. “Your body is just the house you live in. It’s not you. The real you isn’t your beautiful mane; it’s the part that feels joy when you toss it back and run with the wind.”

“When I die, what happens to the part of me that feels joy, Wise One?”

He whinnied. “I don’t know, but don’t be afraid. I’m sure the One who made us will know what to do with us when the time comes.”

I didn’t need to ask about the One who made us. All horses instinctively know him. Though we can’t put our feelings into words, we bow our heads low and feel glad when we think of him.

 Tomorrow will come, and with it the X-ray and the vet’s verdict. I’ve been through this before.  Just as I once was on assignment to do my best in the show ring, I’m on an assignment now. It’s to wait. I lie on the straw and sleep.

***

Like Bella, I’ll be on assignment tomorrow, and I hope to hear a better word than “stable” when I finish it. This assignment isn’t one I particularly relish, even though they serve drinks at the location. I know this because I’ve been there many times.

I usually pick the berry flavor drink and manage to gag it down. We aren’t talking milkshakes here, people. The drink is barium, a contrast solution to help the radiologist visualize the PET and CT scans better.

My son-in-law Drew knows there are many assignments I’d rather be on than this one, so he offered an alternative, one involving a cat that belongs to him and Kimmee, our daughter.

“The nice thing about cats is you can use them for both a cat scan and a pet scan,” Drew said.

I laughed. I wish his idea would work.

The scans really aren’t that bad. I got my first cancer related CT and PET scans in June 2020. I continued to have one PET and two CTs every three months during chemotherapy and radiation until May 4, 2021, when I entered a clinical trial for Epcoritamab, a drug not yet on the market. Then the scan assignments came more often, every six weeks for the first four months of the drug trial, then every three months, and now every six months.

When I got my last dose of Epcoritamab a few days ago they told me I’d completed cycle twenty-four. So now it’s time for more scans.

The techs who do the scans are great. They smile when I ask them to try to find my long-lost friend, NED, though I’m sure they hear the joke more often than they wish. NED is an acronym for no evidence of disease. It means remission—glorious word. I love the way that word rolls around on my tongue. I think I’d like to hear someone with a Scottish brogue say it; come to think of it, I’d love to hear anyone say it to me!

The best word I’ve heard so far after my many scans is “stable.”

Just because I haven’t yet found NED hiding under the table in one of the scan rooms doesn’t mean I won’t find him tomorrow.

My assignment isn’t so bad; many assignments are tougher, like the one Shelly Hamilton has. Shelly was sitting beside the bed of her dying father. Her husband Ron, in the last stages of Alzheimer’s, lay in his bed in another room. Ron Hamilton is the well-known author of many beautiful hymns, and Shelly is his wife.

As Shelly waited for God to take her father to heaven, she wrote about her motto, the one she’d learned from her husband’s caregiver: “I’m on assignment.”

Shelly wrote, “I’ve come to understand that assignments never end. As soon as this one is done, another comes along. You’d better be content with being on one.”

I hope to be content with whatever the results are of tomorrow’s scans.

But, like Bella, my fictional horse, I hear spring calling. I’d love to get well enough to challenge the wind to a race.  

I’d like to hear a better word than “stable.”  But Bella and I will be content with stable if that’s our assignments. She’s heard glue factory before; I’ve heard “disease progression.”  I don’t expect to hear disease progression again tomorrow, but someday my life will end. It won’t matter then what happens to my body, though if people follow my instructions, it will go to the University of Michigan for medical research.

My body isn’t the real me; it’s just my house. The part of me that feels joy and wants to challenge the wind to a race around the pasture belongs to the Lord, and I know exactly what he’s going to do when the time comes. He’ll take me where joy never fades, and life never ends. I have his word on it.

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” –John 3:16

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

I Blinked

by Donna Poole

Ten years ago, my family watched the doors leading to the neurosurgery operating room swing shut behind me. Their long prayerful vigil began.

The day before, our five-year-old grandson, Reece, had been so worried about me that he’d sobbed all day. He’d still been crying that evening when we met for food and fellowship in a friend’s home.

Reece curled up next to me in a chair, and we talked quietly. I couldn’t promise him I’d be alright; no one had assured me of that. Brain surgery is serious business. But I did try to calm his fears. He didn’t want me to be alone during surgery.

“I won’t be alone, Reece. Jesus will stay with me every minute. He’ll take care of me. And he’ll be with you too. I’ll try to come home soon, and then you can come see me, okay?”

He nodded, but he still cried.

When it came time to leave, he hugged me as tightly as little boy five-year-old arms can hug and walked me to the door.

“Come back inside, Grandma Donna,” he said, tugging my hand.

“We have to go home now, Reece,” my husband John said.

“I just need her for a minute.”

We couldn’t resist him; those blond curls, those beautiful brown eyes, that tear streaked face.

Reece pulled me back to the chair we’d just left and climbed into it with me.
“I’m going to pray for you,” he said.

He prayed. He asked God to take care of me. He told me he loved me. And then he stopped crying.

I went into surgery for a brain aneurysm surrounded by so many prayers of family and friends. One friend had played a beautiful hymn on her flute the day before at church, “His Eye is on the Sparrow.” Civilla D. Martin wrote the hymn lyrics in 1905:

Why should I feel discouraged
Why should the shadows come
Why should my heart feel lonely
And long for heaven and home
When Jesus is my portion
A constant friend is He
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know He watches over me
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know He watches me

I sing because I’m happy
I sing because I’m free
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know He watches me (He watches me)
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know He watches
I know He watches
I know He watches me

When I had to let go of John’s hand, I didn’t go into surgery alone. That song, Reece’s pray, and the love and prayers of my family and friends went with me. And Jesus? He was already there.

I woke up from surgery minus one brain aneurysm and plus one piece of artificial dura and thirteen pieces of hardware: three clips, seven screws, and three burr hole covers. Recovery wasn’t easy and some things never returned to normal. I forgot how to jump and run and still can’t do those things, but many people lose the ability to walk during that surgery, so I’m not complaining. They sent me home with a souvenir—seizures. But the experience gave me too many gifts to list. I found a new joy in living, a new compassion for people who are suffering, and made many new brain aneurysm and brain AVM friends.

In some ways the surgery seems like yesterday; in other ways it seems a lifetime ago.

Saturday was a vivid reminder of how much has changed in the decade since surgery. That little grandson Reece, the one with the tear-streaked face, came Saturday with a chain saw to help his grandpa clean up from a devastating ice storm we’d had recently. He worked hard and smart, like the wonderful young man he is.

I watched him work, and I wondered, what had happened to the little boy I’d loved so much?

I blinked. That’s what happened. I blinked, and ten years flew by.

Some things haven’t changed a bit. Reece still has curls, though they are darker now. His compassion remains; if anything, it’s stronger. He still loves his grandma. When he came to help his grandpa, I didn’t remind him it was the ten-year anniversary of my brain surgery. I didn’t mention his tears on that long ago day. I just fed him spaghetti, listened to him talk, and kept my tears to myself.

Why my tears? I love the wonderful young man, but I miss the little boy.

But isn’t it true that inside every good man the best of the little boy he once was still lives? And if Reece is anything, he’s a good young man.

When it came time for Reece to leave. I thanked him and hugged him goodbye. I wasn’t just hugging the tall fifteen-year-old young man; I was also hugging the five-year-old boy who will forever live in his grandma’s heart.

I wish I’d pulled him back inside and prayed for him like he did for me ten years ago, but I didn’t. I’ll pray for him and all my grandchildren tonight before I sleep. It’s the best way I know to say how much I love them.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Fun Facts (and Fables) about Famous Folks

by Donna Poole

President’s Day is as good a time as any to take a test, so here’s one for kids and grandparents. Which president of the United States had only one tooth? Who was so chubby people nicknamed him, “His Roundness”? What one skinny-dipped in the Potomac River every morning?

Here’s your test, written in first person by each president. A perfect grade wins you a trip to the White House. No, not that White House, just to the home of any friend or neighbor who lives in a white house. Tell them I sent you.

Do you have your number two pencil ready? Go!

One: I wore my bright red hair in a ponytail, and some people called me, “Red Fox.” I was 6’ 2” tall and had huge hands and feet. I loved food and wrote a cookbook. I refused to gamble, drink, use tobacco, or swear, and I washed my feet in cold water every morning to prevent colds. I played the violin, knew many languages, and enjoyed science. Many people of my day thought tomatoes were poisonous; to prove them wrong I grew the first tomatoes in the United States. I kept my pet Mockingbird, Bill, in my White House study. Before becoming president, I worked for three years to bring religious freedom to Virginia. When I was thirty-three, I drafted the Declaration of Independence. I died on July 4, the same day John Adams did. Who am I?

Two: When I was a boy I fell out of a boat and almost drowned. I had another close call when a Native American shot at me from close range but missed. I loved running, jumping, climbing, and riding horses. I did most of my schooling at home. I tried to run away to sea when I was fourteen, and when I was fifteen, I began work as an assistant surveyor. The first girl I proposed to rejected me. I bet she regretted that when I became president! I was tall, 6’ 3”, and wore a size thirteen shoe. By the time I became president I had only one tooth left. I wore teeth from cows, hippos, and other people. You may not have any trouble guessing my identity: I’m called the father of our country. 

Three: I didn’t have even one tooth; I lost them all but refused to wear false ones. I was only 5’7” tall and weighed 250 pounds. People called me, “His Roundness.” As a boy, I milked cows, fed horses, and helped in the kitchen. I enjoyed marbles, boating, swimming, and wrestling. The Native Americans taught me how to hunt. I liked hunting better than school, but still became state spelling champion when I was ten. When I grew up, I married Abagail, a preacher’s daughter. We had five children, and our oldest son also became a president. We were the first family to live in the White House and my wife hung laundry in the unfinished East Room. I was blunt; I said what I meant, so some people called me rude. I died on July 4, the same day as Thomas Jefferson. Who am I?

Four: Unlike some of the other presidents, I didn’t play outside much as a child. I was too sick. My hobbies were reading and bird watching. I was the first president to wear long pants; the others all wore knee breeches. Come to think of it, I was so short, perhaps I only thought they were long pants. I was the smallest of the first eleven presidents, under 5’6” and about one-hundred pounds. Some people called me, “Frail Jimmy.” I helped fight for religious freedom. My wife was the first to serve ice cream in the White House. When the British invaded Washington in August 1814, my wife refused to leave without saving a portrait of George Washington that still hangs in the White House today. The British ate our warm meal they’d forced us to leave, then stacked the White House furniture, and set it on fire. I’m known as the father of the Constitution. Who am I?

Five: Unlike a certain other president, I never won a spelling contest. I didn’t like school and never learned to spell well. I did learn to read before I was five years old and loved books. They say I was a wild, barefoot boy with a bad temper and always ready to fight. I often played tricks, like turning over out-houses. I joined the army when I was fourteen. When I was sixteen, Grandfather died and left me some money, but I wasted it all. I grew tall, six feet, but weighed only 140 pounds. I was the first president who didn’t come from a rich family. My wife and I didn’t have any children, but we raised her brother’s six children. At the children’s Christmas party one year, my vice-president lost a game and had to run around the room gobbling like a turkey. My nickname was “Old Hickory,” but my political enemies liked to call me “King Andrew.” My last words were, “I hope to meet each of you in heaven.” Have you guessed my name yet?

Six: My father was a Virginia planter, and I was the oldest of five children. I liked to hunt and ride horses. I grew to be over six feet tall, and people said I looked like George Washington. I had a secret compartment in my desk no one discovered until 1906. They found in it letters from Jefferson, Madison, John Marshall, and Lafayette. My wife liked to be called, “Her Majesty,” and my two daughters, considered snobs by many, spent all my money. I died a poor man. Who am I?

Seven: You may think you have a large family, but beat this! I had two brothers, fives sisters, and twenty-one foster siblings. They expelled me from school when I tackled the teacher and tied him up on the floor. I loved playing the violin, target shooting, and fox hunting. I was a vice-president but became president when the president died after only a month in office. My last child was born when I was seventy years old. I wasn’t a popular president, and after I left office, the North called me a traitor because I became a member of the Confederate Congress. Who am I?

Eight: When I was a boy I enjoyed trapping, gardening, swimming, and horseback riding. As a man I liked to play billiards, walk, read, raise plants, ride horses, swim, and read my Bible. I read the Bible through at least once a year. Every morning before breakfast I read chapters of it first in English, then in French, and then in German. I published a book of poetry. Around five every morning I skinny-dipped in the Potomac River. I wasn’t a favorite with reporters; I refused to give any interviews; perhaps I feared the reporters would follow me to the river. I was 5’7” and quite heavy. I wore the same hat for ten years. My father was a president too. Have you guessed my identity?

Nine: When I was a boy I hid in the barn and read when it was time to do chores. I was the oldest of ten children and was born on a farm in the North Carolina frontier. I was a thin 5’8” tall. I became president when I was forty-nine. My wife and I disapproved of drinking, card playing, and dancing, and we banned them from the White House. At my inauguration party, they stopped the music and hid the liquor for the two hours my wife and I were there. I wonder what they did after we left? We had no children. My wife was my secretary and worked with me twelve to fourteen hours a day. Who am I?

Ten: My father signed the Declaration of Independence, and I was the youngest of his seven children. I eloped with my bride; we eventually had ten children. One of my grandsons later became president. I liked to study the Bible and ride horses. I was a famous fighter and a major general in the War of 1812, my nickname was “Old Tippecanoe.” Some people thought I was too old, at sixty-seven, to become president, and they called me “Granny.” I stood on the east steps of the Capitol to give my inaugural address. It was a cold, rainy, windy day, but I didn’t wear a coat or hat. My speech lasted one hour and forty minutes; some say it was two hours. I got sick and died of pneumonia one month after my swearing in as president. Who am I?

Eleven: I was the first president who was born an American citizen. I grew up speaking Dutch better than English because my ancestors emigrated from the Netherlands. I became an assistant lawyer when I was sixteen. I was about 5’6” tall and had blue eyes and curly red sideburns. My nicknames were “Little Magician” and “Little Van.” Most people thought I had a happy disposition; people said I was gentle and soft-spoken. I loved giving speeches and was pretty good at it, even as a boy. I also like opera and fishing. I really enjoyed telling jokes and even told them to my fiercest political enemies. Who am I?

Answers:

  1. Thomas Jefferson
  2. George Washington
  3. John Adams
  4. James Madison
  5. Andrew Jackson
  6. James Monroe
  7. John Tyler
  8. John Quincy Adams
  9. James K Polk
  10. William Henry Harrison
  11. Martin Van Buren

Did anyone get all the answers correct?

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

My Poor Valentine

by Donna Poole

I’m not making this up.

You may think it’s fiction, but it’s fact.

John and I were visiting a church. To protect the guilty, I won’t tell you the denomination or the location, but I’ll say this; it was a very large church. The message was good, a bit lengthy, but good. Then came the invitation sometimes known as the altar call.

For the uninitiated, let me explain. An altar call isn’t a bad thing; it’s often sweet and holy. During the final hymn the pastor invites people to come to the front. Some may come to indicate their desire to trust Christ as Savior, to be baptized, or just to kneel at the altar and pray.

The pastor in the church we visited began the altar call. We sang a favorite hymn, one I’ve loved since childhood, “Just as I Am” by Charlotte Elliott (1789-1871).

I wasn’t surprised when we sang all the verses because that’s what we’d done with all the previous hymns we’d sung in that church.

The words are beautiful and true:

1 Just as I am, without one plea,
But that Thy blood was shed for me,
And that Thou bidst me come to Thee,
O Lamb of God, I come.

Refrain:
Just as I am, Just as I am,
Just as I am, I come.

2 Just as I am, and waiting not
To rid my soul of one dark blot;
To Thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot,
O Lamb of God, I come. [Refrain]

3 Just as I am, though tossed about,
With many a conflict, many a doubt;
Fightings within and fears without,
O Lamb of God, I come. [Refrain]

4 Just as I am, Thou wilt receive,
Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve;
Because Thy promise I believe,
O Lamb of God, I come. [Refrain]

After each verse, and sometimes during each one, the pastor pleaded with people to come to the altar, but no one responded. So, he began singing the hymn again. I looked around; no one seemed surprised by the repetition, not even when it continued to happen. For. Fifteen. Minutes.

I started feeling sorry for the pastor. His pleading began to sound desperate. I felt sorry for the congregation having to stand that long, but they seemed immune. I felt especially sorry for myself. I was tired. I was hungry. We were on vacation.

Like John Wayne said, “Slap some bacon on a biscuit and let’s go! We’re burnin’ daylight!”

I had a sudden epiphany.

“Scuse me,” I whispered to John, also known as Pastor John Poole, when we’re home, not on vacation, and he’s behind the pulpit in our church.

He thought I needed to use the lady’s room. He inched back to give me room to slip out but looked uneasily at the line of relatives still between him and the center aisle. I could see it on his face. It was going to be a tight squeeze for me to exit; John was going to ask me if I could wait.

That’s not what he asked. He studied my face and looked suspicious.

“Wait. Why do you want to get out?” he whispered as the congregation sang verse three for the thirtieth or fortieth time.

“I’m going to the altar.”

“You’re going to do what? Why?”

Our whispering should have been distracting, but everyone had their faces buried in their hymnals. They were probably trying to avoid eye contact with the now tearful face of their pastor.

“Because! That man isn’t going to let us leave until someone repents. I’m sure I can think of something to repent of on my way up there.”

A storm was brewing on my sweet John’s face. He’s a funny guy, full of jokes, fun, and laughter, but there are certain things that are sacred cows, and you do not joke about them. Apparently, the altar call was one of them.

But I wasn’t joking. I had every intention of walking down, down that long aisle in that big church and thinking of something to say to the pastor when I got to the front.

Perhaps I could just say, “I need to talk to the Lord about the sin in my life.”

I mean, everyone has sin in their life, right? By the time I got to the front of the church I’d be guilty of the sin of deception of just going to the altar so I could slap some bacon on my biscuit, get going, and not spend anymore vacation time singing fifty more verses.

“I’m serious, John. Let me out.”

Poor guy. He loves me enough to die for me, I think, but sometimes he just doesn’t know what to do with me.

It was a stare down between the two of us, but we never found out who would win, because someone else went to the altar. The organist hurried off to bandage her blistered fingers, and the pastor closed in prayer. Amazingly, he showed no sign of laryngitis.

As for the repentant sinner who walked down the long, long aisle? I hate it when people judge others’ motives, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he was truly sorry or if he just wanted to go eat fried chicken.

 Well, today is Valentine’s Day, and I write this in honor of my wonderful John who has been my Valentine for a long, long time. He’s loved me for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. He’s even loved me when I wanted to answer an altar call just so I could get out of church.

Where was the church? I won’t tell you the denomination or the location, but I’ll say this; it was a very large church. And as we left they said, “Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?”

John and me when we were young.

I Got Letters

by Donna Poole

Once upon a time I got mail, real mail, lots of mail! It came with colorful stamps and ended up in the battered rural mailbox we had back then.

Before people had the internet and could just type a quick note on Facebook or a comment at the end of a blog, it took real work to contact a writer. In retrospect, I’m surprised so many did it. I have heaps of mail I’ve saved through the years so my kids can have the honor of throwing it out after I depart these premises and go where no one gets mail.

Sometimes a letter arrived addressed to “Donna Poole Writer Pittsford, Michigan.” Other times an envelope said “Lickley’s Corners Baptist Church Donna Poole Pastor’s Wife Pittsford Michigan.” The mailman knew us; it’s a small town, and the letters arrived. If, perchance, one went into a neighbor’s mailbox, the neighbor brought it over.

Usually, my fan (or hate) mail was addressed, not to me, but to the publications I wrote for. Editors then forwarded it to me. One editor often included humorous remarks to take the sting off if the letter was of the “you stink” variety.

Once an editor wrote, “If you quote me, I’ll deny it, but I’d hate to be married to this woman. I think she has problems beyond her dislike of your column and our publication.”

Why did I get so much mail? I had a column in one magazine for twenty-two years; that’s long enough to make readers either love you or hate you.

I also wrote Sunday school curriculum for children for over fifty years. Some of my favorite mail came from kids. One little girl wrote, “I liked your lesson. Do you know anything else about the Bible? If you do, will you write back and tell me what it is?”

The children drew pictures of me the way they imagined I might look and decorated their pictures with hearts and stickers and almost always signed their notes, “I love you.” I didn’t get any hate mail from children.

I didn’t really get much negative mail from adults either. People wrote for other reasons. Some people contacted me to share their sorrows; cancer at age thirty-five with five children nine years and younger, the loss of a daughter at the hands of a drunk driver, a woman only in her thirties needing dialysis three times a week. Many people wrote to tell me about their lives or families. Some people wanted my help; to compile a book for them, to locate an out-of-print book, to sell something, to find a topic for a mother-daughter banquet, to do some research for them, to send them a list of recommended books for a certain age. Some people wanted advice on how to get started with writing or how to fix a broken relationship. I got asked for recipes. I received requests to speak in many places as far away as a remote village in India.

I didn’t get any neutral letters. Some people asked me to write more; some asked me to shut up and never write again. Some asked me to use more quotes; some said I quoted far too often. Some praised my style: “So glad it’s deep and not the fluff most women’s columns are.” Another reader dismissed my writing as “fluff” and “out of touch with reality.”

One man threatened my editor if he continued to print “this kind of thing” (my column) his church would stop buying all material published by that press including their Sunday school curriculum.

A lady in her late eighties wrote to tell me she had a mission in life, and it was to correct authors’ mistakes. She pointed out a word I’d misspelled. I wrote back. You’d be proud of my humility; I didn’t say I was glad she had such a noble purpose for staying alive.

Another sweet lady, also in her eighties, wrote to suggest a topic for my next column. She wanted me to write about people who refuse to help clean the church. She was the only one in a church of one-hundred members who offered to help when the pastor requested. She closed with, “When you write about this, please don’t use my name.”

One woman took offense at the authors I quoted. She was sure none of them were headed for heaven. She went on to say she didn’t believe I was a true Christian either, and that if I didn’t know enough not to read those kinds of books, my pastor husband should stop me, and if he didn’t know any better either, he certainly did not belong behind the pulpit!

Did I respond? I’m sure I did. I answered every letter unless my editor told me not to. There were several vicious ones from a man in California. My editor told me to quit responding and also told me he hoped I never ran into that man in a dark alley somewhere!

Well, a sage wisely said everyone who has a dog who loves him needs a cat who hates him.

Probably ninety-eight percent of the letters were kind. The phrase I heard most often and the one that warmed my heart was, “I feel like I know you.”

When a columnist or a blogger can make that kind of connection with her readers, she’s done her job.

I still occasionally get real mail with stamps on it. A reader from Ireland has brightened my day several times with mail, but most people are like me. We use snail mail now and then, but we rely on text messages, email, Facebook, and Facebook messenger. And that’s fine. I enjoy the connections I make with readers on the internet too.

By the way, let me be perfectly clear. Whether you live in a remote village in India or the town next to mine, please don’t ask me to come speak at your mother-daughter banquet, or your puppy’s adoption, or at your boat’s christening. Why not? I won’t be able to come. I’ll have laryngitis. I can guarantee it.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

Shrinkflation

by Donna Poole

I have thousands of them.

Half a century ago, I started copying on three by five cards quotes from books I was reading. I did this for many years, stopped, and recently started again. Something is different this time. My handwriting is wobbly now, looks like an old lady’s scrawl, and I can’t imagine why. But something else is different too.

“John, feel this.” I handed my husband an old three by five card I’d written a quote on many years ago.

“Now feel this.” I gave him a newborn three by five, baby-fresh from its package.

The old card was thick, sturdy, dependable; something made to last half a century.

The new card is a lightweight piece of junk. I don’t know how long it will survive being pulled out and pushed into its place in my antique card file cabinet.

This small irritation, during all the world’s enormous crises, bugged me. It was like a tiny mosquito buzzing around my ear and refusing to be swatted. So, I asked Siri and Safari why three by five cards are thinner now, and when they shrugged and yawned, I went to know-it-all Google. Eureka! I found I was not alone in my angst. Others have noticed and commented too, not just on the decline in quality of the humble index card, but also in construction paper, and many other things too.

It seems in many ways we’re paying more but getting less for our buck. There’s even a word for what’s happening, “Shrinkflation.”

“It kind of feels like you’ve been had.” So says Professor Hitendra Chaturvedi from Arizona State University when commenting on shrinkflation.

No “kinda” about it, Prof. We’ve been had alright!

Shrinkflation: Put less in the package but charge the consumer the same amount of money or even more.

Shrinkflation: make index cards almost as thin as notebook paper.

The consumer won’t notice.

I sympathize with manufacturers’ dilemmas; raw materials cost more. Way more. But I resent their assumption that the average consumer won’t notice there’s five to twenty percent less than there used to be inside bags and boxes. I resent even more they were correct; with most products, I didn’t notice.

I read an article listing some of the products included in shrinkflation: Cottenelle, Sun Maid Raisins, Safeguard soap, Keebler’s M & M cookies, GM cereals, and others.

I’ve noticed shrinkflation in something everyone needs that isn’t for sale. We may offer less of ourselves to others after circumstances and people leave us battle scarred and hurt. We put up shields. We become a little less kind and giving. Perhaps we present ourselves as the same package we once were, but there’s less inside. We have no intention of putting ourselves out there for others the way we once did; what if we get hurt again?

Or maybe we aren’t battle scarred and hurt; we’re just weary. Why keep caring and giving when so few others do?

Kindness shrinkflation is everywhere.

In a world that’s growing colder, more callous, and more self-centered, I’m blessed to know so many givers, people who’ve resisted shrinkflation, the way they do at my favorite coffee shop, Pam’s Place.

Pam sets the tone at her place. She opens before most of us wake up every morning, ready to welcome the earliest risers, not just with delicious coffee, but also with a smile and an encouraging word or two. I’ve gotten to know several of her regular customers. It’s a place where people actually connect with each other.

There’s no shrinkflation of kindness at Pam’s Place; it’s everywhere. No one argues. We don’t talk much about politics, except maybe to tease Ken about being in Facebook jail so often. People don’t stay long; we’re all busy. Someone may tell a joke. Someone else may ask for prayer. We stop by, say good morning, grab our coffee, and we’re gone. But the kindness of Pam’s Place lingers for the rest of the day.

Pam’s Place isn’t real. That is, it’s not brick and mortar real. There isn’t even a coffee shop named Pam’s Place; that’s just what I call it.

Pam is real. She’s a Facebook friend I’ve known since high school. Pam does something many would think a little thing. Every morning she finds an attractive photo of coffee cups, adds a few words of encouragement, and posts it on Facebook. Every evening Pam shares a lovely picture and says goodnight. In a world where kindness is shrinking, Pam spends time, every single day, to give a little joy to the people in her world.

Several of us check in with Pam each morning. Chris was a regular; she was a tea drinker, and Pam often had some virtual tea waiting for her. When Chris died of cancer, we stopped by Pam’s page and found comfort from each other. A little thing became a big thing that day.

You don’t have to post on Facebook every morning to add kindness to this hurting world.

At the cancer center where I go many different nurses come to collect patients when it’s time for a treatment. One nurse comes into the large room and sings the patient’s name. It makes me smile, and I’m not the only one who smiles in that room where many are hiding tears.

A text. A phone call. A plate of cookies. A smile. A hand on a shoulder. A prayer. Find your own way to give a little kindness. Little things become big things.

Call me D.P.—not Donna Poole but Dreamer Pollyanna; I can see it now, a world without any shrinkflation of kindness. It could happen too if everyone would just be a Pam.

Meanwhile, while I wait for that to happen, does anyone know where I can buy some decent three by five cards?

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

The Greatest Celebration

by Donna Poole

The corn grew tall that July weekend, just as it had done when the Potawatomi had roamed this land. Sweet and clear, the church bell rang out over the green fields. It was saying, “It’s time to celebrate! Come on over.”

The church had hosted many celebrations in its century long history, standing on the corner where two dirt roads meet. Old timers told of weddings where guests had stood four-deep outside around open windows trying to catch a glimpse of the bride and groom. And the one room schoolhouse next door that had served as both a community club and a church fellowship hall had its own stories to tell of spelling bees and quilt making parties.

The four corners had once boasted a post office, a country store, a grange hall, and a church. Only the church was left. A local newspaper said the once bustling corners was now “barely a presence on the map.” That might be true for some, but for the pastor who’d spent his entire adult life there, loving on the broken and the hurt, the church was his heart.

The pastor had guided several generations of children during his years at that church, including his own children and his grandchildren. When his kids had been young, they’d gone to church for Sunday school, morning worship, evening service, and Wednesday prayer service. They’d never questioned going or complained about it, even when they were teens; it was just part of life. They’d loved the church, and the church had usually loved them back. That’s not to say they hadn’t rejoiced when a snowstorm, or a loss of electrical power. or some other event had closed the church for the day.

When the kids had been young, prayer meeting had started late to give the farmers a chance to finish milking before coming. It had also been the service most poorly attended. The pastor’s boys had often stood, feet planted firmly on the hardwood floor, peering out of the clear glass section of the stained-glass windows, hoping against hope that no one would pull into the parking lot.

“Dad, it’s five minutes after eight. How long do we have to wait until we can go home?”


“Someone might still be coming. Let’s give it until quarter after.”

If it had been winter, they’d taken turns abdicating the window watch to go stand on the big square register between the pews, the only heat source. The old furnace beneath the register had moaned and groaned, struggling to keep up with the wild winds whipping around the white frame building. Usually, the winds had won.

Sometimes, when the fifteen minutes had expired, the kids had gotten their wish. No one had come to prayer meeting, and they’d gotten to go home.

Other times, the boys had groaned at twelve minutes after eight o’clock. “Oh no! Here comes Anna May.”

The children, two boys, two girls, now middle-aged adults were there today for the celebration. And so were many others who’d grown up travelling down the dirt roads to the white frame church. As they waited for the celebration to begin, people reminisced about the old days.

“Remember when you threw the baseball through the stained-glass window?”

“As I recall, it was you who did that!”

“Well, remember when you tried to throw one of the girls’ flip flops over the roof and it got stuck up there, so you tried to knock it off with a frisbee, and that got stuck too?”

“I do believe I remember that.”

The new fellowship hall, the one the pastor didn’t think he’d ever live long enough to see finished, was completed, but barely in time. It still smelled like fresh paint. It could seat one-hundred twenty people, a proud number for the little church on the corners, and it was packed full of at least that many. Some talked fondly of happy fellowships in the old schoolhouse, but it had seated only about fifty people and had no running water, and no indoor bathroom.

For that matter, the church itself had no running water and no indoor bathroom when the young pastor and his wife had come, with their two-year-old, to rural southern Michigan fifty years before. The “bathroom” had been an outhouse outback. The pastor’s wife had found it humorous that in warm weather every child in the church had to make at least one trip to the outhouse, but when it had been cold or rainy, no one had to go.

The pastor’s wife was quiet that celebration day as she watched the women bustling in the kitchen area, finishing the last-minute food preparations. For years she’d overseen everything like that and had cooked a good deal of the food too, but those days were long gone. She looked at her walker, but not with regret. The years had been good years. Time had dulled the hurts that had happened in the little country church and had left in their place only a warm gratitude for the love and community she’d found here. She’d never expected to feel contented to be an old lady, but she was, except for that one thing she couldn’t change. She’d not fight with the Lord about that; what good would it do?

Someone tapped the mic. It was time for the celebration to start; the church was honoring her husband’s fifty years of faithful service. He’d come to the country community not knowing a combine from a planter or beans from winter wheat. But he’d learned. He’d helped chase down stray cows and pigs, saved a calf from a pack of wild dogs, and once had dropped down a coal chute to rescue children accidentally locked inside a house. God had blessed him for that half-century. Big churches might scoff at what looked small to them, but she believed the old song, “Little is much when God is in it.”

He was no Billy Graham, her man, but he’d helped a few here and there find God. And he’d loved his people well and taught them to love one another. He’d loved her well too, and his children and grandchildren. Some of them were speaking today to honor him.

But first the singing! How that church could sing! Then came the speaking. So many people, so many words.

One son said, “There aren’t many left like my dad. I’m proud to be his son.”

A daughter said, “He tried everyday to live what he preached. I love him so much.”

A little girl said, “His face made me happy.”

After thirty minutes of praise that would have made an angel blush, they asked the pastor’s wife to speak. She said only a few words; she didn’t have strength for more. “I want to say we love you and thank you. We wouldn’t be what we are; we couldn’t have done what we have without you. Now I want to read you one of our favorite verses.”

Her hands trembled as she tried to turn the pages, and a daughter helped her find Psalm 115:1. “Not unto us, O Lord,” she read, “but unto thy name give the glory, for thy mercy and for thy truth’s sake.”

And then came the food, such an abundance of food prepared by loving hands in honor of this celebration.

The pastor’s wife didn’t eat much; she was so tired, but she loved hearing the conversation and laughter flow around her. She wished today never had to end; she’d hold it in her heart forever. But it did end, as all things must.

Her son helped her to the car. “Mom, do you ever wonder about God’s timing? Why did He have to take Dad to heaven last week? Dad would have loved today.”

She looked up at him and smiled through her tears. “I missed him terribly today, but I kept thinking this beautiful celebration was nothing compared to what he’s enjoying now.”

Her son bent down and hugged her. “You’re right, Mom. He’s having the grandest celebration of all.”

The church bell rang sweetly again, signaling the end of another wonderful day at the corner where two dirt roads meet. And the corn grew tall.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

Who Needs Hallmark?

by Donna Poole

Dead is dead, right? I mean you can’t say something is so dead.

But it is. It is so dead.

The beautiful tree we bought the day after Thanksgiving 2022 and decorated with so much joy and hope stands desolate and dead in our living room. Needles scatter all over the floor, along with a few ornaments the cats have knocked down.

I look at the dead tree and at the needles slowly taking over the house and sigh. Symbolic they are. For all the plans we had for Christmas activities that never happened. Why not? Let’s just say it was this, that, and the other thing. Including influenza and Covid.

It’s past the middle of January 2023 now and we still haven’t had family Christmas. I happen to know three grandkids in Ohio ask almost every day when it’s going to happen, and I imagine the rest of our crew of fourteen grandchildren wonder the same thing. It’s now scheduled for the last Sunday of the month, Lord willing and if the creek don’t rise, and hope against hope.

But the tree is dead. No one has had the physical or emotional energy to remove its decorations. I’m going to do that as soon as I finish writing this article. Maybe. I know John will help me. I’m already hearing hundreds, thousands, millions of dead needles falling as we remove ornaments.

Okay, so I exaggerate. It’s a prerogative of authors and evangelists.

Which reminds me. Did you hear about the evangelist who went to a pastor pleading for an intervention?

“Please, help me. I’m preaching at your church Sunday, and the Lord has convicted me of sin. I have a ginormous problem with exaggeration. I’ve literally cried gallons of tears about it.”

The pastor nodded. “You do have a problem.”

“Will you sit behind me when I preach? If I exaggerate, tug on my suitcoat.”

Sunday came. The evangelist held the congregation spellbound with his persuasive personality and superb storytelling.

“I don’t usually preach in churches this small,” he said. “The last auditorium I preached in was one-thousand feet long!”

He felt a strong tug on his suit coat and cleared his throat.

“Yes, five-hundred feet long…and two feet wide.”

Well, we didn’t have a Walton Family Christmas or a Hallmark movie one either this year, but lest I exaggerate our woes we had many blessings too. Our kids’ program at church was excellent; I loved every minute. Our candlelight service, always a favorite, lived up to expectations. True, no one remembered to bring a candle, not even us, but the readings and specials captured hearts. Christmas Day here with just the four of us really was wonderful, white Christmas and all, until I got sick in the middle of it.

And there hasn’t been a day since when everyone here has felt completely well. That’s why the dead tree still stands, yet undecorated, a metaphor for shattered plans.

Life’s magical moments, its joy filled days can’t last forever. During a celebration death knocks on a door somewhere; or a doctor gives a grim diagnosis, or a heartbreak ends a relationship.

You and I, we climbed our hills with so much hope, didn’t we? The highest height was just in sight when we slipped and began a downward slide. I see a sled. Grab it my friend; hold on tight, and off you go. Let the tears freeze on your cheeks as you zig zag down. It’s quiet now, peaceful even, and the sled finds its own way through beautiful snow draped pines. You aren’t going in the direction you’d hoped, but you see beauty through those frozen tears. The sled skids sideways and stops. You’re at the bottom now. You climb off, weary and sad, and look up at where you once were. Perhaps one day you’ll have the energy to climb again, but not now. You’re too tired; the hill is too steep. Your hands are freezing; somehow, you’ve lost your mittens. You shove your hands into your pockets to warm them and feel a flicker of warmth in your heart. You know right away what it is, and you thank God you haven’t lost that. It’s hope. You glance to your left and see someone else climbing off a sled. It’s me, I haven’t lost hope either, not yet.  

Hope is why we’re decorating another tree here in the next few days.

Our daughter who lives with us discovered an artificial flocked tree at an after Christmas sale. We split the cost. It arrives today. Those decorations I’m taking off the dead tree are going on the new one. No one in this house is a big fan of artificial trees, but I think we’re going to love this one.

Are we crazy to decorate again? Maybe. But family Christmas, like life, is what you make it. And along with love, laughter, and lots of good food, we want a tree at our family Christmas. For the grandkids. Okay, for the grandma too. Trees are metaphors for lots of things. Ours has lots of lights and a spinning antique star ornament. It says yesterday. It says today. And it says maybe tomorrow.  

“Through the years we all will be together

If the Lord allows

Hang a shining star upon the highest bough

And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.” –Hannah Kerr lyrics

Please Pass the Macaroni Salad

by Donna Poole

It wasn’t the smartest decision I’ve ever made but I couldn’t help myself.

You see, our dear pastor friend had died. Because of my cancer treatments I couldn’t do any of the things I used to do. I couldn’t go to the memorial service to honor him and comfort his wife or hug his family members, also my dear friends. I couldn’t serve at the funeral dinner.

I’m no longer on one of the hospitality groups at church. Every January I still print up the sign-up lists for the hospitality groups and children’s church workers, but the last three Januarys I haven’t been able to add my name the way I always did before.

I’ve lost count of how many funeral dinners I once oversaw, but those days are no more.

Our church didn’t fix the entire meal for our pastor friend’s funeral dinner. The people in charge only requested salads.

My husband, John, started to call Martha and Marilyn, the two women on our church hospitality committee that month, so they could arrange the salads.

“Tell them I’ll make enough macaroni salad for one-hundred and fifty people,” I told John. “That way they won’t have to get so many other salads.”

He stared at me.

His Donna? The one who usually must take a nap after a simple shower because she’s so exhausted?

“Don’t forget you have the family coming here for Thanksgiving the day before, honey.”

“I know.”

“And Kimmee can’t help you make all that salad; she and Jenny have to shoot a wedding.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t know how much I can help you either. If I’m going to take Thanksgiving Day off to be with family, get ready to preach the funeral on Saturday, and prepare for Sunday, I probably won’t have much time available to help you on Friday.”

“I’ll be fine. I love that family and I can’t be there to comfort them. And I love Martha and Marilyn. There’s so much I can’t do, honey. Please, let me do this for everyone.”

“If you’re sure….”

“I’m sure. Make the call.”

The following days were a storm of activity, cooking, cleaning, moving furniture, setting up tables, and decorating for Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving was wonderful, a day of love and laughter, one of those days you keep in your heart forever.

After everyone left and we cleaned up I think I must have found our bed. I don’t remember.

The next morning, I could barely wake up. Then I remembered. Macaroni salad for one-hundred fifty! My feet hit the ground with a groan and a prayer. Well, the recipe was easy enough. Just in case you ever need it, here it is.

Macaroni Salad for 150

8 pounds macaroni cooked and drained

4 ½ pounds shredded cheddar cheese

8 pounds fully cooked ham cubed

3 bags frozen peas, 20-oz each, thawed

3 bunches celery, chopped (about 18 cups)

3 large onions, chopped

3 jars green olives, sliced (Sorry, I can’t remember the size.)

Dressing:

12 cups mayonnaise

12 ounces Western or French salad dressing

½ cup white vinegar

½ cup sugar

2 cups half and half

2 ¼ t onion salt

2 ¼ t garlic salt

1 ½ t salt

1 ½ t pepper

Directions:

In several large bowls, combine the first seven ingredients. In a large bowl, combine all the dressing ingredients; pour over ham mixture and toss to coat. Cover and refrigerate until serving.

“You call me if you need me,” John said.

“I won’t need you,” I promised.

So much for promises!

In generosity added to love I forgot to calculate one vital factor: Who has containers big enough to mix that much macaroni salad?

It wasn’t long before John was in the kitchen helping me. I still don’t know how we did it. I’m pretty sure our guardian angels were laughing, not helping. Finally, we got all the salad mixed and put into sturdy, disposable lasagna pans, all that would fit, that is.

There was a considerable amount of salad left.

“You know I love macaroni salad, honey,” John said as he started hunting for containers to put the leftovers in.

I looked at the kitchen. Every pot, pan, and bowl we had was dirty. There wasn’t a clean spot to sit even a coffee cup.

About then our granddaughter stopped by and were we ever happy to see her! We were more than ready to sit.

“Come in, Megan!” I laughed when she walked into the kitchen. “This is what a kitchen looks like when you make macaroni salad for one-hundred fifty people. Want some?”

“No, but thanks, Grandma.”

She looked around the messy kitchen with those wide blue eyes of hers and offered to clean it up, but I refused.

“Just stay and talk awhile, if you have time.”

Megan did stay, and her grandpa and I loved every minute. Lunch time came and went. She had to be hungry. Again, I offered macaroni salad. Again, she politely refused.

We hated to see Megan leave; we always do.

And then we tackled the kitchen. What a job.

“She…went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends—a mammoth task.” –O’ Henry

When we finally finished cleaning up, John was ready for macaroni salad. We ate it several times that day.

By the next morning when John left early to deliver the pans of salad for the funeral dinner, I was already tired of eating it.

“Tell them to give any leftovers to the family or the kitchen help, okay?”

“I think they said they’re going to give the dinner leftovers to the homeless shelter.”

I’m pretty sure I made way too much macaroni salad. I’m pretty sure the people at the homeless shelter couldn’t eat it all. I’m pretty sure it ended up in a dumpster somewhere, but that’s okay. I was just glad it didn’t come back home because we ate the macaroni salad we had here way longer than it’s safe to eat it, and I haven’t made it since. Nor do I plan to.

A few days later I remembered something. Megan doesn’t like macaroni salad. And it seems I don’t either, not anymore!

Is it possible to have too much of a good thing? Maybe. I do believe I ate way too many pieces of Christmas chocolate candy. But I don’t think you can have too much generosity mixed with love. I’d do it again it a heartbeat; if I thought it could bring a little help and comfort to my friends, I’d offer to make salad for one-hundred and fifty people.

But you better believe it wouldn’t be macaroni salad.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole


 

photo of cooking pots
Photo by Janko Ferlic on Pexels.com

New Year’s Substitutions

by Donna Poole

“Addie, it’s almost midnight,” Paul said. “You should be sleeping.”

She was sitting up in bed, notebook propped on her knees, pencil in hand. “I know, Daddy, but I’m working on my New Year’s substitutions.”

“Your what?”

“You know. Like you and Mommy made. I heard you say you want to lose a few pounds, and Mommy said she wants to read more, especially her Bible.”

Paul chuckled and adjusted the beanie that had slid too far forward on Addie’s bald head. “Oh, I see, your resolutions.”

“Uh huh. That’s what I said.”

“Well, how about if I unplug your Christmas tree lights now so it’s darker in here so you can sleep. You can work on your resolutions tomorrow.”

“Do you want to see what I wrote?”

“Maybe tomorrow, honey. You need to sleep.”

He put her notebook and pencil on the bedside table, and she snuggled down under her covers.

“I’ll go to sleep, Daddy, but please leave the tree lights on. I wish we could leave the decorations up until Valentine’s Day!”

He kissed her forehead. She felt warm.

Please, Lord, not neutropenia again and another trip to the ER.

He took her temperature. It wasn’t yet to the point the oncologist ordered ER visits.

“You come get Mommy and me if you start feeling sick.”

“I will, but I feel fine! Daddy, does your angel whisper to you before you fall asleep?”

He shook his head.

“You do believe in angels, don’t you Daddy? Because my angel whispers to me.”

If she wants to believe an angel whispers to her, and that gives her comfort, let her believe it.

He kept back sobs until he got to the living room where Jenna folded him in her arms.

“Let it out, honey. I’ve been crying most of the day. I’m not sure the treatments are working, and the oncologist gives such vague answers. And he’s always in a hurry and never smiles. It’s hard talking to him.”

Paul wiped his eyes. “He doesn’t have an easy job, honey. He isn’t God; he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want us to lose hope.”

He felt her tremble. “I’m not losing hope, Paul, but I’m scared. It’s so hard having to take a seven-year-old for chemotherapy. Last week a little three-year-old was next to us. She sobbed the whole time, until Addie asked if she wanted her to tell her a story. Addie told her a beautiful story about how her guardian angel whispers to her a bedtime. She told the little girl she had an angel too, and she should listen right before she falls asleep, and maybe the angel will talk to her about heaven or even sing to her. That little girl of ours has quite an imagination.”

Paul turned on the gas fireplace and they sat on the couch in front of it. “I’m not so sure it’s her imagination. I think she really believes it. She told me tonight her angel whispers to her.”

Jenna looked at him. “Do you think it’s possible?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? The Bible says children have angels.”

Jenna put her head on his shoulder. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this tired, body, soul, and spirit. She usually took down Christmas decorations on New Year’s Day, and here it was the third, and she couldn’t even think about beginning the chore. She told Paul how she felt.

Paul said, “Addie said she wished we could leave decorations up until Valentine’s Day. Why don’t we do that for her. Just in case…” He cleared his throat. “You know what she was doing tonight? She was working on what she called her New Year’s Substitutions.”

Jenna sat up. “Her what?”

“You know, substitutions. Resolutions?”

“Oh!” Jenna laughed.

“What were they?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look.”

“Do you think she’d mind if we sneak in there and take a peek?”

Paul shook his head. “She wouldn’t mind. She tried to show them to me earlier. I want to check on her anyway. Her temperature was up a little.”

Jenna groaned. “Not again!”

Addie’s room glowed with the soft lights from her tree. Jenna went to her bed and softly kissed her forehead. Her temperature felt normal.

Thank you, Lord.

Addie smiled in her sleep. Jenna checked to be sure her bucket was next to her bed, just in case she got sick during the night, a frequent occurrence.

Paul was reading the notebook and tears were running down his face.

He took Jenna’s hand and led her back to the living room couch. He handed her the notebook.

Jenna read what Addie had printed:

My New Year Subtatoshuns

Help kids not to cry

Help nurses not to be sad

Help doctur to smile

Help mommy and daddy not to be afrade about if I dye becuse Jesus will take care of me

It took quite awhile before Jenna could speak. “She knows we’re afraid.”

Paul nodded. “She’s a smart kid.”

“We can do better that this,” Jenna said. “I have a New Year’s substitution of my own. How about if we try to practice what we believe? Why don’t we face the future with faith instead of fear? Yes, we may lose Addie this year, but let’s not let fear spoil the time we have left with her!”

Paul smiled. “Well look at me. I have a smart daughter, and a smart wife.”

He hugged Jenna tightly. When she came up for air she asked, “What do you think that angel whispers in her ear every night?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he tells her that whatever happens, it’s going to be okay.”

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

The Christmas Pen-Part Five-Conclusion

by Donna Poole

Kat touched Johnny’s shoulder. She didn’t reach for his hand; he was gripping the steering wheel and staring out at the snow whipping across the country roads. He was used to city driving in Chicago, not backroads like these.

“Oh, the things you do for love, Johnny Dryden,” she said.

He gave her a quick smile. “Hard to believe it’s been a year and a week since I found you in your grandparent’s room at Riverside Assisted Living and Memory Care. I grabbed your hand that day and haven’t let go since!”

“You aren’t holding it now.” She teased.

“In just a few hours you’re going to be Kathleen Dryden and I’d like you to be able to say your vows in one piece. This storm is something else! At least it might keep some party goers off the road. Tell me again why we decided to get married on New Year’s Eve?”

“Because, after all the tears of this year, we wanted to begin next year with joy.”

Kat’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of the agonizing pain Grandma had suffered for weeks before she died, and the heart attack that took Grandpa a few hours after she went to be with Jesus. And then just a month after Mr. Ken had their joint memorial service, he joined them in heaven. Losing her grandparents and then her dear older friend had sent Kat spiraling into a deeper grief than she’d ever known.

She could barely choke out the words. “Johnny, I’m glad God took Grandpa before his beloved Corners Church in Wisconsin burned to the ground after the lightning strike. He would have been heartbroken to hear the small congregation disbanded. And somehow it seemed to me like the end. The end of so many things….”

Johnny took one hand off the steering wheel and reached for hers.

“I’m sorry, Kat. I loved your grandparents and I’m glad they didn’t have to know about the church. They suffered enough this year. The year wasn’t all bad though; they had some wonderful times. We all did!”

She laughed through her tears, and Johnny smiled at her.

If Mom and Dad were still alive, they’d love this woman I’m marrying.

“Wasn’t it amazing, Johnny, the way Mr. Ken and Grandma and Grandpa found each other again after all those years? Only God could do that! And they were inseparable after they were reunited last Christmas.”

Johnny nodded. “Remember last June when we brought your grandparents to your apartment? And your grandma insisted on making pancakes for all of us? Kat! I can understand burning one or two pancakes, but how does someone burn an entire two dozen of them? We had to open the windows so we could breathe!”

“Well, Johnny, you may have noticed I’ve inherited Grandma’s cooking talent.”

He laughed. “Good thing for you I love to cook. Good thing for me too!”

“Johnny, I’m glad you proposed to me when we were with Grandma, Grandpa, and Mr. Ken. It was so sweet.”

“It was supposed to be a little more romantic, but when your grandma said, ‘So I see you’ve finally decided what your intentions are toward my granddaughter. You may now hold her hand!’ we all laughed. So much for romance.”

“Laughter’s very romantic, Johnny. I love to laugh. But remember how happy Grandpa was? He said he wished we could get married at Corners Church and he could officiate. And we told him we’d try to make it happen.”

A small sob escaped. “But Johnny, you did the next best thing. I still don’t know how you found a church for our wedding that’s so much like Grandpa’s was. Internet?”

“Nope. I told our pastor you felt sad about not being able to get married in your grandpa’s little country church, and he told me he knew a man who’d once pastored a church in Chicago, one even larger than ours. The guy left and became pastor of a country church in Michigan. It sounds a lot like your grandpa’s church. It even has the same name, ‘Corners Church.’”

Suddenly, their vehicle slid, spun out, and came to rest in a snowbank on the lonely country road.

“Are you okay, honey?”

“I am, but I’m afraid we’re going to be late to our own wedding.”

He glanced at the dashboard and saw the time. They had only a half-hour left to make it to the church by five. Johnny had a great sense of direction and had memorized the route, but to check how much travel time they had left, he punched the church address into his phone.

“Oh great. No cell service. So, no GPS. And I don’t have a shovel.”

“Johnny! We have another problem. I forgot the marriage license!”

“No, you didn’t. I grabbed it off your table on the way out. It was great how the county clerk let us apply for it virtually, so we didn’t have to make this trip twice.”

“Yeah, the trip from Chicago to here that was supposed to take three hours? We’ve been on the road five already. What are we going to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, grinning, impossibly blue eyes holding her gaze. “We could panic or pray. You choose.”

“Can I choose both?”

He laughed and reached for her hands. He was still praying when someone knocked on his window.

“Looks like you folks need some help.”

“Are you an angel?” Kat asked.

The man laughed. “I’m not often called that. I’m Davey, and this is my son, Reece. The rest of my family is in the car. You don’t look too badly stuck; I think we can dig you out in no time.”

And they did. Johnny offered pay, but Davey shook his head. “Just have a safe and happy New Year, and God bless. Anything else I can do for you?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know how far Corner’s Church is, would you? It’s a white frame building on the corner of….”

“Two dirt roads.” Davey finished. “My family and I are on our way there now. You wouldn’t happen to be getting married this afternoon, would you?”

As Johnny followed Davey’s vehicle down dirt roads Kat began worrying.

“Johnny, didn’t the pastor say the church auditorium would be empty and available for us to use? Why are these people going there?”

Her heart sunk even more when they arrived, and the parking lot was full. The simple wedding of her dreams was evaporating. Had that pastor—what was his name—J.D.—gone and invited his entire congregation to her wedding that was supposed to be just her, Johnny, and the required witnesses?

Johnny was already in his suit. Kat took her satin dress with its fur cape from the backseat, and they walked into the auditorium. She caught her breath. It looked so much like Grandpa’s church. And it was decorated with beautiful simplicity, white lights on two real pine trees and on a garland strung across the front.

A gorgeous, tiny woman with red curls came toward her, smiling. “I’m Trish, J.D.’s wife. Let me show you where to change. Would you like some help?”

“I’m Kat, and I’d love some help. I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage the zipper, and I didn’t want to have to ask Johnny to help me with it when I got to the front of the church!”

Trish laughed. Kat thought it sounded like bells. She noticed Trish walked with a pronounced limp and wondered what had happened to her.

“J.D. and I got married here last Christmas. I decorated the same way for you. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? It’s perfect!”

“And for my wedding a dear friend whose heart’s the only thing bigger than his bank account ordered flowers from overseas for me. When he heard we were going to have another Corner’s Church wedding, he did the same for you. Do you like lilacs?”

Fresh tears ran down Kat’s face. “They’re only my favorite flower.”

Trish left and returned with a box of tissues and a beautiful bouquet of purple, lavender, and white lilacs. She put the flowers into Kat’s hands, wiped her tears with a Kleenex, and said, “It’s time. Go meet your happily ever after.”

Trish stood in the back of the auditorium.

There are only a couple of people here. Where are the rest of them?

She heard the back door close, and her heart sunk. Were they all coming in now? It was only Reece, the teen who had helped shovel them out. He reached up, and pulled on a long, thick rope. The beautiful sound of a bell echoed over farms and fields.

How can it sound just like Grandpa’s church bell?

Kat whispered a thank you. Reece smiled and left.

The wedding march began. Kat took a few steps and stopped, suddenly feeling lonely and wishing she had someone to walk her down the aisle. As if by magic an older man appeared at her side and offered his arm.

“I’m George. May I?”

The ceremony was perfect, though Kat had a hard time concentrating because Johnny’s eyes kept promising he’d love her beyond forever.

When they signed the marriage license, she and Johnny used their matching antique Christmas pens. She had her grandpa’s, and he had Mr. Ken’s.

“J.D. uses an antique fountain pen too, but yours are unusual,” Trish said as she signed her name.

Kat said, “These pens have quite a story. They’re the Christmas pens. I wish I had time to tell you about them.”

“Oh, you have time. Our church people wouldn’t hear of you not having a reception. Do you smell that amazing sauce? I hope you like spaghetti because our Edna makes pasta you’ll never forget!”

“That’s so kind, but it’s a long drive back to Chicago, and this storm, and….”

Johnny laughed and hugged her. “We aren’t going back to Chicago tonight, honey. J.D. and Trish checked with me weeks ago. They’re giving us a wedding gift, two nights at a nearby log cabin bed and breakfast.”

The reception was wonderful, and Trish was right; she’d never forget Edna’s pasta, or the bread fresh from the oven, or the table full of pies people had brought. There was even a small, perfect wedding cake topped with a lighted country church.

Everyone wanted to hear the story of the Christmas pen. There were a few tears when Kat finished telling it.

Kat tried to keep names and faces straight. She hadn’t been hugged by this many people since she’d been at Grandpa’s church so many years before. A sign in the fellowship hall said, “Live, Love, Laugh.” These people sure knew how to do that, and how to share God’s love too.

Finally, an old man pounded his fist twice on the table. Kat jumped and Trish laughed.

“Don’t worry; that’s just Uncle Cyrus being Uncle Cyrus.”

The old man stood. “I say it’s getting late and we let this here sweet bride and groom head on out. We’ll meet again sometime, Lord willin’ and if the creek don’t rise.”

Kat and Johnny tried to express their gratitude, but it got swallowed up in more hugs.

Later, at the bed and breakfast, Kat asked, “Do you want to hear my crazy idea? I’d like to move here. I haven’t felt this much at home since I was a kid.”

Johnny laughed. “I’m always ready for adventure. A physician’s assistant can find work anywhere, but what are you going to do? I doubt there’s going to be a job here for a biomedical engineer.”

“Maybe I could work virtually.”

Johnny pulled her to the window that overlooked a field covered with snow. The clouds drifted apart, and a full moon glistened on the snow.

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

“Let’s pray about it, Kat. And let’s make a lifetime of beautiful memories because life goes way too fast. Someday memories are all we’ll have. But for now, we have each other, and I don’t think anything could be more perfect. Do you agree?”

Her kiss answered his question, and the angels smiled.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

The Christmas Pen Part Four

by Donna Poole

“Aren’t you at least going to rinse the dinner dishes, Kat?” Mr. Ken asked.

She shook her head. “No time.”

She tried not to look impatient while he took his overcoat from the hall tree and put it on. His hands trembled over the buttons, and he nodded gratefully when she offered to button it for him. Then he knotted the red and green plaid scarf around his neck, tying it just so. And it seemed to take forever for him to pull on his leather gloves. Bent almost double, he tapped his gold tipped cane twice and smiled up at her.

“Aren’t you ready to go yet? What are we waiting for?”

Kathleen laughed. “Oh, Mr. Ken, some things are worth the wait. That’s what my grandpa always said.”

Ken almost fell when he slipped on the ice as they waited for a taxi. She caught him.

“Do you think a walker might be safer?”

“Maybe? Do they come with gold tips?”

Even in the cab he kept shivering. “Where are we going?” he asked, teeth chattering.

“I know you’d rather be under a warm blanket enjoying your Sunday afternoon nap, but I’m taking you for a Christmas surprise. Don’t ask questions.”

“Oh, Kat, old men are happiest at home. I don’t need anything I don’t already have there.”

“Don’t you, though?” she asked, giving him a mysterious smile.

He groaned when they pulled into the winding driveway of the Riverside Assisted Living and Memory Care.

“Kat! Just because I slipped on the ice once or twice! Have you arranged a tour here for me?”

She laughed. “It’s Christmas Day, remember? I don’t think they do tours on Christmas.”

“Then why are we here?”

“Just ride along with me.”

He gave her a sharp look.

“That couple I told you about who took me in when I was a tough street kid? Bill and Sheri? He used to say that to her when she tried to be a backseat driver. ‘Just ride along with me.’ She didn’t like it much. He knew it too. But they just looked at each other and laughed.”

Kathleen saw tears in his eyes behind his half glasses. He took off a leather glove, fished a handkerchief out of his pocket, and blew his nose.

“They were the kindest people God ever made, taking in a tough kid like me, giving me a place to live, and telling me about Jesus. I told them I’d never believe in Jesus, and I’m sure they thought I never did, after the way I left, stealing from them, and destroying Sheri’s Bible. I’d give anything to apologize and tell them they changed my life. But we don’t live looking in the rearview mirror. We aren’t going that way. Always go forward. You remember that Kat.”

“I will, Mr. Ken, but we can’t go anywhere if we don’t get out of this cab.”

The lobby was beautifully decorated, and a group of children was singing Christmas carols. Mr. Ken smiled and waved at them. Kathleen steered him down a hallway.

“Do we have to walk far?” he asked, leaning hard on her arm.

She shook her head. “Just a few doors.”

She stopped at a door decorated like a Christmas tree. It had a sign, “First prize for door decorating.” Ken looked for a name, but it was covered by the tree.

“Who are we going to see?” he asked.

She smiled and guided him inside.

“Grandma and Grandpa, I brought you a Christmas present.”

A tiny, fragile looking lady with white curls protested, “Kat, no gifts! You promised!”

A man Ken judged to be even older than himself chuckled. “You know our granddaughter, Sheri! She has a mind of her own, just like her grandma. So, what’s the present, kiddo? Let’s have it. I hope it’s chocolate!”

“Bill!” The old lady laughed. “You’re incorrigible! And you probably should let Kat introduce her guest before you start begging for candy.”

Bill? Sheri?

It couldn’t be. Ken’s mind struggled to keep up.

Kathleen led him closer to the older couple. “Grandma and Grandpa, this is my dear friend, Mr. Ken. He’s a retired pastor and an old friend of yours, but you knew him as Sam.”

She glanced at Ken’s face and lowered him into the armchair behind him just before he fell.

Sheri put one hand over her heart and struggled to catch her breath. “Bill! Honey? The scarf he’s wearing! It’s the gift I got you long ago, the one missing from under the tree when Sam left us on Christmas, the day we found my new Bible ripped apart and thrown under the tree…”

The angels congregated to hear the tears, laugher, and conversation that followed, and they whispered to each other, “Look. It’s another Christmas miracle.”

Two taps sounded on the door. Kathleen was the only one who heard it. She opened it and stared into the brilliant blue eyes of Johnny Dryden.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m the volunteer chaplain here. I come here every Sunday to get advice from Bill and Sheri, and they pray with me. What are you doing here?”

Kathleen’s grandpa hollered, “Hey, Johnny, come in! I want to introduce you to my granddaughter and tell you a story you aren’t going to believe!”

Johnny grinned. “I’ve already met your granddaughter, and I can’t wait to hear your story. He took Kathleen’s hand and guided her to a love seat under the window. They sat down, but he didn’t let go of her hand.

Kathleen’s grandma stared at her and raised an eyebrow. Kathleen shrugged.

“Young man, what are your intentions toward my granddaughter?”

Johnny looked at Kathleen and smiled. “To be determined.”

“Then perhaps you should let go of Kat’s hand while you work out the to be determined part.”

His face flushed. “Yes, ma’am.”

But he didn’t let go of her hand.

Kathleen laughed. So did her grandparents.

Mr. Ken said, “I’ve been expecting this.”

The three older people began reminiscing again.

Johnny said quietly, “I still want to get to know you, Kat Jones. What do you do in your spare time?”

“I’m writing a novel based on the years my grandparents spent at their country church.”

“I’d love to have you read it to me.”

“Maybe you could come for dinner sometimes. We could invite Mr. Ken too. He’s terribly lonely.”

He smiled. “I’d like that.”

Ken said, “My hearing’s pretty good for an old man. I better warn you, Johnny, she’s a terrible cook.”

“Yes,” Sheri said proudly, “she gets that from me.”

“I’ll bring takeout,” Johnny said.

“Wise decision,” Ken said, laughing.

“Oh, Grandpa, I almost forgot,” Kathleen said. “I want to show you how all this started.”

She tried to reach into her purse.

“Johnny, you’re going to have to let go of my hand.”

He flushed again.

Kathleen pulled out the antique red pen. “Mr. Ken fixed the pen you gave me.”

Ken nodded, pulled from his shirt pocket the pen that matched it, and showed it to Bill.

Bill’s eyes filled with tears. “You kept that pen I gave you all these years?”

Ken choked on the words. “I never forgot you. I kept the pen to remind myself of the man I was before your love and the love of Jesus changed me. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you? That happened on a long-ago Christmas afternoon when we got home from church, noticed the missing gifts, and saw the torn Bible under the tree. Sheri and I dropped to our knees and told God how much we loved you. We’ve prayed for ‘our Sam’ every day since.”

Kathleen went and hugged Ken who was crying. “It’s no wonder I loved you almost as soon as I met you. From the time I was a tiny girl, I’ve been praying for Grandma and Grandpa’s ‘Sam.’ And here we are, all together, because of the Christmas pen.”

Next, she hugged her grandpa. “Here,” she said, handing him the pen, “this belongs back with you, Grandpa. It’s a great reminder prayer can mend broken things. Even broken hearts.”

Kat sat on the loveseat and took Johnny’s hand. The sweet talk of the older ones flowed around them like a warm blanket until suddenly it became very quiet.

Johnny chuckled. “Look. They’re all sleeping. Do you think you should take Ken home so he can get a real nap?”

“I will soon,” she whispered, “but tell me. How did a Physician’s Assistant become a chaplain?”

“Well, I came here often to visit my grandpa who’s in heaven now. He was in the room next door, and one day I came into your grandparent’s room by mistake. Your grandpa was cleaning his collection of fountain pens, and I was intrigued. We got talking, and one thing led to another. He told me he’d been praying for someone to be a volunteer chaplain and. . . .”

The three old ones kept napping. The two younger ones kept talking. Outside the snow kept falling. And the angels kept listening to another Christmas miracle just beginning.

The Christmas Pen Part Three

by Donna Poole

“Third Sunday in a row we’ve had snow,” Kathleen said to herself, as she closed her computer. She liked her job as a biomedical engineer, but her real passion was writing. She’d been working on her novel in snatched minutes of time for almost two years and sometimes got so engrossed in the story she lost track of time. Like now.

“Wow, I’m running late!”

Kathleen detested being late for anything, but the prelude was well underway when she slipped into her pew at Christ Calvary Cathedral for the Christmas service. Mr. Ken smiled at her. She felt uneasy about the elderly man; he was still wearing his overcoat and red and green plaid scarf and looked pale. It was plenty warm enough in the building.

Is he sick?

“You okay?” she whispered.

He nodded and patted her hand. His gloves were still on too.

The program started. Without words, accompanied only by the orchestra, children in tailor-made costumes acted out the manger scene.

The production was beautiful, but Kathleen had to stifle a giggle. She couldn’t help remembering the year at Grandpa’s country church when there weren’t enough boys and she’d had to play Joseph. She’d been upset; she’d wanted to be Mary or an angel. And then the bath towel someone had wrapped around her head had fallen off halfway up the aisle and everyone had laughed. She hadn’t thought it was funny then, but it was one of her favorite memories now.

The perfectly dressed children exited, and the choir sang the beautiful song by Ron Hamilton, “Born to Die.”

“On the night Christ was born, Just before break of morn,

As the stars in the sky were fading,

O’er the place where He lay, Fell a shadow cold and gray,

Of a cross that would humble a King.

Born to die upon Calv’ry

Jesus suffered my sin to forgive

Born to die upon Calv’ry

He was wounded that I might live.”

As the choir finished, a hush fell over the auditorium. Two teenage boys dressed like Roman soldiers came up the aisle carrying a big wooden cross. They took slow, deliberate steps in the silence. When they got to the large, decorated Frasier Fir in the front, they raised the cross and dropped it with a loud thud into a stand that had been set up next to the tree. The boys stood quietly, looking at the cross. Then the younger of the two fell to his knees and began crying. It obviously wasn’t part of the script. The older boy looked around awkwardly for a minute; then he knelt next to the younger boy and put an arm around his shoulder. He whispered something and the other boy nodded. They stood, both crying now. They faced the congregation, raised their right arms high, fists clenched, then tapped their hearts.

The boys shouted in unison, “Jesus is Lord!”

Kathleen reached in her purse for a few tissues. Mr. Ken needed one too. She heard sniffles all around her.

The pastor stood head bowed. Finally, he said, “My sermon today was titled, ‘The Perfect Tree,’ but I don’t need to preach about the cross. These boys have done a far better job than I could ever do.”

To the soft music of “Silent Night,” the congregation filed out quietly.

Mr. Ken sat in the pew, head bowed, praying. Kathleen waited for him.

Finally, using his gold tipped cane, he struggled to his feet, smiling at her through the tears on his face. 

How can I love this old man I’ve only known a few weeks? But I do. Even his smile reminds me of grandpa.

“Aren’t you feeling well?” she asked.

Mr. Ken chuckled. “Just an old man who can’t get warm. Am I still invited for that awful dinner? You said you’re a terrible cook.”

She laughed. “You are and I am.”

Once again Johnny Dryden was waiting to help them into a cab, and Kathleen’s eyes widened when Mr. Ken invited him to her apartment for lunch.

Johnny’s incredibly blue eyes met hers and he laughed. “You’re safe. I have to get to work.”

She nodded. “I guess physician’s assistants have to work Christmas Sunday?”

“It’s my other job. My volunteer one,” he said, as he helped Mr. Ken into the cab. “But Kat Jones, I still want to get to know you. What did you think of the sermon?”

“Best I’ve ever heard.”

“Same.” He smiled and waved as the cab pulled away.

As promised, Sunday dinner was terrible. Kathleen sighed. “This is the first time I’ve goofed up spaghetti.”

Mr. Ken laughed. He took another bite of the undercooked pasta covered with the too salty sauce. “It’s not that bad, Kat. It’s nice to eat with someone. This more than repays me for fixing your grandpa’s pen. It should work for many years now. The one I have just like it wrote love letters to Ruth and thousands of sermons, and it’s still working.”

“How did you become a pastor, Mr. Ken? I have to leave at three o’clock, but we have time for your story.”

He took a crunchy bite of the too dark garlic bread, coughed, and grabbed his water. “It’s a long story. What do you say you keep eating and I’ll tell it? I’m kind of full myself.”

He’d barely begun talking when Kathleen’s face paled and she pushed away her own plate. He’d been a runaway, hated his abusive parents, hated the church that knew what was happening but did nothing to stop it, and hated God. Then he decided there was no God. A confirmed atheist at the age of sixteen, he’d lived on the streets, a tough kid who’d do anything for food or a bed. Then he got sick.

“It was a bitter cold winter, a lot like this one. I intended to mug and rob whoever answered the door that night, but I was too weak to even knock. I guess I made a lot of noise falling into the door, because a woman opened it. She called her husband to help her, and they half-carried me inside.

“I could see right away they were poor, and I cursed my dumb luck for not stumbling into a place where I could take something worthwhile. They asked my name. I was sick and half out of my mind, but street smart enough not to give my real name. I told them my name was. . . ”

Kathleen interrupted him. “Sam.”

Her mind was racing.

How did I not see this before? The pen. The phrases he uses. The scarf!

He raised his white bushy eyebrows and stared at her. “How’d you know that? Lucky guess? Anyway, they took me to a walk-in clinic that night and got me some antibiotics. I heard Bill, that was his name, tell Shari he was sorry he’d had to use some money he’d been saving for Christmas to pay for it. She hugged him and said she didn’t care; he’d given her a gift she’d never forget by helping me.

“I thought they were a huge joke. Like people from another planet, you know? How could they be for real? They said I could stay with them as long as I wanted. They fed me. She was a terrible cook, and I didn’t let them know it, but I enjoyed every meal. They gave me a warm bed. But they kept talking to me about God, and every time they did, I got mad. I told them there was no God and no good people either. Everyone had an angle, and I’d figure out theirs sooner or later.

“Sometimes I’d hear Bill and Sheri praying for me late at night, and that made me angry too. I didn’t think I needed their prayers. They said they’d always pray for me.

“Bill was a seminary student. He was going to be a pastor somewhere when he graduated. I told him it was a fool’s job.

“I’d been with them about a month. It was Christmas Day. They begged me to go to church with them, said we’d open gifts after we got home. I refused. I’d had it with their God talk. As soon as they left, I raided the gifts under the tree. Sheri had wrapped a gift for Bill, a scarf. I took it. I wear it to this day to remind me of what I was before God saved me. Bill had wrapped a gift for me, the red fountain pen you see me write with. His gift for Sheri was a Bible. I tore pages out of it, left it under the tree, and hit the streets.

“After a few more years of alcohol, drugs, and street life, I was a mess. I ended up in the Rescue Mission. I’d never been able to forget Bill and Sheri and the love and kindness they’d shown me. They’d made God seem real to me, and I hated what I’d done to them. When I finally understood God’s love in sending His Son and asked Jesus to save me from my sin, I looked for them to thank them and ask forgiveness, but they were gone. They probably forgot all about me, but I never forgot them.”

Kathleen had to clear her throat twice before she could speak. “Mr. Ken, we’ll eat dessert later. It’s almost three o’clock. There’s somewhere I have to go, and I’d really like you to come with me.”

“Old men need afternoon naps, Kat.”

He looked at her pleading eyes.

“Okay. Let me get my coat.”

She smiled. “And your scarf, Mr. Ken. Be sure to wear your scarf.”

The End

Be sure to come back for The Christmas Pen Part Four

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

The Christmas Pen-Part Two

by Donna Poole

Kathleen had wondered about Mr. Ken a few times during the week.

Has he been able to fix the pen? Did he even remember to take it out of his overcoat pocket?

He’d said she could come up to his apartment and get Grandpa’s antique fountain pen he was supposed to be repairing for her, but she’d felt funny doing that. After all, he was practically a stranger, even though, in some strange way, she felt close to the old man.

You must be desperate for human connections, Kat.

Wait. So, now I’m calling myself “Kat,” my childhood nickname, the name I never use but gave to Mr. Ken for some unknown reason?

She thought back to their taxi ride home from church the previous Sunday. Ken had told her she reminded him of someone.

“A granddaughter, maybe?” she’d asked.

“No, Ruth and I never had any children.”

“So, Ruth was the love of your life?”

“Ruth and Jesus! But Ruth would say it was Jesus who came first!”

Not for the first time he’d reminded her of Grandpa. That’s what Grandpa had always said about Grandma. “The loves of my life, Grandma and Jesus.”

And sweet little Grandma had said, “Tell it like it is, dear. You know I come second. It’s always Jesus first with you. And that’s okay with me. Like you say, ‘a Christian marriage is a triangle, two people and Jesus. Keep Jesus at the top, and the closer the two people at the sides of the triangle move to Jesus, the closer they get to each other.’”

Kathleen suspected maybe it was because Grandpa loved Jesus best, he had so much love to give to others.

“Who do I remind you of if not a granddaughter?”

“It’s your smile. You remind me of a friend I had once.”

“You remind me of someone too. My grandpa.”

“Tell me about him.”

But they were back at the apartment building by then. She’d helped him out of the cab and to the elevator. They’d parted ways when she got off on her floor.

Kathleen didn’t know if she’d see Ken at church on Sunday. She had no idea if he attended often. But when she slipped into the pew where she always sat, there he was.  

“You’re here! And sitting right where you sat last week,” she said.

He chuckled softly. “I’ve sat in this same pew far longer than you’ve been attending church here. I’ve been sitting next to you for five years now.”

Her face flushed. “Would you believe I never noticed?”

He chuckled again. “I’d believe. You’ve probably never noticed the handsome young man who sits two pews ahead and sometimes glances back at you.”

What handsome young man? The only man I see in that pew has a bald spot on the back of his head.  

But she couldn’t ask Mr. Ken about it now; the prelude was beginning, and the pipe organ’s swelling music reached the rafters. “O Come, Let Us Adore Him.”

Kathleen forgot about Mr. Ken, her grandpa’s pen, and the supposedly handsome young man as she worshipped the Lord Jesus, the One she’d learned to love long ago when she’d been a little girl in Grandpa’s country church.

During the sermon Mr. Ken once again took copious notes with his antique fountain pen, the one that matched her grandpa’s broken one.

Kathleen’s mind wandered during the sermon. How did I not notice the person sitting next to me for five years? Well, he sits to my right, and I always go left to exit the pew, but still….

She remembered something Grandpa had taught her to pray, “Love through me, love of Jesus.” She had a feeling Jesus wouldn’t sit next to someone for five years and never notice them. Had she really let a decade ago broken heart make her that cold toward people?

Well, he’s never said anything to me either. Or has he? I don’t remember. Pay attention to the sermon, Kathleen.

“What can you give the Lord this Christmas?” the pastor was asking. “He said whatever we do for the least of His children we do for Him. I’m asking you to leave your comfort zone and do something you’re unaccustomed to doing in this church. I’m going to stop talking for sixty seconds. Look around you, to your left, your right, in front of you, and behind you. Who do you see that might need a smile, a helping hand, a meal, a friend this Christmas?”

Sixty seconds can seem a long time. Kathleen knew she wasn’t the only one who felt uncomfortable. Uneasiness hung thick in the air. In this beautiful, professionally decorated cathedral, something like this just wasn’t done. She stared at her folded hands in her lap.

Okay, Kathleen, it’s not like he asked you to go on a yearlong mission’s trip.

She looked up and smiled at the woman in furs to her left. The woman didn’t smile back. She glanced at the people in front of her. The man with the bald spot looked directly at her and grinned. His eyes were the brightest blue she’d ever seen. She forced herself to look away and glanced at Mr. Ken. He was smiling.

Invite Mr. Ken Fisher to dinner next Sunday. It’s Christmas, and no one should eat alone, including you, Kat Jones.

She pushed aside the thought. She was a terrible cook. No one should have to eat her food; she could barely stand to eat it herself and ordered take out whenever possible.

When the service ended, Mr. Ken took forever to struggle to his feet. Bent nearly double, he craned his head, looked up at her and smiled.

“Would you like to share a cab again?”

This week the foyer wasn’t empty when they finally got there. The young man with the bald spot and incredibly blue eyes was waiting there.

“Pastor Fisher!” He bent down and hugged the older man. “I don’t expect you remember me, but you baptized me the last year you were pastor here.”

Ken smiled. “Of course, I remember you. Little Johnny Dryden. You were nine years old. You probably go by John now.”

The man laughed. “Nope. Johnny Dryden, physician’s assistant, at your service. How do you remember me after all these years?”

“Because,” Ken said, “I’ve prayed for you every day, you and all the others I’ve baptized.”

Johnny’s eyes filled with quick tears. “You’ve prayed for me for twenty years?”

Kathleen did the math. Johnny was the same age she was. But he wasn’t here to talk to her; he hadn’t said a word to her.

The next thing she knew her hand was in his two warm ones. “I’m glad to finally meet you. I’ve been trying to catch you to talk to you for a long time, but you usually hurry out and are gone before I can get out of my pew.”

She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Ken laughed.

“Johnny Dryden, meet Kat Jones. She’s my neighbor, and we’re just about to share a cab home. Don’t suppose you’d care to join us?”

“I wish I could,” Johnny answered Ken, still looking at Kat, “but I have a deacon’s meeting. It’s probably already started. I’m late, but I’m going to be later, because I’m going to help the two of you get a cab.”

Johnny helped Ken get his overcoat from the rack and waited patiently while he buttoned it and knotted the red and green plaid scarf around his neck, tying it just so. Johnny acted like he had all the time in the world as Ken slowly struggled into his leather gloves.

Johnny linked one arm into Ken’s and the other into Kat’s and walked them out into the snowstorm. This Sunday, one cab was left from the long line that always formed in front of the large church. He helped them into it.

Before he shut the door he said, “Kat Jones, I’d like to get to know you.”

She smiled. She still hadn’t said a word. Her thoughts were reeling. After a few minutes she turned to Ken.

“Mr. Ken, you were a pastor? Here at Christ Calvary Cathedral?”

He nodded. “I was. I retired twenty years ago.”

“But last Sunday you told me you didn’t know many people here anymore.”

He sighed. “I don’t. The congregation now is mostly newer people, and the ones who were here when I was a pastor seem to have forgotten me now.”

“Johnny Dryden remembers you.”

He raised white, bushy eyebrows and smiled at her.

“That young man doesn’t seem like the kind likely to forget anyone who matters to him.”

“Mr. Ken, would you like to come to dinner next Sunday? I’m a terrible cook.”

He laughed. “I had a friend long ago who always said that. She really was a terrible cook too, but I enjoyed every meal I ever ate in that house. I’d love to come. And I should have your grandpa’s pen fixed by then. I had to order some parts.”

“Oh! I’ll pay you!”

He waved one hand. “No, you fix me a terrible dinner and we’ll call it steven-even.”

She caught her breath. “Grandpa always said steven-even instead of even-steven.”

He smiled again. “Did he now?”

The End

Be sure to come back for The Christmas Pen Part Three

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

The Christmas Pen

by Donna Poole

It was the second Sunday of December, just two more until Christmas. Kathleen settled into the plush cushion on the pew and listened to the trained choir sing its classical arrangement of Christmas medleys. She admired the white flocked garlands of cedar and fir that hung from the vaulted ceiling. The company Christ Calvary Cathedral hired to decorate for Christmas had outdone themselves this year. Kathleen felt like she was sitting a in winter wonder land.

She was contented with the big city church she’d called her own for the last five years; the preaching was wonderful. Even her grandpa would have approved.

Grandpa. Her eyes stung with tears, remembering the little country church where she’d grown up. Grandpa had been the preacher there, and it had seemed childhood would last forever. That white frame building on the corner of two dirt roads had been a far cry from this beautiful cathedral in Chicago. And the Christmas decorations there?

Kathleen grinned, comparing the two. Corners Church’s only Christmas adornment each year was a straggly cedar cut from a farmer’s field. Some years the tree was more brown than green. Propped in the corner of the platform, its only ornaments were a tinfoil star and construction paper handprints cut by the children each year and tied with red and green yarn to its branches. Each handprint had a child’s name and the words, “I love Jesus.” Since the practice had continued for more than sixty years, Kathleen’s own handprint was still hanging on the tree this year; she was sure of it.

Do I? Do I still love Jesus?

Of course she did. What else would bring her out of her warm apartment to hail a taxi on this bitter cold, snowy day, when it would have been so much easier to stay home and work on her book in her pajamas?

She didn’t come to church for fellowship; she had no friends here. She knew it was partly her own fault, but it wasn’t easy to get to know people. At almost thirty years old she’d tired of singles groups. And no one stood around talking after services like they had at Grandpa’s church long ago. People had talked so long there sometimes meals had dried out in ovens before families got home to eat them. Here you might exchange a polite nod with a stranger as you left by one of the several doors.

Am I just an introverted unfriendly person? Is it me?

As the music in the cathedral continued Katherine’s thoughts wandered to her job. She didn’t have any friends there either. True, the job was by nature self-isolating. A biomedical engineer, she, along with her co-workers, researched things like ways to make MRI’s even stronger. The rest of the engineers were mostly men; the few women were married with families. No one seemed to want to socialize. And the one romantic relationship she’d had in her life had ended in tears a decade ago.

Why am I thinking like this? It must be Christmas. The best time of the year—allegedly. It’s the best time for single, lonely people to feel depressed.

She shook off the feeling. Christmas was more than a time for families and friends to socialize, it was the time to celebrate Jesus, the Light of the world, who’d come to die for the sins of mankind and make a way home to heaven. She’d focus on that. Still; it hurt, being so alone.

The sermon started. Great. The pastor was preaching on “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” He even played the old song, unusual for this church’s formal form of worship. She could see her grandpa doing something like that though.

Home for Christmas? What about those of us who have no home left to go to?

Tears stung her eyes and Kathleen swallowed past a lump in her throat. She reached into her purse to get a Kleenex and noticed the elderly man sitting next to her in the pew. He was taking notes on the sermon in a little notebook and using an antique fountain pen. It looked just like Grandpa’s, the one she always carried in her purse.

He must have felt her staring at him because he glanced up and smiled. She nodded and looked away, a flush creeping into her cheeks. People didn’t look at each other during the sermon, not in this church. But she’d like to ask him if he knew why Grandpa’s pen wouldn’t write anymore.

When the sermon ended the older man used his gold tipped cane to help him struggle to his feet. Instead of exiting the pew, he turned to Kathleen, smiled, and said, “I’m Ken. Ken Fisher.”

She shook his outstretched hand. “I’m Kat. Kat Jones.”

Why did I say Kat instead of Kathleen? No one’s called me Kat since I left home for college years ago.

He smiled at her, brown eyes twinkling over half glasses.

“Would you know what’s wrong with my grandpa’s pen?” she blurted.

He looked puzzled.

Kathleen laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m not really crazy. I noticed you writing with a fountain pen. My grandpa used one just like it, and I always carry it with me to remind me of him. I’d love to write with it, but it doesn’t work.”

She dug around in her purse, pulled it out and showed it to him.

He looked surprised. “That’s a very old pen. I didn’t know anyone but me still had one like that. I fix pens as a hobby. Would you like me to take this and see what I can do?”

She hesitated. She wasn’t a sentimental person, but that pen and a few of Grandpa’s books were the only material possessions she had that mattered to her.

“Would you bring it back next Sunday?”

He laughed. She liked the sound.

“I can do better than that. I can bring it downstairs to your apartment, or you can come upstairs to mine and get it. We live in the same building. My window faces the street, and I sit in a chair there to read my Bible. I see you hail a cab at the same time every morning.”

Stalker? Creepy old man? Someone to fear?

She studied him. She wasn’t good at guessing age, but he had to be close to ninety and was bent nearly double. His suit coat hung loosely on a small frame that had obviously once been larger. He smiled, waiting for her answer.

“Mr. Ken, would you like to share a cab home?”

He smiled. “Yes, Miss Kat, if you don’t mind the slow pace of a hobbling old man.”

She didn’t mind.

Maybe I’ve found a friend. Grandpa always said, “When it comes to friendship, age doesn’t matter.”

But she didn’t give him the pen. She slipped it back into her purse.

He hadn’t been kidding about the slow pace. Kathleen helped Ken get his overcoat from the rack. She almost offered to button it for him; it took him so long, but she didn’t know him well enough for that. Then he knotted the red and green plaid scarf around his neck, tying it just so. And it seemed to take forever for him to pull on his leather gloves.

By the time they got to the street the usual line of cabs in front of the church was long gone. Ken lost his balance as they waited in the wind for another, and she grabbed his elbow.

“Does anyone usually wait here with you until you get a cab?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know many people here anymore.”

She sighed. “Looks like we both could use a friend.”

“I could use one,” he said. “And when it comes to friendship, age doesn’t matter.”

He’d lowered his head against the wind, so Ken didn’t see the quick look she gave him.

A pen like Grandpa’s and Grandpa’s saying too? It must be a Christmas coincidence.

It was hard getting a hold of the pen with her bulky red mittens on, but she found it and held it out to him.

“I would like you to take a look at this, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

He took it carefully and slipped it into a deep pocket of his wool overcoat.

“I don’t mind at all. It will give a lonely old man something to do.”

The End

Be sure to come back for The Christmas Pen Part Two

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All of Donna Poole’s books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

The Midnight Hour

by Donna Poole

The house was quiet except for John’s soft snoring and the white noise whirring of the fans in our bedroom. My pillows were soft, the covers cozy, and the midnight sky dark. Everything was perfect for sleeping, except for one thing. I was high on steroids and bouncing off the proverbial walls.

Legit steroids—the kind they give you to counteract the cancer treatments. They work well unless you want to sleep. I needed sleep. This was day five of steroids and very little sleep, but we don’t always get what we think we need.

So, I prayed. I read some in the book of Revelation. I played spider solitaire. I came this close to waking John and asking if he wanted to watch a Christmas movie with me. And then I did what I’ve often counseled others not to do when tired, discouraged, and sleep deprived. I started thinking.

It’s a good thing the Lord came along and asked if I’d like to talk to Him while I meandered down a dangerous backroad where tree branches twisted ominously overhead and threatened to tangle in my hair.

“I’m not going to write anymore, and that’s final,” I told the Lord.

“Okay. It’s your gift. I gave it to you; you can do as you wish, but I thought you wanted to tell generations yet to come about me?”

“See, that’s just it. Who do I think I am, trying to give people a glimpse of Your tenderness, Your beauty, Your greatness, Your love? I’m a sinner. You know it; I know it.”

“Let’s take a detour,” Jesus said to me.

He touched my elbow, and the country road with the too dark trees disappeared. We stood on huge boulders and wild ocean waves smashed against them. The ground shook. I was cold, wet, and terrified.

“Please, can we leave this place?” I asked.

“In a minute. I want to show you something.”

Jesus pointed down. “Look.”

He held me so I didn’t fall, and I looked down, down into a whirlpool that sucked the water furiously into itself and seemed to plunge into infinity.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

“Your sins. I died for them, remember? I forgave you and promised to bury your sins in the depths of the deepest sea. I told you I’d forget them. Do you want to dive in there and bring them up?”

I pushed back into the safety of His arms and shook my head.

“Then never again mention to me the sins you’ve already confessed. Do you understand? And I don’t want you to think of them yourself. I paid a terrible price to throw them into that hole.”

I clung to Him in gratitude.

The Lord touched my elbow, and we were back on my walking together on my country road again. But the moonlight was shining softly through the branches now, and they didn’t look ominous at all. They wove an intricate design against the sky, almost like poetry. I could write about them, if…but no. I could write no longer.

I didn’t have to use my words. He knew.

“What’s your other reason for wanting to quit writing?”

“Lord! You need Michelangelos who can paint Your picture with words! I’m a child with a fat crayon. I’m clumsy at this. What if I use the wrong colors? You know I never was any good at staying in the lines! I’m afraid. I could mislead someone. I might paint a picture with words less than true.”

“Do you remember when your granddaughter printed her name for the first time and gave it to you? She printed the “C” backward. Did you throw it away?”

He smiled. He didn’t need the answer. He knew I’d kept that scrap of paper on my refrigerator until the paper turned yellow, and then I’d tucked it into a drawer to keep.

“That’s how I feel about what you write about me. But it’s good you’re afraid. It means we’re finally getting somewhere after all these years. How about if you let me put my hand over yours and guide that fat crayon and see what happens? But didn’t I teach you this lesson long ago? Perhaps you’re just so tired you’ve forgotten it.”

I stopped, right in the middle of the road. Now I remembered my forgotten lesson. I looked up at the stars; for a second I thought I could see the millions of galaxies beyond. Jesus had created all of this with the breath of His mouth; who knew what He could do with me and a few fat crayons?

“Lord! Do you think I could ever graduate to a paintbrush? Could I maybe someday be a Michelangelo with words and write a masterpiece about You?”

He chuckled. “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. You may never get beyond your box of five colors on this earth, but creative work continues through all eternity. Who knows what might happen there? But for now, steroids or no steroids, I think you should probably try to get some sleep.”

“So, don’t wake John and ask if he wants to watch a Christmas movie? Or maybe go have a cup of coffee and look at our beautiful Christmas tree?”

“No.”

“Could you explain the book of Revelation to me? I have a lot of questions.”

“Some other time.”

“Okay, but before I go to sleep, I’ve always wondered what Your plans are for the billions of galaxies up there in outer space. Could You tell me something about that?”

“Goodnight, Donna. Go to sleep. I’ll leave your box of crayons on your night table. Draw me a picture in the morning.”


***

These blogs are now available in eBook and paperback on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

A Roller Coaster

by Donna Poole

Solomon, the wisest of men, wrote, “To every thing there is a season…A time to be born, and a time to die…A time to weep, and a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to dance.” –Ecclesiastes 3

Sometimes the laughing and crying, the mourning and dancing all come in the same week, and oh the conflicting emotions! I call them the roller coaster weeks.

Roller coaster are fun if you get on them because you want to. Our brother-in-law, Bruce, was a roller coaster aficionado! He knew his coasters; he loved his coasters, and if you wanted to ride them with him, you better be prepared to run, not jog, from one to the next. Bruce was at the half- century mark when he and Eve, my sister, treated extended family to a day at Six Flags Great America in Chicago. I love amusement parks and especially roller coasters, so I was excited about going, but I was also forty years old and expecting our last child.

“You better ask the doctor what you can ride,” my sister Eve advised.

“Oh, he’ll let me ride everything,” I assured her. “I’ve been jump roping 1,200 times every day, and he said that was fine because I’ve been doing it for years.”

I wasn’t too happy with my doctor’s reply, “Don’t go on anything that goes around or up and down. Except the merry-go-round. You may go on that.”

So, when we got to Six Flags, I hung out with my sister Ginny, and we enjoyed talking and watching her youngest have fun on the rides for the littlest ones. The rest of the family disappeared, and those wanting to ride the roller coasters took off with Uncle Bruce. He might have been fifty years old, but the teenage boys soon found out it wasn’t easy to keep up with him when he had a gleam in his eye and a coaster in sight!

I didn’t ride the roller coasters that day, but I did many other times, and had a wild, fun, exhilarating time, unlike some others on the rides who were crying, begging to get off, or, worst of all, puking.

I never wanted off a roller coaster ride. But sometimes I’ve had enough of life’s roller coaster extremes of laughter and tears, mourning and dancing, and I’d like a plain, old, ho-hum boring merry-go-round.

Last week was a roller coaster. John and I were heading home after buying more paint for a room he and Kimmee, our daughter, were furiously painting, trying to finish before Thanksgiving. They didn’t have time to run out of paint, but they did. We were almost home when Kimmee called. I knew by her voice something was wrong. Through tears she told us that her sweet calico cat, Peggy, was dying.

Peggy, like all but one of Kimmee and Drew’s cats, showed up uninvited but found two of the best people to love and care for her.

Kimmee has been loving stray cats since she was old enough to walk outside and gather them into her lap. And she has been crying over them for just as long. Peggy was older when she found Kimmee; we think she must have been someone’s house pet before they dropped her off to make her own way in life. She was a funny little thing, walked like an old lady, followed Kimmee everywhere, and had the most gorgeous eyes. She almost always kept her tongue out.

When we got home, we could see Kimmee was right, Peggy was dying.

Kimmee and her husband, Drew, brought Peggy into the kitchen, wrapped her in towels to warm her up, and put a little electric heater near her. Peggy seemed to perk up for a few minutes, but then she had a seizure and was gone. God took her wherever He takes animals. You do know, don’t you, who sits beside every dying sparrow? The Bible answers that, and if God cares about the dying sparrow, He’s also there for every sweet Peggy.

Just a cat? Some might say that, but not God. Think, for just a minute, of the incredible creativity God used to make each of His creatures, and they all say something to us about Him. And the way we treat the animals He created says something about us to God. A godly person is kind to their animals (cf. Prov. 12:10).

No one is kinder to animals than Kimmee. The grief Peggy left behind was deep. Kimmee’s heart once again crumbled, because love anything, and you’ll get your heart broken.

But is it worth it to love? Through tears Kimmee returned the very next day to doing what needed to be done, finishing the painting. The day after that she made wonderful desserts for the family who was going to join us for Thanksgiving. But her hurt showed on her face, and my heart broke for her.

After two days in the kitchen, the day we’d been preparing for finally arrived, and family joined us. Because of the two nasty C’s—cancer and Covid, this was the first family Thanksgiving we’d had since 2019.

Love and laughter filled our house. We feasted on the roast beasts—turkey and ham and all the fixings. We welcomed a new family member; a great niece’s husband joined us for the first time and fit right in. We talked about Thanksgivings past, and how Bruce would have scolded us for having too much food.

I heard young cousins talking about one of their Thanksgiving traditions. Apparently, they bring Walkie-Talkies and send out distress calls no one pays attention to. It warmed my heart to see the kids making memories of their own they’ll talk about someday when they’re older and hopefully still celebrating the holiday as a family.

Yes, part of my heart was still mourning, not just because of Peggy. We’d lost someone too that week, a wonderful pastor friend, Clyde Wonders. John would be preaching his funeral on Saturday. Not only did I love Pastor Wonders, I love his family, and my heart hurt for them, knowing they were having their first Thanksgiving without him. And yet, a mourning heart can still dance. My heart was doing both.

I looked around the tables at the people, smiling, talking, eating, laughing. Love was there, and love is everything.

Our oldest granddaughter, Megan, is heading off to school in the spring to become a physician’s assistant. I don’t know if she’ll be here next Thanksgiving. We never know, when we sit at any table, who will be there when next we gather, so we love fiercely, we love with all the strength we have, even though we know that someday our hearts will be broken, because that’s the way it is.

Megan hugged me when she left. “Grandma,” she said, “that was spectacular.”

Yes, Megan, it was. Love is spectacular. It’s also a roller coaster. And we don’t really want to get off before we must. I’m grateful for the ride.

***

These blogs are now available in eBook and paperback on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Email Address

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

The Roads Less Traveled

by Donna Poole

The Road Less Traveled

by Donna Poole

Life is usually crazy busy for us. I imagine the same is true for many of you.

The past few weeks have been especially over the top with ministry and writing obligations, home repairs, and a health crisis. I’ll spare you the nitty gritty. On top of it all we’re supposed to be getting ready to host twenty-two of us here for Thanksgiving dinner, something we’re really looking forward to even as we hope the paint on the room will be dry.

As I watched my husband, John, and daughter, Kimmee, hard at work painting quite late one night, I reminded them of an old favorite joke of mine. A family had invited a large group to eat dinner with them, and the dad asked his little boy to say grace.

The little boy was feeling shy. “I don’t know how.”

His dad encouraged him. “Sure, you do. Just say what you’ve heard Mommy say.”

The little boy shrugged. “Okay, Daddy.” He took a deep breath. “Dear Lord, why in the world did I invite all these people?”

We’re glad we’ve invited all our people and can’t wait to see them, but we aren’t ready for them yet, so we’ve been working pretty much non-stop, especially Kimmee who’s doing most of the peeling, scraping, and painting. That’s why I was a little surprised when we left church on Sunday, and she asked me if I wanted to take the long way home.

We both had work to do at home, writing, painting…so much work. But did I want to take the long way home? It had just snowed, and our backroads were beautiful. Oh, yes, I did want to take the roads less traveled!

We’ve taken those backroads home often after church, Kimmee and I, since my cancer diagnosis. I used to stand at the door with John, shake hands, hug, and talk to each one of our church family as they left. My heart misses that, but my oncologist team won’t allow it yet because of my practically non-existent immune system. I’m supposed to avoid contact, so Kimmee and I slip in late, sit in the entryway because I’m not allowed in the auditorium, and leave during the last prayer. But in my heart, I’m still there, laughing, talking, crying, and praying with people I love. Taking the backroads home with my sweet daughter eases the ache for me between what was and what is.

And you know? The “what is” must be pretty good, because it’s God’s choice for me right now. Without the cancer and the enforced isolation, I would have been too busy to write these blogs or my books that hopefully mean something to somebody.

Without cancer I’d never have taken the roads less traveled home from church and seen at slow pace the changes in every season. We’ve marveled, in spring, over every sign of vibrant new life. Then came summer wearing its riot of wildflowers and next fall styling her coat of many colors. Sunday our backroads wore mink coats and looked lovely and elegant in white. And peaceful. They looked so peaceful. In a few places, on those backroads, ours were the only tire tracks.

We needed peace. We ignored, for a few minutes, the demands calling us to hurry home, enjoyed God’s beauty, and felt thankful.

There is a time, the Scriptures say, for everything under the sun. Whether I kick Morticia out of my lung, relearn my adult manners, and rejoin my church family in the auditorium, or whether I leave this world, as we all will someday, Kimmee and I know we won’t have forever to meander home down the backroads. Perhaps that’s what makes us all the more thankful for today.

Happy Thanksgiving, dear readers, to you and yours, and I hope you make time now and then to get off the interstate and take a backroad with someone you love.

***

These blogs are now available in eBook and paperback on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer

A Monumental Day at the Poole Hall

by Donna Poole

Saturday was the day, a monumental day at the Poole Hall.

It snowed! Huge, lazy flakes drifted down, and they whispered it was time for music.

I’d been wanting to play Christmas music for a while, but tradition must be observed. Poole Hall Rule: We do not play Christmas music until it snows.

However, some of the younger generation who grew up in the Poole Hall have wandered from the old paths. I’ve heard tell of three of our offspring playing Christmas music long before the first snow; yea, verily, upon one occasion, I witnessed the terrible transgression with my own ears.

I admit, I did enjoy hearing that too early Christmas music played in the home of one son who’d departed from his upbringing. I even suggested to John we also break with tradition and listen early, but he didn’t go for it. He did compromise a bit and say if it hadn’t snowed by the Friday after Thanksgiving, we’d start listening then.

I’m glad we didn’t have to wait that long.

When it started snowing Saturday, we put the phone where we could both hear the music and turned it up loud. John was studying for his Sunday sermon, and I was in the kitchen making desserts for the Community Thanksgiving Dinner.

I was definitely feeling thankful. Just a few days earlier I’d barely been able to walk because of the side effects from cancer treatment, but Saturday was a better day, and the music helped.

I hummed along in my usual off-key voice to the eclectic mix, “A Tennessee Christmas,” “Silent Night,” “White Christmas,” and then… I hollered.

“They’re playing my song!”

That’s not what John heard. He thought I’d yelled, “I cut my thumb!”

He came running to the kitchen. After we laughed and he returned to his studies, I hummed along with a tune I love, one Bing Crosby made famous, “Silver Bells.”

“City sidewalks, busy sidewalks,

Dressed in holiday style,

In the air

There’s a feeling

of Christmas.

Children laughing,

People passing,

Meeting smile after smile,

and on every street corner

You’ll hear

Silver bells, silver bells.

It’s Christmas time in the city.

Ring-a-ling, hear them sing,

Soon it will be Christmas day.”

I was two years old when Bing Crosby first recorded that song with Carol Richards on September 8, 1950. I grew up loving that tune, and I grew up loving bells. My favorite bell is the one at our old country church where John has been pastor for a long time. This will be Thanksgiving number forty-nine for us there.

Some people complain that Thanksgiving gets lost in Christmas and we should wait until we finish the one before we begin celebrating the other. We have a Poole Hall family tradition about that too; the Christmas tree and decorations go up the weekend after Thanksgiving.

But if people want to start celebrating Christmas early, why not? Why not ring all the bells and let all the lights shine? I wish bells rang on every street corner all year and people passing each other always met smile after smile.

If Thanksgiving and Christmas collide and twine around each other, let them hug. We can never be too thankful that Jesus Christ, God the Son, came to this dark world to light the way Home for us. And He did it by love. He loved us so much He died for our sins. All the lights and bells in the world aren’t enough to celebrate that!

We heard handbells ring Sunday night. Their sound makes me think of angels. We bundled up to attend a hymn sing at a church about forty-five minutes from home. It was a bitter cold night, but we felt warm and happy inside Bethel Church. Some of you may know my oncology team doesn’t want me to go into auditoriums, but I’m allowed to sit in entryways. This delightful church has an entryway larger than our entire church sanctuary, but the kind pastor and people make it feel country church friendly.

John and I sat in the entryway where we could see and hear everything; we didn’t feel isolated. We joined in singing the old hymns. We loved the special music, the handbells, the piano player who had, I believe, at least six hands, the vibrant youth worship team, and the quartet.

Ah yes, the quartet. “The Four Friends Quartet” used to sing often. The tall tenor is our son, Dan. Life became impossibly busy for the four friends, and they seldom sing together now. I smiled and cried my way through their songs. Who knows when I’ll hear them again?

Who knows when anytime may be the last time? A few days ago, we were talking about Christmas, and I was rattling on about something I hoped we could do. Kimmee, our daughter, just looked at me and smiled.

“What?”

 “Mom, you’re still here!”

I grinned. “I know.”

This is the third Christmas I’m surprised to still be here. Maybe I’ll still be around when I’m one hundred years old. But when it’s my time to go, I hope I see lights and hear bells ringing. Maybe, just before I leave the people I love here, I’ll sing them the Bill Gaither song the quartet sang last night:

“If you want more happy than your heart will hold,

If you want to stand taller if the truth were told,

Take whatever you have and give it away.

If you want less lonely and a lot more fun

And deep satisfaction when the day is done,

Then Throw your heart wide open and give it away.”

 Or maybe I won’t sing it. They don’t need to hear it. We already have so many givers in our family, so many wonderful people I love and admire, even the ones who transgressed tradition and played Christmas music too early. I think I’ll join them next year.

There really isn’t enough time to ring the bells, to string the lights, to play the music. We can’t give this dark world enough smiles or share too much hope.

Next year I might start a new tradition. It will be a monumental day at the Poole Hall when I play Christmas music on September first.

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

This is NOT how it looked Saturday. We haven’t had enough snow to measure yet this year.

Bye Bye Miss American Pie

by Donna Poole

I’m glad I never had a job where I had to estimate anything; I’d have been fired.

I can’t estimate distance; I can’t pass a car if I even see another one coming because I’m not sure I can do it safely. I don’t estimate time well either. Things take longer than I plan, and I always think I can get more done than is humanly possible, at least for this human. And when it comes to life? Forget it. I overestimate the positive and underestimate the negative.

Being an incurable optimist is a blessing. And a curse. Take last Saturday for an example. Please, someone, take it!

With the recent addition of steroids to my cancer treatments I’m now sometimes strong enough to help with kitchen duty. Last Saturday we were preparing for a family gathering, a celebration of three birthdays. I’ve always loved family times, and I do even more now when I realize, as we all should, the bittersweet shortness of time. Strong on my steroids, I’d made several pans of lasagna and decided to help our daughter, Kimmee, with the desserts.

Kimmee wins blue ribbons by the handfuls for her desserts at the county fair. Not only do they taste amazing, they look beautiful. She cares a lot about them because, as she says: “If you’ve known me for any period of time, you’ve probably picked up on that one of my primary ways of showing my friends and family I love them is by baking and/or cooking for them.”

She was making time consuming desserts for the birthday people: a cinnamon roll apple pie, a pumpkin swirl cheesecake with spiced whipped cream, and a triple chocolate mousse cake. Kimmee appreciated my help washing dishes and getting out ingredients. Then I decided to take the pie crust out of the oven for her.

I still don’t know what happened. One minute the pie was in my hands. The next the glass pan was hitting the open oven door, my leg, and the floor. I didn’t get hurt; the pan didn’t break, but I couldn’t believe how many tiny pieces a pie crust can shatter into. The mess was horrific. And I knew Kimmee had everything timed so she could get it all done.

I just stared at the mess.

“Mom! Don’t cry! Are you okay?”

There wasn’t a word of rebuke, not a groan of how in the world am I going to finish this now.

Obviously, I’d underestimated the chemo-induced neuropathy in my hands and overestimated my steroid strength. I felt terrible for the extra time and work I’d caused our daughter on such a busy day. But that’s life, isn’t it? We mess up. And if we’re blessed, we have people in our lives who understand and forgive us.

I really did feel horrible, but even with tears in my eyes I started grinning. A song or a quote seems to pop into my brain on many occasions. I barely managed to keep from singing the words, “Bye-bye, Miss American Pie!”

That pie was a goner, but the next was even more beautiful and tasty. I did not offer to take it out of the oven.

Our family enjoyed the lasagna and loved the desserts. It was wonderful being together. After everyone left and I snuggled, tired and happy in bed, I was still humming “Bye-bye, Miss American Pie!”

And then I remembered a quote I’d read somewhere about estimating. It said something about the two things hardest for people to grasp are the shortness of time and the length of eternity.

Now that’s something I don’t want to mess up, and I don’t suppose you do either.

Photo and dessert by Kimmee Kiefer
Photo and dessert by Kimmee Kiefer
Photo and dessert by Kimmee Kiefer

Old Truck

by Donna Poole

I followed you home down the winding gravel roads for the last time and watched you through my dusty windshield.

You’d never know to look at you that you were at the end of your days, and this was your last trip home. As you navigated those backroads home with ease, I thought about all those other roads you’d traveled and the sights you’d seen I’ll never see.

You were quite the boss truck back in your day, all muscle and no fluff, a 1999 Ford F-350 diesel. You could haul! When my sister, Eve, and my brother-in-law, Bruce owned you, you pulled their fifth wheel many times from Michigan to Florida, New York, Maine, Texas, and the epitome of trips, up the Alaskan highway. You did it all with ease and modesty.

No thanks needed here, folks, just doing my job.

***

Eve and Bruce loved camping, and they loved serving others. Many of their trips were to work with Wycliffe Missions. Whether for fun or ministry, they could always count on their truck.

And then Eve got sick. In the early years of her cancer, she could still go camping, but then she became too weak. And then God took Eve home to heaven. Without Eve the camper was just an empty shell of bittersweet memories; Bruce sold the fifth wheel and the truck.

We bought the truck. I wished we’d named her, but we always just called her “Old Truck.”

It was love at first sight; my husband, John, had always wanted a truck. Just about everyone has one in the farming community where he’s a pastor. True, John didn’t need one for the reasons the farmers, contractors, and the electrician in our church did, but he wanted one. I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget the joy on his face the first time he drove that five on the floor stick shift.

Old Truck pulled Old Bertha, our 1988 fifth wheel, on our many camping adventures. Our two favorite places were Brown Country State Park in Indiana, and the channel campground in Muskegon, Michigan. Old Truck did many other things for us too, hauled lumber, brought home pipes and other items necessary for home repairs, and made countless trips to the scrap metal place and the dump. This summer she pulled down an old garage the insurance company said had to go.

And then our trusted mechanic told us Old Truck could no longer pull Bertha; the frame and spring mount were too rusted. Our hearts sank. I don’t suppose anyone likes camping more than we do. I think we could still manage tent camping; John doesn’t agree. We took Old Truck for a second opinion, and then a third. And that’s when we found out she wasn’t safe to even drive anymore. The steering has rusted parts, and the right front wheel is about ready to fall off.

And so, we began her last slow trip home down the back roads, John driving Old Truck, and me following in the car. A few younger, stronger, more attractive trucks gunned it and roared by us as we slowly babied the old lady home. But they don’t know her history. They don’t know all she’s done and seen; the joy she’s brought to her owners.

I imagined Old Truck wistfully watching the landscape we slowly passed, corn ready to be harvested, bean fields already empty, the sky a brilliant blue, and a few trees still bright with color.

And then I cried.

I knew I was crying about more than Old Truck. Rust, decay, loss, death; they are such foreign intruders, aren’t they? The enemies! We weren’t created for them. We weren’t made to age and die. God made us to live eternally young in a garden where even the bean plants never rusted.  

And yet there is hope.

For God’s children, because of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, there will one day be a new heaven—and a new earth!

Hold on a while longer, dear friends. Joy comes in the morning! –Psalm 30:5

Young Again

by Donna Poole

“I hate being old,” I heard her

 eighty-seven years say.

Why? Why do we mourn the

passing of our youth,

The prune-ing, rasin-ing,

Sagging

Bagging

Freckling

Veining

Of our skin when graying

happens to us all?

Our spirits sigh protest.

Dreams of ocean breeze and

morning dew and worship of a

newborn’s skin all whisper

The same truth.

We were not born to age—

To creak

To stoop

To slow

To stop.

Eden birthed us to eternal youth.

When young eyes hungered for

poison fruit

Sin and Satan stole the

Breathless freshness of our

treasure.

A cloud hid the shamed face of’

the sun,

And earth wept and grew her

first gray hair.

The lost will be found.

Our earth—

And we, her children, will yet be

young again.

Gloriously

Goldenly

Sweetly

Young again

In the newborn kingdom of our

God.

And who knows? Maybe in that new earth there will be a boss truck, all muscle and no fluff, a 1999 Ford F-350 diesel for an old preacher, now young again, to drive. If not that, something far better waits for him, I know.

But for now, I follow John down the dirt road. I can see the back of his head with his gray hair; I can’t see his face. But I know he’s sad because he’s driving Old Truck for the last time.

And I cry.

Meet the New Kid

by Donna Poole

Meet the New Kid

by Donna Poole

Her first three daughters looked enough alike to have been triplets.

“What do you have, some kind of mold and you just keep turning out look-alikes?” her friends teased.

The girls all took after the Scandinavian side of the family. Tall, quiet, straight blond hair; their mother almost always knew what her blue-eyed beauties were thinking. They were well mannered children and so predictable. Her friends were envious.

Not that her girls were perfect; they fussed a bit when teething, and one of the three protested a bit at potty training, but all of them sailed through the terrible twos as though it had no meaning for them. The mother often marveled at her good fortune.

The relatives adored the girls, called them “sweetheart,” “honey,” and “doll baby.”

And then came daughter number four. Had the mother not just gone through twenty-nine hours, fifty-three minutes, and forty-nine seconds of agonizing labor—the first three had been easy births—she would have sworn someone had switched babies and given her someone else’s child.

She blinked hard twice when a nurse showed her the new baby. Red faced, short, chubby, and squalling, the infant had a head full of dark curls.

The nurse had to shout to be heard over the babies screams.

“I guess she didn’t much like being disturbed from her comfy, warm home and doesn’t think much of this big world. What will you name her?”

The baby’s older sisters who had all come into the world without protest and had calmly surveyed the world around them had Scandinavian names: Astrid, Agnes, and Annika. This one was to have been Alma, but she didn’t look at all like an Alma.

The mother wished she could ask the baby’s dad, but this child had chosen to be born two weeks early and he was out of town on a business trip. She fell back on the pillow, exhausted.

“Name? I have no idea.”

Someone put her still screaming little infant in her arms. She laughed.

“Do most newborns cry this loudly?” she asked. “My first three didn’t.”

“Most don’t make quite that much noise.” The doctor laughed. “Maybe you have a drama queen on your hands.”

Waving her tiny fists in the air, the baby looked more furious by the second. The mom kissed her on the forehead. It did nothing to stop the noise.

“With those dark curls you certainly look like your father’s Italian grandma, my little drama queen,” she said. “I’m going to name you Sophia.”

“You look exhausted,” a nurse said sympathetically. “Don’t worry; she’ll fall asleep soon. All newborns do. And then you can get some sleep. Or do you want us to take her to the nursery?”

The mom shook her head. “I always keep my newborns with me. You’re right. I know she’ll sleep soon. All my others did.”

Sophia did not sleep soon. By the time the mother fell into an exhausted sleep she hoped for sweet dreams. She didn’t get them.

She dreamed of a little girl almost always stubborn and unpredictable. By the time she was eighteen months old she was already the definition of terrible two. Her manners left something to be desired because she was too outspoken. None of the relatives called her “sweetheart” or “honey,” or “doll baby.” They called her “that little spitfire.”

In her dream her friends weren’t envious anymore; they were shocked. They didn’t know quite what to make of the new baby, so different from her sisters. They said to each other, “Have you met the new kid?”

The mother woke to more screams. She looked at Sophia, once again flailing her arms, tiny red fists batting the air, face red with effort. She had a hunch her dream was going to become reality, but she didn’t care. She desperately loved this new baby, so different from her sisters, born October 20, 2022, ready to add her own color to the beautifully colored autumn world waiting for her.

***

My new book baby is very different from my first three books; it had a mind of its own and took some unexpected twists and turns when I was writing it.  Meet the new kid: The Lights of Home published October 20, 2022. It’s available on Amazon. I hope you’ll like it. If you do, please leave me a review about the little spitfire.

The Memories of a Road

by Donna Poole

Long ago our road was just a path the Potawatomi tribe used as they foraged the fields and camped out on Squawfield Road. Pioneers built cabins in our area, and the tribe was friendly to them and helped them through the winters. It was an unspoken understanding that when a native showed up at a cabin with fresh meat he expected to be invited to stay for dinner, especially if he was Chief Baw Beese. And then the government unfairly forced the Potawatomi to leave, and the last moccasin left its print in the dirt on our old country road.

The road was still little more than a cow path when Henry Ford awed Detroit and North America by building his Model T. It didn’t take long before some of his cars showed up on our road and on neighboring backroads. As years went by, soon almost everyone had a gasoline powered vehicle of some sort.

There was one hold out. I remember the story well, but forget his name, so let’s call him Wilbur. Wilbur stuck to his horse and took a lot of good-natured teasing for doing so. As he plodded by, taking forever to get to church or a store, neighbors sometimes hollered, “Get a car, Wilbur!”

Then came the year of the spring rains. Many backroads, ours included, turned to mud. All those lovely Model Ts slid every which way and refused to budge. Along came Wilbur, and graciously pulled out neighbor after neighbor. He didn’t charge a penny, but he got his payment. As he left each grateful farmer, he said, “Get a horse!”

Time passed. The generation of people who told me the stories about the Potawatomi and Wilbur traveled one last time down this old country road. With a swirl of dust, their taillights disappeared in the distance. Now, they are a sweet memory that lingers in the glow of the sun setting over the fields.

I love this dirt road; we’ve lived here forty-eight years. Our oldest daughter was only two when we taught her not to play in the road, lest she get run over by a truck or a tractor. Our other three had their introduction to our road when they bounced down it on their way home from the hospital as newborns.

The road is a metaphor in my mind for our children’s independence. They were thrilled when they could ride their bikes to the corner for the first time without mom and dad. And when they got permission to ride north to the bridge over the St. Joe River, just a slow-moving creek there, that was big stuff.

I remember the kids patiently sitting at the corner, balancing on their bike seats, and looking west down Squawfield Road. They were waiting for their first glimpse of Grandma and Grandpa’s car arriving all the way from New York. As soon as they saw it, they’d pedal home furiously, shouting, “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

Down that road our children drove to school, to their first jobs, to college, to their own homes. And down that road they come back to visit. When they leave, we watch them go until their taillights disappear. They turn on Squawfield, and they’re gone until the next time. It’s the road to independence, and it’s the road back home.

Fourteen grandchildren travel down that road to visit us, thirteen with their parents, one on her own. That one will be leaving in the spring to get her physician’s assistant training. I’m proud of her; I’ll cry when I see her taillights turn onto Squawfield heading for a different state, but I know something. I know she’ll never forget the road back home to Grandpa and Grandma’s is always open to her, wherever we may live. And I hope all our family remembers that.  

Two family members live with us, our married daughter, and her husband, and we’re grateful for them. Without them, we don’t know how we would have gotten through the last two plus years of cancer—tough enough—and the treatments—even worse. I can’t count the number of times our daughter has driven me down our old country road.

I love country roads. Thank You, Lord, for all my years on this one. It’s true that “the lines have fallen unto me in pleasant places.” I could have been happy in the city; I was contented when we lived there, but I’m glad for these years of corn and bean fields, for wide blue skies, and country smiles.

Old road, it’s true you’re sometimes impassable in the winter. You may be a mud bog in the spring and a dust bath in the summer, but oh, you make up for it now. You’re breathtaking in the fall.

Someday, I too will leave you for the last time; my taillights will disappear in a swirl of dust. I hope it’s in the fall.

When I leave for the final time and know there’s no coming back, I’ll take one last look to see you in all your autumn glory. Though the place I’m heading will be far more glorious, I’ll glance in my rearview mirror just for a second and say, “You’ve been good to me. Here’s to you, old country road.”

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Let Me Grow Lovely with Love

by Donna Poole

It’s inevitable.

It happens to all of us if we live long enough—we grow old.

This year nature is doing a lovely job of growing old. From the earliest slant of the eastern sun until the last rays in the west highlight their glory, the leaves glow breathtakingly beautiful in every light. I catch my breath with wonder; I can’t see them often enough. Too soon, they will be gone.

The past two Sundays, instead of going straight home from church, Kimmee, our daughter drove me around the block on our own color tour. Out here on the backroads “around the block” is a four-mile glorious drive on mostly dirt roads. We encountered very little traffic, maybe a car or truck or two. Kimmee stopped and took photos often, so it took a while to get home. But it didn’t take long enough.

The combination of age and a stubborn cancer has opened my eyes and heart to so many things. A half hour bouncing down dirt roads viewing autumn leaves with our daughter is as amazing to me as a trip to Hawaii might be to some people.

So many “ordinary” things are beautiful now. On Saturday we celebrated our oldest daughter’s fiftieth birthday and our brother-in-law’s seventieth. It was a combination effort; I made the basic food; my sister brought a delicious macaroni salad, brownies, and chips, and Kimmee did what Kimmee does—the fancy desserts, the charcuterie boards, the beautiful table decorations, a hot chocolate/coffee/tea/hot cider bar complete with new mugs to take home, and so many other loving touches.

Love ruled that evening. We’re all getting a little older. We all know life is passing faster than we expected it would.

When it was time for the regretful goodbyes, I got up from the couch easier than I usually do; I’m on steroids to counteract side effects of treatment. I can’t sleep, but oh, it’s wonderful to feel half-way normal for a few days. But even medicated I don’t stand as quickly as I once did. Our tiny granddaughter, Ruby, hurried over to me and slipped her little hand in mind.

“I don’t want you to fall,” Ruby said to me.

She smiled. Ruby’s smile would make the loveliest maple in all its autumn glory jealous.

“I won’t, honey,” I promised.

Oh, but I will. We all will, won’t we?

I don’t expect to die from cancer. It will probably be something far more ignominious and laughable.

Once, a few years ago, I tripped outside and fell hard, landing with my head in the hosta plants. My alarmed family rushed to see if I’d hurt myself. I was laughing too hard to get up. That’s the kind of thing that will take me out.

“Seventy-four-year-old woman dies laughing after falling head-first into the hostas.”

I even have my obituary written. Four simple words. “That’s All She Wrote.”

I hope I haven’t offended anyone, but gallows humor and laughter seem to run in our family.

There was a lot of sweet laughter at our family gathering. John and I went outside to wave goodbye to the last who were leaving and watched the taillights disappear down the road.

When will we all get together again? Will it ever happen?

Life wasn’t as sad when we were younger, but neither was it as sweet. We didn’t delight as much in family gatherings because it never seemed then that “the last time might be the last time.” Now, so many family members are in heaven. Now, we know better. We cherish the moments.

There is something beautiful about aging. I listened for a minute to the crickets and the rustle of the leaves before I went back inside.

There’s a secret to growing old joyfully, I think. For me, it began when I was a child and put my hand in God’s and trusted Him to take me safely Home, no matter what storms might come up on the way. Jesus lived the perfect life I couldn’t live and died to remove my sins from me as far as the east is from the west. Because Jesus is my Savior, God says to me, “You can trust me. The journey might not be easy, but I’ll get you there.”

I’m discovering another secret to joy. It’s how to grow young.

It seems I’ve knitted life’s scarf wrong and now I’m unraveling it. I’ve learned too many things that have made my spirit old. Now I’m unlearning them all and growing younger. I want everything but love stripped away from my heart—and, oh, there’s a long way to go. Anything unloving in my thoughts blocks the sun; I can’t see the simple beauty of love, family, friendship. I can’t catch my breath at the glory of the sun turning the reds and yellows of leaves transparent if I’m burdened with bitterness, hurt, worry, or—you get it. You don’t need the whole long list.

In the end all I want is to be a Ruby. A person who comes along, takes your hand, and says, “I don’t want you to fall.”

And then we’ll go for a ride together, worship the Artist of the leaves, and think how beautiful it can be to grow old.

“Let me grow lovely, growing old—

So many fine things do.

Lace and ivory and gold

And silks need not be new.

There is healing in old trees,

Old streets a glamor hold.

Why may not I, as well as these,

Grow lovely, growing old?” –Unknown

Photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Stop Feeding the Seagulls!

by Donna Poole

It was a chilly fall day at Lake Huron, rainy too. It wasn’t an ideal day to eat lunch on a balcony, but that’s what we were doing.

I hate wasting a second of watching the water when we’re on vacation. I mean, you can be warm and dry when you aren’t on a holiday, right? I coaxed a reluctant John into eating on the balcony with me.

We were enjoying baked pasta with amazing meatballs and a side of garlic bread. The seagulls on the sand three floors below us began congregating.

“They’re staring at us,” John said. “I think they’re used to people tossing food to them.”

“If they want this food, I’m pretty sure they’re Italian seagulls.” I laughed.

The helpful gulls had no intention of letting too almost elderly people eat more pasta than was good for them.

“Let’s help them,” the seagull leader called.

With answering squawks, screeches, and shrieks his tribe obeyed. They rose as one from the sand and circled our balcony. A few of the braver ones dive-bombed us, desperate for some good Italian food.

We retreated inside.

“Rats,” I complained to John. “I wish I’d gotten a photo. I’ll try to get one when we eat breakfast outside tomorrow.”

“We’re eating breakfast outside tomorrow?”

“Sure! Maybe it will be warmer. Maybe it will quit raining.”

It wasn’t and it didn’t. But we took our breakfast outside. There were as many gulls as the day before, but they showed no interest in our bread spread with peanut butter, not even when I held it over the side of the balcony.

“Told you they were Italian,” I said to John.”

I’ve been thinking about those gulls. I watched a video of aggressive gulls chasing a terrified child down a beach trying to get her chicken nugget. Poor kid. I didn’t blame her for being afraid. I’d been scared of them too when they’d dive-bombed us. I hadn’t feared their claws or talons, but I was seriously afraid they might poop on my food!

 Seagulls aren’t naturally aggressive. People make them that way by feeding them. I read an article titled, “For the Love of God, stop Feeding the Seagulls and Here’s Why”. The article basically said don’t feed them for two reasons:

  1. It’s bad for them; they wait for easy handouts of unhealthy food and no longer work to get fish and insects that are good for them.
  2. It’s bad for us. When we feed seagulls, they can become overly aggressive. Think Alfred Hitchcock’s movie, “The Birds.”

My dad enjoyed feeding birds. When my siblings and I were young he took us to Stewart Park in Ithaca, New York, where we fed ducks and swans. When Dad grew old and lived alone after Mom died, he fed crows.

We discovered his crow-feeding hobby by accident when we drove from Michigan to New York State to visit Dad. There, in his immaculate, weed-free yard, we saw a heap of spaghetti noodles. I looked twice to be sure that’s what it was.

I asked Dad if some garbage had spilled and told him we’d clean it up for him.

Dad chuckled. “That’s still there? They must not have been too hungry yesterday.”

My Italian dad ate pasta fazool and spaghetti quite often and shared the cooked, plain pasta with the crows.

He explained. “I go outside and call, ‘crows, crows,’ and they come. Then I toss the spaghetti up in the air. They dive for it and get some of it before it hits the ground!”

You can bet a buck or a billion of them Dad wouldn’t have been doing that if Mom had still been alive. Again, think Hitchcock and “The Birds”.

Seagulls and crows might look graceful flying in the distance, but I don’t want them dive-bombing me, screaming their raucous cries in my ear, or pooping in my hair.

Those birds remind me of worry. That’s what worry does—spoils a good Italian lunch eaten on a balcony with a beautiful view we can enjoy only for a limited time. Worry distracts us from fully experiencing a quiet walk on the beach.

And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want a murder of crows following me down a meandering backroad and cawing for my next plate of pasta.

The solution is simple; for the love of peace stop feeding the birds. An old saying: “You can’t stop the birds from flying over your head, but you can keep them from building a nest in your hair.”

So, what do you say we stop feeding worry. Let’s not give it even one more crumb of garlic bread. When worry starts its raucous cries overhead we can nudge that crow or seagull over God’s way. We can do it something like this: “God, this (insert worry) is troubling me. I don’t want to feed it by brooding about it. I know You’re a good God and good and what You do, so I’m leaving this with You. Show me what, if anything, You want me to do.”

Then watch the crows and seagulls fly away. They’ll go where someone else will feed them. Oh, they’ll be back, and we’ll have to nudge them God’s way again, but for now, bye bye, birdie, bye bye.  

Hometown Heroes

by Donna Poole

It wasn’t my hometown.

It probably wasn’t your hometown.

It was everyone’s hometown.

 We all have them—hometown heroes. People who overcome adversity and make the world a brighter place.

We met hometown heroes on our last day of our long weekend getaway. It was cold, raining, and the wind was whipping off an angry looking Lake Huron. We had to park across the road from the restaurant, and I was shivering when we finally got inside.

The host, a slightly built man, noticed my slow gait. “I know what it is to have mobility issues,” he said, glancing at me sympathetically. He tapped his right leg. We could tell by the sound it was a prosthetic.  “I’m sitting you close to the buffet, so you won’t have far to walk.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“She has cancer,” John explained.

“I’m sorry!” He said it like he meant it. He understood. Suffering, of whatever kind, creates a bond of compassion.

Then he told us our server’s name and hustled off to seat other customers. And hustle is the correct verb. He walked fast with barely a limp.

John and I were grateful no one else was within sneezing distance. I’ve only recently been allowed back into the GP—general population. I try to obey my oncology team’s rules lest I get thrown back into solitary confinement, and I’ve had quite enough of that; thank you very much!

Some of my rules:

Always wear a mask.

Stay a good distance away from other people.

Don’t go into auditoriums—church or school.

I can occasionally go into a restaurant or a store if I keep about two hundred feet between me and the next person and yell, “Unclean! Unclean!”

Don’t eat at buffets.

But I eyed this buffet. Nothing was out in the open. Everything was behind high Plexiglass, even the dishes. The servers, also behind Plexiglas, filled plates and handed them to the customers.

It looked perfectly safe to me, and no one else was in line. I made a mad dash. Okay, to be honest, I made a slow limp for the line.

The food was amazing, especially the fresh fruit.

While I ate, I kept noticing the host. He had a smile and a cheerful greeting for everyone. We heard him exclaim with joy when he discovered he and a customer had attended the same high school, years apart, and knew several of the same people. I heard him laugh. I never heard a sigh or saw a frown.

It was still pouring outside, but it was warm and sunny in that restaurant. I don’t think my oncology team needs to worry; the only thing contagious in that place was friendliness. (Or that’s what I’m telling myself.)

Our waiter, a young man with dreadlocks to his shoulders and a gorgeous smile stopped to chat with us. He lives in Utah but was visiting his uncle in Michigan and working to make money to continue his college education in financial analysis.

His face glowed as he talked about expectations for his future.

“You’ll be good at it,” I said. “You have a great personality.”

He asked where we lived, and we told him. “You have a long drive home.” He looked at us and smiled. “You two are beautiful!” he said.

I don’t suppose many young men in their early twenties can look past wrinkles and old age spots and see the beauty of lifetime love. But he could.

John asked him if we should leave a tip on the table or if it would be included in our bill.

He shook his head. “People leave tips on the table here, but I don’t want a tip from you. I’ll give you a tip instead. You two take care of each other, you hear?”

We told him we would. And we left at tip on the table.

We headed out, and John paid our bill. I noticed our host standing still for once. He looked at me and smiled.

“You mentioned your leg?” I asked.

He nodded. “07 in Afghanistan. I was a medic transporter. It was my job to get the wounded onto the helicopter. I’d just gotten off the helicopter when someone fired an RPG—you know—one of those big shoulder rockets. Took out about my whole right side.”

He lifted his shirt to show me a wide white band around his waist.

“Broke my back and my shoulder. Took my entire leg. But I’m okay! I’m fine!”

I thanked him.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he said. “Anytime.”

Head down against the wind, John and I returned to our car. We drove and parked to say goodbye to the lake, the bridge, and our short vacation. We talked about the hometown hero and the great sacrifice he’d made.

“John,” I said, “that young man who waited on our table? He said his college is in Utah, right? And he’s going back home as soon as he gets enough money?”

John nodded.

“It’s the end of September. He’s missing this semester. He must not have made enough money over the summer.”

But we’d heard no “poor me” in his voice, only a hope for good things coming.

Our server and our host had something in common. Life wasn’t all about them. It was about others.

One was a hero in a big, dramatic way, overcoming adversity most of us can’t even begin to imagine. The other was a hero in a quiet way, overcoming adversity of an everyday variety.

Both made our day brighter.

Both made me want to be a hometown hero too.

It’s 9:40 in the Morning

by Donna Poole

It’s 9:40 in the morning, and I’m sad. The world seems an emptier place just now, especially at this hour. I don’t know if anyone is praying for me. Before this, I always knew.

Maynard Belt was an important and well-known man. He did major things in his lifetime of eighty-one years, pastored four churches, served as the State Representative for the Michigan Association of Regular Baptist Churches, and did many other things. His last area of service was president of The Fellowship of Missions. I think that was his secret; he didn’t care a thing about positions or titles; he just wanted to serve.

To me, Maynard was something invaluable; he was a friend who prayed. A few years ago, he messaged me, “Donna, I have my watch alarm set for 9:40 a.m. every day to pray specifically for you.”

He didn’t pray just for me at 9:40; Maynard and his wife Ann prayed for John too.

He sent encouraging words, uplifting songs, Bible verses, and funny memes. One meme showed two clothes pins, one dressed as a bride, the other as a groom. They were kissing. The caption read, “They met online.”

With so many friends and responsibilities, I don’t know how he made time for us, but somehow, he did. Maynard kept tract of us, of my cancer treatments, of John’s heart catheterization.

When Maynard was reading R.C. Sproul’s biography he messaged,” I love biographies whether I agree with everything or not. One statement has stuck with me, ‘Right now counts forever!’ Many blessings your way and please let’s keep in touch.”

Maybe that’s how he made time to pray for so many people; he made his “right nows” count forever. As soon as possible after a difficult surgery he returned to teaching his Sunday school class, something he loved. In addition to everything else he did, Maynard wrote books. I don’t know how many. I know he wrote a book on affliction and books of poetry too.

In one of our last chats on Facebook messenger I thanked him for his prayers. I told him, “I wish for just a second we could see the heavenly network of prayers. You should write a poem about that!”

He replied, “Maybe after this conference.”

He was getting ready for the Fellowship of Missions Conference. Maynard, Ann, and one of their daughters flew there. The plan was for Maynard to retire after serving as twelve years as president.

But he didn’t retire. He got promoted instead.

Maynard developed breathing problems on the flight and a few days later, on a Sunday morning, he went to see the Lord he’d loved and served so many years. He never wrote the poem I suggested. He didn’t write the books he still planned to write. He didn’t get to enjoy retirement years with Ann.

In May of 2020 we were talking about wanting to hear God say, “Well done!” not “Nine-tenths well done.”

Maynard said, “9-10’s will not be sufficient. So we will go ALL the way for the Lord for He went ALL the way for us. Blessings!”

On September 11, 2022, Maynard Belt heard God say, “Well done!” because he was a man who knew how to make right now count forever. I’m happy for him, but sad for his family.

As I’m writing this his memorial service is just an hour away. I can’t be there, but I’ll watch on live stream.

When 9:40 a.m. comes around tomorrow, I don’t want that prayer slot to be empty. So, I’m going to try to remember to fill it with the neediest person God suggests to me. And the network of prayer will continue to grow until it fills the sky with an intricate pattern too lovely for poetry to describe.  

What They Didn’t Tell the Kids

A Partly Fiction Story

by Donna Poole

Oh, they tell “the kids” a lot.

Too much, probably.

Though their offspring now range in age from fifty down to thirty-three, they will always be “the kids” to them.

“Sit down, kids; sit down.” And so, they tell the kids every dark, dismal, detail of each procedure and test, his heart and kidney problems, her cancer. Poor kids, they hear it all, over and over, ad nauseum, terms like EGFR, occluded circumflex, stent, chemotherapy, clinical trial, abnormal EKG, PET scan, CT.

***

A phone buzzes.

“It’s another text from Mom.”

“You look.”

“No, you look.”

“I can’t. I’m trying to have a good day.”

***

But they don’t tell the kids everything.

“Have we told the kids we’re having a contest to see which of us can scare them the most?” she asks.

“I think they know it.” He grins.

“So, what does the winner of the contest get?”

He looks apprehensive. “What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A trip to the Bahamas would be nice.”

Then he laughs. “I was thinking more like a trip to Osseo.”

Osseo

Distance from home: Maybe six miles

Population: 3,063

Attraction: Post Office

“If all I get is a trip to Osseo than I’m going to quit trying to scare the kids.”

He hugs her. “I wish you would.”

“Honey,” she asks in a voice muffled by his shoulder, “do you think we tell the kids too much?”

“We don’t tell them everything.”

That was true. They didn’t tell them every time he got chest pains while he was preaching. They never shared she couldn’t remember all the grandkids’ names, especially the younger ones. They didn’t confess that when they answered, “How are you feeling” with “Okay,” the word “okay” could mean anything from contented lethargy to tears of pain.

There was that one time when okay meant “fantastic!” They’d never told the kids she felt wonderful that day when she’d taken his pills by mistake. Nor did they speak about the road trip they’d taken to New York and ended up in California. They’d always wanted to see the Pacific Ocean anyway.

There were things they wished they could say to the kids but didn’t know how.

Please, when we’re gone, don’t remember the old parents whose bodies held their own contest to see which part could fail fastest. Don’t recall the mom and dad whose minds might turn to mush before Jesus calls them Home. Remember the young parents who took you tent camping and managed a whole week of fun on just seven dollars. Think about the strong parents who carried you, who took you swimming and sledding and on picnics and on road trips to see grandparents.

It’s late. They’re lying in bed, talking.

“Do you think they know?” she asks him.

“Who knows what?” He’s trying to sleep.

“Our kids and in-law kids and grandkids. Do you think they know how much we love them?”

“I’m sure they do. Try to go to sleep, okay?”

“No, I have to call them. Just in case they don’t know, I want to tell them I might forget later.”

“It’s too late. Wait until morning.”

“It is morning! It’s one minute after midnight.”

And so, she calls, one after another, everyone who has a cell phone.

His face is buried in his pillow and he’s snoring when she finishes. She wakes him up.

“Honey, no one answered. All the calls went right to voice mail.”

“Of course they did. You do know you’re going to get worried call backs the minute they wake up?”

“No, I won’t get any calls. I used your phone.”

“You did WHAT?”

“Yeah, In case they were asleep, I didn’t want them to think I was the one bothering them for something silly in the middle of the night.”

He tries to frown, but he can’t do it.

And then the two of them fall asleep, laughing, and holding hands.

“Honey!” She pokes him. “Remind me to tell the kids getting old isn’t all bad. Sometimes it’s fun.”

He groans. “And sometimes it’s exhausting.”

Moonlight streams in the window. She sees his face, next to her on the pillow. She knows she’s blessed to have him. She prays for those who no longer have a loved one next to them.

Cherish the moments together, she thinks. I have to remember to tell the kids.

Us a Few Years Ago

The Rainbow’s Promise

by Donna Poole

There were four babies.

None of them were early walkers.

But all of them were early talkers.

The four are ours.

Our youngest, Kimmee Joy, spoke in complete sentences at fifteen months of age, and lest you think I’m bragging, read on. The early talking was not always brag-worthy.  

Kimmee sat on the lap of a friend of mine she called ‘Grandma.”

“Grandma,” Kimmee said, stroking the woman’s face with her baby hands, “you have a very nice moustache.”

I was potty training Kimmee and had to take her into a bathroom in a store. The stall next to us was occupied.

Kimmee giggled. “That lady go fifty-two gallons!”

I gave her the look. “Shh!”

Trying to atone, she gave a sympathetic nod and said, “Maybe she have diarrhea or something!”

I hurried her outside to her dad and said, “Next time, John, you take her to the bathroom!”

“I can’t take her into the men’s room!”

“Oh yes you can!”

In the interest of full disclosure, Kimmee, now thirty-three, must deal with me. Brain surgery and subsequent seizures did a bit of damage to my right frontal lobe. Have you heard of a filter, that part of your brain that says, “Don’t say that?” Yeah. Mine’s broken. Or dead. To be determined. Now, on occasion, I inadvertently embarrass Kimmee.

The other day I was talking to someone on the phone and didn’t realize I’d said something I shouldn’t have until Kimmee groaned. “Mom!”

Do you wonder what I said? Sorry. My interest in full disclosure doesn’t extend that far.

Because Kimmee talked when she was so young, we soon became aware that compassion was one of her strongest traits.

She and I were waiting in the car while John was in the post office. An elderly gentleman struggled up the steps, one hand gripping the rail, the other clinging to his cane.

Kimmee pulled her pacifier out of her mouth. “Mommy, go help that man.” Her baby face crumpled in compassion.

“Honey, there’s nothing I can do to help him. And he doesn’t even know who I am.”

“Yes, he does know you! You are Donna Poole! Now you go help him!”

I didn’t go. I don’t remember how long it took her to forgive me.

Kimmee’s compassion extended to all God’s creatures, great and small. Except for giant spiders. When she was a little girl, she loved on neighborhood barn cats who came and went by the dozens, and she did shed “fifty-two gallons” of tears with each one who died.

Two dogs and countless cats have burial spots on our property some marked with crosses.

She never outgrew her compassion for animals.

Kimmee, and her husband Drew, live with us. They’ve adopted four stray cats who live inside, three more who live on the porch, and other assorted outside creatures. There was a coon for a while.

Just this summer Kimmee rescued a baby bird, a fledgling, from her cats. It lay almost lifeless in her hand; she brought it inside to show me. After awhile it revived, and she set it free. It hopped off into the weeds. She also saved a few baby bunnies this summer. and a cicada.

Kimmee posted this on her Facebook page early yesterday morning. “Anyone else up at 2:30 a.m. attempting to rescue a wayward katydid who came through a window air conditioner and invaded your bedroom? Just me? Cool, cool, cool.

“Also, I say ‘attempting to rescue’ because I’m only about 50% sure it actually went out the door. It kept flying back in, but I tried.”

That “trying” took more effort than most people would have given a katydid in the middle of the night; she had to carry it down a flight of stairs to open the door and set it free.

I imagine God smiles when Kimmee and her kind care for His creation.

God cares deeply about His creatures. The Bible says God feeds the birds; He notices every tiny sparrow that falls to the ground., and He labels as righteous a man who cares for the life of his beast.

William Cowper wrote,

“I would not enter on my list of friends

(Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,

Yet wanting sensibility) the man

Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. …

Ye, therefore, who love mercy,

Teach your sons

To love it too.”

You probably know when God put the rainbow in the sky after the Great Flood He did so as a promise to mankind that He would never again destroy the world with water. But did you know God made that covenant with all the living creatures too? You can read it in Genesis 9:10.  

Yes, God made a promise to the animals that day, and He talks to them with every rainbow He puts in the sky. I like to think someday when we talk to the animals, they’ll use words to answer us. I’m only guessing at that, but if Eve wasn’t surprised when the serpent spoke to her in the garden, and Balaam wasn’t shocked out of his sandals when his donkey scolded him; perhaps there was a day when conversation between animals and people was common. And maybe that day will come again.

I know we can learn a lot from God’s creatures even now. Ants teach us not to be lazy—Proverbs 6:6—8. Birds teach us to trust God—Luke 12:24. A crane showed John and me patience as he stood motionless for a long time in the water waiting for a fish.

I’m not preaching vegetarianism, though if that’s your thing, fine. I like a good steak as much as the next guy; I’ll take mine medium well, not the way Mom cooked it to please Dad, charcoal black.

But I’m thinking I’d better enjoy my steaks now, because a wonderful day is coming when I don’t suppose I’ll be eating them anymore. I love these verses from Isaiah 11 about the Kingdom, when Jesus comes to rule on earth:

“The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them. And the cow and the bear shall feed; their young ones shall lie down together: and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. And the sucking child shall play on the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put his hand on the cockatrice’ den.

“They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain: for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea.”

No hurt? No destruction? Only peace? I’ll give up my steak for that! The same God who made His rainbow promise to us and to the animals gave us the promise of peace too. Kimmee won’t have any more animals to rescue then, but neither will she have to cry fifty-two gallons of tears.

Kimmee’s compassion extends to me. Even though she knows only God can do it, she’s been doing her best to rescue me from the claws of cancer as fiercely as she takes a baby bunny from her cats.

I may get well and strong again here on earth. But I surely will be well and strong enough to dance with joy on that holy mountain! Everyone will be kind there; no one will needlessly step on a worm, and perhaps the animals will talk. And in my imagination a perfect rainbow circles that mountain, a reminder that God always keeps His promises.

I suppose we’ll all know what not to say there, and “Grandma” will no longer have her moustache.

Photo Credit” Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Too Much Interference

by Donna Poole

I thought I’d probably be dead by now.

I imagined any self-respecting woman with refractory cancer, one who’d flunked chemotherapy twice and radiation once, would give a resigned nod, gather her flowing robes regally about her cancerous self, and make a dignified exit. Off I’d go, gently, into that good night. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

See, right there, that’s my first problem. I wear comfy sweatpants these days and have no flowing robes. And I’ve never managed a dignified anything in my life. If someone told me to do a stately exit stage right, I’d trip, fall, laugh, and exit stage left.

Here’s my second problem. Even though at the time I looked like a half-starved Sphynx cat, hairless, bony, and needing to double knot my suddenly too large sweatpants, I wasn’t ready to quit fighting, and neither was my oncology team. They let me becone a guinea pig for a drug trial. The manufacturers of said drug pay for my many tests hoping they’ll show I’m the miracle patient who will propel their medication to market. Thanks to them, I think I’ve had a baker’s dozen PET scans and twice that many CTs all with contrast.

Think of the radiation! You know how they say some people light up a room? I really do! You may hear a buzzing noise like a high-powered wire if you sit too close to me, but God is using Epcoritamab. It’s keeping me alive.

There are other reasons I’m still on this side of the dirt. It’s true that laughter is good medicine. Very. Good. Medicine.

My crazy, funny family makes me laugh. My husband, John, is the worst of the bunch. The other day a receptionist was trying to set up an infusion for me for something unrelated to cancer and struggling to find a time to work me in.

“We’re short on nurses that day,” she explained.

“That’s okay,” John said. “We’ll take a tall one.”

That receptionist is well acquainted with John, so it wasn’t the first time she’d heard his puns. She asked me if he takes his stand-up comedy routine on the road.

John is a pastor, and yes, puns sometimes accompany his preaching. But he’s in good company.

Charles Spurgeon was a famous English preacher and author in the 1800s. A woman once rebuked him for too much levity from the pulpit; humorous preaching wasn’t all that common in the Victorian era.

“Ma’am,” he replied, “if you only knew how much I keep in, you would commend me!”

Our church family helps keep me cheerful. I wish you could meet them. They are the best people anywhere. They love me and show it in every way. And they make me laugh. I can’t go inside church because my oncology team keeps me isolated, so I listen from the parking lot. John brings me home verbal messages, cards, notes, and jokes.

Sunday John said, “This is to Donna from Dave.

“Eve got upset because Adam kept coming home late.

“‘Adam, is there another woman?’

“Eve! You know you’re the only woman!’

“That night Adam was almost asleep when he felt Eve poking him.

“Eve, what are you doing?’

“‘I’m counting your ribs!’”

And my church family, those dear people who travel down the gravel roads to meet at the white frame church on the corner—they pray for me. The ones who’ve moved away and only drive down the dirt roads now in their memories—they still pray for me.

And let me tell you more about our family! There are twenty-four of us now. Most of them will perform super-human exploits to rearrange schedules to get together whenever possible, and that does me more good than chemo ever could. A daughter has opened her large home for family gatherings.

A son and daughter-in-law have hosted family fun more times than I can count. I sit outside listening to a crackling bonfire as the first stars decorate the night sky and look around at the sweet faces of the family I love. How can I not hope, try, and pray to get well?

Then there’s the daughter who lives with us cooks delicious meals and coaxes me to eat. I hate to think what this house would look like if she hadn’t been cleaning it for the last two years. She does it all because she loves me.

Do you believe love can help keep someone alive? I do. Like laughter, it’s another medicine God uses until it’s His time to call someone Home. Love, and prayer.

All our grandchildren old enough to talk pray for me; it would be ungrateful of me to give up on life without a fight.

I know I owe much to the prayers of family, church family, and friends. We have one friend I haven’t seen for over two years, but I remember well how he prays. He begins with a long pause. After he says one quiet word, “Father,” he usually pauses again. I’m always tempted to open my eyes at that point, because I can feel God’s presence with us, and I want to see Him. But I don’t look.   

People I’ve never met from all over the world pray for me, including some of you. I’m grateful. And I’m glad I’m still here to pray for people who need me.

Whenever I’m tempted to give up, and yes, sometimes I feel like it, I think of all the people loving and praying. How can I die with so much interference?

My day will come though; it does for all of us, and I’m okay with that. It’s been a good life; if I could go back and start over, I’d choose the same one. I know where I’m going, and I like to think about heaven and everyone waiting for me there.  

“How are you, Donna?”

I get that question a lot. The answer is long and complicated.

Let’s just say I’m still on this side of the dirt. And I’m glad to be here.  

John laughing

Pass the Pasta

by Donna Poole

Pass me a plate of pasta and I’m a kid again, smelling Mom’s homemade sauce simmering on the back of the stove where it’s been getting thicker and more delicious by the hour. On rare occasions—Dad’s birthday was one—Mom made handmade pasta to go with the sauce. She covered the backs of chairs with cotton dish towels and draped the long, floury noodles over them to dry. We kids could hardly wait until supper time.

Some things were abundant at our house; discipline was one, but food was not. We were still hungry after we finished some meals, especially if meat was involved. Buying enough meat to feed that many people was a challenge not even my resourceful Mom could surmount. Sometimes she would apologize.

“I’m sorry I only have enough pork chops for each of you kids to have one.”

“That’s okay, Mom. Really!”

We always assured her we didn’t want more than one piece of meat anyway, and we weren’t just being polite. Mom was an excellent cook except when it came to meat. Dad insisted all meat be cooked until the only taste left was charcoal briquette. No matter how thoroughly we chewed it, sometimes it scratched our throats all the way down when we swallowed. It’s a wonder we didn’t all become vegetarians. My sisters still aren’t big carnivores!

It didn’t matter if we left the supper table a bit hungry; we always had a bowl of ice cream before bed. If I remember right Mom was able to buy a half gallon of chocolate, strawberry, vanilla, Neapolitan, or maple walnut for fifty-nine cents.

But oh when spaghetti night rolled around once a week! Not only was it delicious; it didn’t scratch your throat, and you could eat until you were full! And eating was fun! Some people cut pasta, but real Italians twirl it on a fork, sometimes with the aid of a spoon. An Italian kid, however, knows the best way to enjoy spaghetti. Put a tiny piece in your mouth and slurp the rest of the long noodle in!

My sister Mary and I especially enjoyed the slurping method. Surprisingly, Mom, the disciplinarian in the family, didn’t correct us, but our way of eating pasta accompanied by our laughter bothered Dad.

“Girls,” he warned, “the first time sauce from your spaghetti splashes on me you’re both finished eating.”

We didn’t take him seriously. Dad never disciplined us. Even when Mom, in desperation called into the living room after supper, “Dominic! Do something with those kids!” his reaction was to give his newspaper a quick shake and raise it an inch higher.

Dad? Send us away from the table when we were still hungry on spaghetti night? Not likely.

We kept laughing and slurping. I don’t know who did it. I’ll blame Mary since she’s in New York and I’m in Michigan and she won’t know about it until she reads this. Mary’s slurped spaghetti sent sauce sailing across the table and slapped Dad right in the face.

“That’s it! Donna and Mary Lou, you’re done eating. Leave the table.”

He doesn’t mean it.

But he did. And I remember that punishment with more sorrow than I do any of the hundreds of disciplinary actions that Mom gave us. Still, I’m not sorry. Given the chance, I’d sit at that table again with my sister, slurp, and laugh.

I wish you could have seen Mary then, a perfectly heart-shaped face, long dark brown braids, and eyes almost black and dancing with fun. She was my partner in crime, but usually the innocent partner. If I were a betting woman, I’d bet the house it was me and not she who slurped the sauce and incurred the rare wrath of Dad.

I still love spaghetti. Last Sunday Kimmee, our daughter, and Drew, our son-in-law, spent hours making me homemade pasta for my birthday. It was delicious. It was comfort food. It tasted like home and heaven.

I like thinking about heaven. I realize some of my views are less than traditional, but the Bible doesn’t tell us enough about heaven for any theologian with advanced degrees up to wazoo to contradict me. I hope.

I know heaven will be Home in the best sense of the word where brothers and sisters will no longer have anything but love for each other left in their hearts, and I long for that. I know heaven will be ultimate comfort because God promises to wipe away all tears. I like to imagine a big table that goes on for miles. When supper time comes, we’ll eat spaghetti with homemade pasta. I’ll sit next to my three sisters, and all four of us will slurp, even though Eve, the oldest and already in heaven, is the one who taught me how to twirl my noodles. Yes, Eve, Mary, Ginny, and I will slurp and laugh, and if anyone doesn’t want to get splashed—Dad—you better sit at the far end of the table.

Just one question remains. How do we get to heaven? When I was a spaghetti slurping little girl, I saw the answer to that written in calligraphy across the front of the auditorium at Tabernacle Baptist Church in Ithaca, New York. Every time I sat in those pews, happy, sleepy, and comfortable, hearing the voices of young and old around me singing the familiar hymns, I saw the words.

“Christ died for our sins…and that he was buried, and that he rose again the third day, according to the Scriptures.”

All that was left for me to do was believe and I did. I hope you will too, because when I look down that long, long table at Home, I can’t imagine not seeing you there. I can hardly wait until supper time.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

A Dream Within a Dream

Fiction for a Midsummer’s Day

by Donna Poole

I had the strangest dream.

In my dream I was sitting in the front passenger seat of a 1948 red and white Stinson plane.

Maybe I dreamt that because Dad once had a 1948 Stinson. The plane would start only when someone spun the propellor. Dad took us up in it once, and my husband John felt a bit uneasy. He asked Dad what would happen if the plane stalled in the air; how would Dad start it again?

“That’s what a son-in-law is for,” Dad said. “You’ll get out and spin the prop.”

Then Dad laughed his crazy laugh I remember so well. Heh heh heh.

Dad loved flying his plane, but early one spring he discovered a robin had built a nest in the propellor. He didn’t fly until she had laid all her eggs and the babies had grown big enough to fly away on their own.

Dad wasn’t the pilot in my dream. A strange man was steering the plane.

“Who are you and where are you taking me?” I asked.

And then I woke up.

When I woke up, I was still in the plane. The strange man was still flying. I felt like I’d stepped into an episode of the Twilight Zone, and I wanted out.

I glanced down; the airport was directly below us, and my panic started to subside a bit. Until the pilot banked, circled, and kept flying.

“What are you doing?” I demanded. “Why didn’t you land? That’s my life down there, and I’d like to get back to it. Now. If you don’t mind.”

The pilot smiled at me. He didn’t look threatening; he looked kind, even, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ve seen kidnappers on the news who looked like altar boys.

“I asked what you’re doing!”

“Holding pattern.”

Two brief words; they made me uneasy, but not nearly as disturbed as what he said next.

“Don’t worry; you’re in good hands. Your dad thought I was the best pilot he ever knew. And he says to tell you hello.”

I’m trapped in a plane with a deranged pilot.

I tried not to upset him. “Umm, I don’t think my dad knew you when you were a pilot. He’s been in heaven for nineteen years, and you look barely thirty, so unless you got your license before you were even a teenager….”

He didn’t argue, just smiled. “That was just like your dad, wasn’t it, not flying his plane because he didn’t want to hurt the baby robins? He and I have that in common. I care about baby birds too.”

My mind froze. I couldn’t deal with this. I didn’t know how he knew that about my dad. Had it been in the newspapers? I couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. Right now mattered! Why was he keeping me captive in this plane?

“Look, if you’re trying to kidnap me, I should warn you most people in my family make barely enough money to stay above the national poverty level, and I don’t have any rich friends!”

The pilot threw back his head and shouted with laughter. “I’m not sure ‘kidnap’ is the correct term for someone who turned seventy-four years old yesterday. And you do have a rich friend. You have me.”

How does he know so much? He knows about Dad not flying until the baby robins grew up. He knows my birthday! Not only is he crazy; he must be some kind of psychic. I’ve got to somehow get out of this plane!

“I don’t know if you’re rich, but you aren’t my friend! I’ve never seen you before in my life!”

He looked at me with a peculiar expression. “Haven’t you now?”

I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. Something about him did look familiar. But his vague answers both scared and irritated me.

“Do you always talk in riddles?”

“Sometimes.”

“Look!” My voice sounded loud in the tiny cockpit. “I want a real answer from you.  How long have we been in this holding pattern?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Two years, three months, eight days.”

“That’s not even funny!”

This time he looked at me with compassion. “I’m not joking.”

“That’s impossible! If I’ve been in this holding pattern that long, then I’ve missed….”

“Weddings and funerals of people you love. Church. Birthday parties, Your granddaughter’s college graduation. Visits with friends. Many sporting events and school programs, even seeing three grandchildren baptized. You’ve missed….”

I quit listening and tried to unfasten my harness, but it wouldn’t budge. I squirmed in desperation.

“You have to take me back! My family must be frantic with worry, wondering where I am!”

“They know exactly where you are.” His words were soft but so certain I almost believed him.

“Well, I don’t know where I am! Where am I?”

“I told you. In a holding pattern.”

“By whose orders?”

He tipped his head back and nodded up at the clouds.

You know how people talk about feeling an icy finger of fear crawl up their spines? I felt it. This man was delusional. I doubted I could talk him down, but I had to try.

“Surely you don’t think God told you to keep me in this holding pattern.”

He nodded. “God the Father. Yes. We’re keeping you safe up here. And here you’ll stay until you get better or worse.”

I tried a voice that had worked in the past on an out-of-control grandchild having a temper tantrum. Soft. But firm. Reasonable. But slightly patronizing.

“Sir. Please try to think straight and be sensible. We couldn’t possibly have been in a holding pattern for…how long did you say…two years? We would have run out of fuel.”

Again, he laughed. “Two years, three months, eight days. And yes, you have run out of fuel more than once, but this plane never has. Never will.”

I ran out of words. I sat there, tears running down my face, wanting to get back to my normal life but fearing I never would. Once again, I could see the airport just below me, right outside my window, but worlds away.

The pilot put a hand on my shoulder. “You could use this time to get to know me better. You’ve said for years you wanted to do that.”

I could barely speak through sobs. “I never said that. I don’t even know who you are.”

He took his hand from my shoulder, and turned it palm up. “I think you know me better than you think. This holding pattern can be beautiful if you’ll just ride along with me.”

I stared at the nail print in His hand. He nodded and showed me His other hand. It had a matching nail print.

“Am I still dreaming?” I asked.

A faint laugh, sounding farther and farther away. “Maybe. Will you just ride along with me?”

Just ride along with me. John knows I hate that sentence. He’s used it for years, whenever he thinks I’m questioning his driving decisions.

Just Ride along with me…ride along with me…ride along with me…

I shook John’s shoulder and interrupted his snoring.

“Honey, wake up. How long has it been since the doctors suspected I had cancer? How long have they restricted me from attending public events?”

“You want to know right now at two o’clock in the morning?”

“It’s important!”

Well, you found out near the end of May in 2020, and now it’s August 6, 2022, so I guess maybe it’s been…

He yawned.

I asked, “Could it be two years, three months, eight days?”

But he was snoring again.

The Thin Man

by Donna Poole

“Ask them; maybe they know,” John said.

I rolled down my window and asked the young couple getting in the car next to us. “Can you help a couple of old grandparents? How do we put money in those…things?”

I pointed at the parking meter in front of us in downtown Lansing, Michigan.

The young man smiled. “You have to download an app.”

“Download an app?”

“Uh huh. Or I think maybe there’s something on the other side that tells you how to pay. I’m not sure; I’ve always used the app.”

I thanked him; he got in his car, and John and I looked at each other. John pulled out his cell, not to download a who-knows-how-to-do-it-parking-meter-app, but to see if there was another Firehouse Subs we could go to that wasn’t in downtown Lansing.

The young man got back out of his car and came to my window.

“You know what?” he said. “Don’t worry about paying. It’s after five on Friday, and you don’t have to pay for parking on weekends!”

I thanked him with more enthusiasm this time, and he and his girl smiled at each other and drove off.

I expect you’ll raise your eyebrows about our choice of food when I tell you why we were in Lansing.

We’d just left John’s cardiologist office. A recent stress test had showed a small area in the front lower part of his heart that doesn’t get enough oxygen when he exercises.

Earlier that same morning, John’s beloved family doctor, Doctor Kimball, had asked him, “And I take it you’re eating a healthy diet?”

Well, Dr. Kimball, that would be a “sometimes.”

John’s instructions from the cardiologist’s office that afternoon didn’t mention diet (they’ve said that before), but they did tell him to double his Ranexa medication, not to go outside when there’s an excessive heat warning, and never to work until the point of exhaustion. They think his blockage is in a small vessel, probably too small for a stent and better treated with medication but warned him that even small vessel blockages can cause a heart attack if the person pushes too hard. He has another appointment in two weeks, and if he has any more symptoms on the double medication, they’ll schedule another hearth cath.

Those Italian subs from Firehouse Subs were delicious! We’d heard of them but had never eaten them before. We ate without guilt; lunch had been a heart-healthy salad, and besides, we had lettuce on our subs, so that helped, right?

We devoured our food, happy to be together, happy to still have each other.

Suddenly he appeared on the sidewalk right in front of us. The Thin Man. He was Black and wearing a worn, shiny black suit and a bright pink shirt. In that miserable heat. When he smiled I noticed missing teeth. I squinted to read the penciled printing on his cardboard sign.

“What does it say?” I asked John.

“I can’t read it.”

The man came up to John’s window. We didn’t feel at all threatened.

“I had to use a pencil,” he said. “It’s hard to read.”

In crooked, faint letters the sign said, “Anything you can do. God bless.”

Contrary to what you might think, we weren’t born yesterday. We know the rules; never give cash, offer to take them somewhere and buy food, don’t enable an addiction. We know cons harvest the streets and probably make more money than we do.

But there was something about him.

“I just want to get home and get a bath,” he said.

And I remembered C.S. Lewis had written something about he’d rather be taken advantage of a hundred times than get to heaven and find out he’d refused to help one honest person who’d really needed it.

I touched John’s arm. “Honey,” I whispered, “can we help him?”

John opened his wallet and put cash in the man’s hand.

And then the Thin Man gave a speech. It was obviously memorized and had been used many times before. The first line made me grin.

“May you always be as healthy and happy as you obviously are now.”

Happy? Yes! Healthy? If you read this blog often you know better. I did manage to wipe the grin off my face and listen to the rest of his canned speech delivered in a child-like sing-song fashion. I wish I could remember the words exactly, but it went something like this.

“This is my blessing for you. May health and happiness and money return to you twenty-four-fold. God bless.”

He said more. It was a long speech.

Meth Head? Maybe? He was so very thin, and missing teeth….

Still, he’d miscalculated us as healthy; who were we to misjudge him as an addict?

He wasn’t just concerned about the money. He went back onto the sidewalk and kept looking back at us, smiling, and waving with the money in his hand. And then he blew us a kiss.

And I blew one back.

His face lit up with glad surprise.

Meth Head or angel; I don’t know.

Right or wrong to give him the money? I don’t know, but I know what our kids will think when they read this. We’ll probably be grounded until we’re eighty years old, but hey, that’s not that far away!

All I know for certain is that for one second in the millennia of time I blew a kiss and a lonely man looked as happy as a child with a birthday cake.

We drove home, John and I, marveling at the beauty of the formation of the clouds in the sky. They were unusually lovely, and perhaps because of the Thin Man, we had clearer eyes to see them.

Not Yet

by Donna Poole

When life revolves around waiting rooms, infusions, clinical trials, tests, procedures, and doctor visits, you make your own fun.

I do it every time a medical person asks me the question they always ask. Said medical person has my records and has already been introduced to Morticia, my lung tumor.

“Do you smoke, Mrs. Poole?” They ask this elderly woman with cancer.

“Not yet.”

I wish I had photos of the shocked expressions. Then I laugh, they laugh, everyone laughs. Except John. My husband has heard it a few too many times, and he didn’t think it was funny the first time. I, however, find it more hilarious every time I say it.

Not yet!

I don’t always use that phrase in a humorous way.

“Do you want a wheelchair, honey?”

John looked at me with concern and motioned to the row of wheelchairs ready and waiting outside of the Rogel Cancer Center at University of Michigan Hospital. I was already short of breath and leaning hard on his arm, and we’d only walked from the parking lot to the entrance. We still had a long way to go to get to Star Ship Enterprise where I’d have my high-resolution chest CT scan.

I looked at the maize and blue wheelchairs and hesitated, tempted. Then I shook my head.

“Not yet.”

I didn’t have to say more; John knew what I meant. This “not yet” wasn’t joking.

I want to walk when I can as long as I can.

As usual, I regretted my decision half-way there, and there was no Scotty to beam me up. My legs felt like cooked elbow macaroni, and my vision blurred. I’m not sure why I’m so stubborn about the wheelchair, but I cling hard to the things I can still do.  

With unspoken gratitude to the person who’d invented handrails along hospital corridors, I finally arrived at my destination and collapsed into a chair.

How many times had I been to this room?

I was losing count.

In two years, I’d had twenty-six CT scans and twelve PET scans, but this would be my first high resolution CT. I fell in love with high resolution the moment I found out I didn’t have to drink the wonderful Kool-Aid—AKA barium. Not only that, but I didn’t even need a needle poke for contrast dye. This wonderful machine, in about three minutes, did a Dr. Leonard “Bones” McCoy worthy examination on my lungs. It saw things in minute detail a regular CT can only dream about.

The examination completed; we began making our way back to the parking lot. Stopping to catch my breath, I leaned against a handrail. A tall man with dark curly hair hesitated behind us. He was pushing a shiny metal cart with some boxes on it. He paused and looked at us with concern.

“You can go around us.” John laughed. “We’re slow.”

He nodded and steered his cart by us. When he got even with us, he stopped. Above the hospital required mask, the man’s blue eyes locked with mine.

“I hope everything will be okay,” he said.

His voice carried so much compassion. I looked at him, startled.

Are you an angel?

He was everyman. He was every good man and good woman who stops to show compassion to a stranger. Just six words, but tears stung my eyes, and still do when I remember him.

I’m not ready to give up on people. Not yet.

Two Noodles Shy of a Salad

by Donna Poole

A dozen hardboiled eggs, a pound of cooked elbow macaroni, whatever sweet pickle relish is left in the jar, as many sliced green olives as you can find in the fridge, a can or two of tuna, a few shakes of onion powder, a couple of scoops of Miracle Whip and mayo, and a good squirt of mustard.

There you have it. The macaroni salad John and I threw together. I forgot to mention we peeled the eggs before we added them to the salad.

John would rather I forgot the eggs altogether, and I really wish we didn’t have to add the gag-a-maggot tuna!

I was vigorously stirring the macaroni in the colander to get the last drops of water out when two noodles flew into the sink.

“Well, there you go,” I said to John. “Now the salad is like me. Two noodles shy of a full box.”

He laughed.

“Do you still love me even if I am two noodles shy of a full box?”

He assured me of his love. John would love anyone who would put tuna in his macaroni salad.

“How many noodles shy can I be and still have your love?”

He gave the ridiculous question about as much thought as it deserved. “You,” he declared, “may be four noodles shy of a full salad, and I will still love you.”

I’ve been to a neuropsychologist for testing a few times; if they send me again, I’ll be sure to ask him how to tell if I’m three noodles shy, so I’ll know when I’m pushing my limits with John. On second thought, I won’t ask him. That man has no sense of humor.

My neurologist sent me to him for testing after a stroke, craniotomy, and multiple seizures affected my brain. Don’t ask me how they affected it; I can’t remember. Kidding. They combined to give me what the neuropsychologist called mild cognitive dysfunction. I think basically that means I get to forget whatever I don’t want to remember, and no one can blame me for it.

I say the doctor has no sense of humor because on my first visit with him I told him a joke. He looked at me unsmiling with wide, fixed eyes.

“It was a joke,” I said, rather lamely.

“Oh,” he replied. Not even a hint of a smile.

I got the sense we weren’t going to be the best of friends.

I wish I could remember the joke I told him. Maybe it was this one. I went to a psychiatrist, and he told me I was crazy, so I told him I wanted a second opinion.

“Okay,” he said, “you’re ugly too.”

It wasn’t that joke. But I honestly can’t remember the one it was. And forgetting that joke bothers me more than not being able to recite Psalm 1 anymore.

See what I mean? A couple noodles shy of a full box.

I had a full box when John married me. Not to brag, but hey, why not? The Apostle Paul bragged, so I guess it’s biblical. I’ll get to my bragging. I used to be queen of multitasking. I never forgot anything. I had so much energy the Energizer Bunny came to me by night for secret lessons before he made his first commercial.

But life has a way of changing things and people. When John married me, I didn’t have gray hair either. I didn’t have cancer and didn’t need to go to the University of Michigan Hospital for treatments more than I go to church. I certainly didn’t need help making a simple macaroni salad.

But, like the Paul said—he wrote some good stuff when he wasn’t bragging—or rather, God wrote it through him: “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.” –I Corinthians 13:7-8

Love eats hardboiled eggs in macaroni salad.

Love eats tuna in macaroni salad.

Why, you may wonder, don’t we each make our own salad? John could have his without eggs; I could have mine without tuna. That, my friend, is a logical question.

I give to you an illogical answer: “Because. Then it wouldn’t be our salad.” We’ve grown to like it just like it is, even when it’s two noodles shy of a full box.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Ironing, Fireworks, and Nanticoke Creek

by Donna Poole

I haven’t owned one for more than a decade.

Readers who know me in person probably guessed that fact already by the wrinkled collars and cuffs our steamer couldn’t quite smooth out. Finally, I gave in and ordered the cheapest iron and least expensive tabletop ironing board I could find from Walmart.

Saturday morning I used the new equipment and discovered to my delight I despise ironing as much as I ever did. As I stood in our steamy kitchen wrangling stubborn shirts, I remembered Mrs. Denton. She’s the reason ironing is an anathema to me. I don’t cuss, but if I did, “GO IRON!” would be one of the worst curses in my vocabulary.

I agreed to iron for Mrs. Denton one miserably hot summer of my junior high days. The payment was one dollar a bushel basket. That was decent money; $1.00 in 1962 equals $9.29 now. But every time I showed up for my ironing job the basket of clothes was piled higher until one day it was twice my height. That might be a slight exaggeration.

I was no expert in ironing when I started working for our neighbor. We Piarulli girls were the cleaning troops who suffered through white glove inspections from General Mom complete with barked orders of, “Do it over!” but I don’t remember ever ironing my own clothes.

Thomas Sears invented the steam iron. In 1938 the Steam-O-Matic sold for ten dollars. Pretty pricey when adjusted for inflation—it would cost $193.61 today. Perhaps that’s why I remember Mom in the 1950s, when steam irons were still $10.00, sprinkling our clothes with water and rolling them up, leaving them until they were damp clear through, and then ironing them without steam. Perhaps she did get a steam iron later; I seem to remember the devil’s hiss.

I didn’t quit ironing for Mrs. Denton that summer. The summer of my discontent.

“Piarullis don’t quit,” Mom said.  

Sorry Mom, in all my adult years I’ve never ironed a thing I didn’t have to. Had I not been raised in the strictest sect of fundamentalist Baptist, I would have thrown away any clothing that came out of the dryer wrinkled, but that upbringing sticks with you like super glue. I’m pretty sure discarding usable garments breaks some biblical commandment, perhaps one in Hezekiah.

Which reminds me. Someone gifted me with an ugly, faded brown, hand-me-down circle skirt when I was in fifth grade. It had embarrassingly large brown buttons all down the front, bigger than I’d seen on any old lady’s moth ball scented church coat. In the next five years I grew many inches taller but no wider. Unfortunately for me styles in that same time grew shorter. I wore that ugliness from the time it touched just above my ankles until it reached the middle of my knee. Mom probably would have made me continue to wear it, but I was still growing taller, and that strictest sect of fundamentalist Baptist frowned when skirts reached the middle of the knee; to go higher might risk excommunication.

To be fair to Mrs. Denton, we never specified in our original unwritten contract how full the basket should be. And she did have a lot of children. I can’t remember how many. I do remember I thought Kenny was the nicest of them; he was my age, and I considered it kind of him not to point me out at school as his laundry maid.

That ironing took hours that seemed to stretch to days, weeks, months, and years. I entered the Denton house to iron when I was thirteen and left when I was ninety. I survived ironing days only by knowing when I left there I was heading straight for the waters of the Nanticoke Creek. I didn’t care how muddy it was; I was going in! Or, if it was raining, I’d bury my nose in a book!

Time is not the steady, reliable creature some imagine her to be. She’s capricious. Don’t trust her. A minute is not always a minute; an hour is not always an hour.

Don’t believe me? Compare an hour in a doctor’s waiting room to an hour at the lake. See what I mean?

As I ironed Saturday morning, I thought about how time wraps some things in softness and gives them a smile they never had at the time. I smile now at that short girl standing at the tall ironing board dreaming of swimming in the creek. I didn’t know she’d grow up to be me, the woman who still finds creeks and books fascinating, still hates ironing, and still questions the fickleness of time.

Why can’t some hours last longer?

Last Monday, Independence Day, we went to Dan and Mindy’s where we enjoyed a delicious summer meal with them and four of our grandchildren, Megan, Macy, Reece, and Ruby. Mindy’s parents, Mike and Julie were there too. Mike had prepared smoked brisket; it was delicious. I’d never had it before. Shh, don’t tell my oncologist Mike and Julie were there. I’m only allowed to see family, but I figure the family of my family is my family—right?

After we ate, we sat around a blazing bonfire. Perfect is a strong adjective, but that’s what it was. We talked to Megan about her future plans. Macy entertained us with tales of her volunteer work at King’s Cupboard. Reece passed out sparklers, and Ruby shared her glow sticks. The crackling fire kept mosquitoes away and dreams close.

The huge bonfire began to dwindle, and Mindy, our mighty but tiny daughter-in-law disappeared into their woods. All we saw was a speck of flashlight. She returned dragging huge branches under both arms and threw them on the fire.

Once it was totally dark, Dan and Reece went to the back of their property and set off twelve beautiful fireworks. And then we talked some more. Who knows how long we would have stayed around that fire if it hadn’t started to rain?

Those four wonderful hours were much shorter than any four hours I’ve ever spent ironing, and no one can tell me differently.

I wonder what time will be like in heaven? Maybe this gives us a hint.

“One day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day.” –2 Peter 3:8

I think I understand that a little bit…. Once, when I was around thirteen or fourteen, I spent a day ironing for our neighbor, and it took me a thousand years.

Just a Suggestion

by Donna Poole

Independence Day weekend 2022 is almost history; soon it will be a fading memory.

As soon as my husband John finished his Sunday sermon, Kimmee pulled out of the parking lot of our old country church. As always, I took a wistful look back at the door; family and friends were inside laughing and talking, and I wished I could be with them. But parking lot church is good too, and I counted my blessings.

We took the long way home, down two dirt roads, and Kimmee stopped often to take pictures of wildflowers for me.

We got home, but instead of pulling in the driveway, Kimmee asked me, “Do you want to go to the bridge?”

Oh, the bridge! Memories came flooding back. How many times had I walked to the bridge with Kimmee when she was a little girl? I was the fast one then; she had to hurry to keep up with me.

One September day during homeschool I taught her about Rosh Hashanah, the festival for the Jewish New Year, as we walked to the bridge. I can’t remember how old she was, perhaps third grade.

Rosh Hashanah begins with the blowing of the shofar, a hauntingly beautiful sound. A neighbor blew one for us once. That sound marks the following ten days of penitence that end with Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement.

On that long ago homeschool day, I told Kimmee that on the afternoon of the first day of Rosh Hashanah Jews went to a river, lake, ocean, or anywhere with water. They turned their pockets inside out, shook out any crumbs, and recited Scripture. It symbolized casting away sins to start the new year with a clear conscience, a fresh start. Kimmee and I got to the bridge over the small stream that becomes the large St. Joe River.

“I’m glad Jesus died on the cross and took our sins as far as the east is from the west, but let’s do what the Jews did. Let’s shake out our pockets over the water and pretend we’re shaking out our sins.”

Kimmee objected. “I don’t have anything in my pockets.”

“I don’t either, but let’s do it anyway. Maybe it will help you remember this.”

She shrugged, looked at me like I was part alien, and shook out her empty pockets.

I think she was about the same age when she begged me to stop acting out her history lessons. “I think I’m old enough now so we could just read the book.”

And here I’d thought I was an entertaining actor! Apparently, only one of us was amused. Still, Kimmee grew up to love drama and acted in many productions in college; I take credit for that!  

Yesterday’s Kimmee, now in her thirties, took more wildflower pictures for me at the bridge. I wanted to get out of the car and listen to the water. She came running and helped me stagger to the railing before I cast myself, sins and all, right into the water!

That evening Drew, Kimmee, John, and I went to the fireworks. We parked a distance away from the fairgrounds. Because I’m still in my required cancer bubble, I stayed in the car while the three of them hiked to the fairgrounds to buy the traditional food; can it be the Fourth of July without Fiske Fries?

Life passed by me as I sat in the car in my bubble. I saw young couples with baby strollers, groups of teens, older couples, and a single man with headphones hurry by on their way to the fairgrounds. Most people wore shorts and t-shirts or sundresses; the thermometer said it was warm. I sat wrapped in my long, below the knees winter sweater and chuckled at how I must look. Perhaps like an old lady with cancer?

Family and food arrived back at the car, and we sat our chairs outside, away from people—my oncologist would be proud. The fireworks display was amazing, one of the best I’ve seen. I looked up at the sky and thought about all my family and friends in heaven. I smiled at the thought of being with them forever. I looked to my left, and John smiled back at me and took my hand. I looked to my right.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Kimmee asked.

I thought about all my other wonderful family, not with us at the fireworks, but always nearby if I need them.

With pops and whistles the grand finale was over. I struggled to get out of my chair as John helped haul me up.

“When I don’t move, I forget I’m not normal,” I whispered to him.

When we got home, Drew had a surprise, a box of fireworks.

Sidebar: Today our son John sent his dad this text: “You know you’ve bought the right fireworks when the salesmen gives you a high four.”

Drew let me pick out which one I wanted to see. I chose one called “Summer Vacation.” It was beautiful. After our own fireworks display, we went inside to eat the pies Kimmee and I had baked.

If I told you the pies were perfect, it would be a lie. The berry pie was runny and had clumps of sugar you could chew. Still, it was tasty. It was kind of like life; not perfect, but good enough. More than good enough. I’m grateful.

Gratitude is, don’t you think, the secret to a good life?

I went to high school with Mary; I don’t know if she’d want me to use her full name, so I won’t. She’s a grateful person, even though she can no longer glance over at her husband, Jerry, and have him take her hand. Today I read a Facebook post of hers that touched my heart. She wrote about going to a concert with Jerry and asking Vance Gilbert to sing “May I Suggest” by Susan Werner.

Mary posted, “When I listened to it today, the song had a totally different meaning of the words, especially the last part. It has more meaning now than it ever did before. Thank you, Vance Gilbert. I miss you Jerry, thanks for the great memories we had.”  

Here’s the song.

            May I suggest
            May I suggest to you
            May I suggest this is the best part of your life
            May I suggest
            This time is blessed for you
            This time is blessed and shining almost blinding bright
            Just turn your head
            And you’ll begin to see
            The thousand reasons that were just beyond your sight
            The reasons why
            Why I suggest to you
            Why I suggest this is the best part of your life

            There is a world
            That’s been addressed to you
            Addressed to you, intended only for your eyes
            A secret world
            A treasure chest to you
            Of private scenes and brilliant dreams that mesmerize
            A tender lover’s smile
            A tiny baby’s hands
            The million stars that fill the turning sky at night
            Oh I suggest
            Yes I suggest to you
            Yes I suggest this is the best part of your life

            There is a hope
            That’s been expressed in you
            The hope of seven generations, maybe more
            And this is the faith
            That they invest in you
            It’s that you’ll do one better than was done before
            Inside you know
            Inside you understand
            Inside you know what’s yours to finally set right
            And I suggest
            And I suggest to you
            And I suggest this is the best part of your life

            This is a song
            Comes from the west to you
            Comes from the west, comes from the slowly setting sun
            This a song with a request of you
            To see how very short the endless days will run
            And when they’re gone
            And when the dark descends
            Oh we’d give anything for one more hour of light

            May I suggest this is the best part of your life

Tonight, we’re invited to our son and daughter-in-law’s home, where we’ll be loved by Dan and Mindy and four of our wonderful grandchildren. I think there might even be a bonfire.

The loved ones lost this past year remind me I may not always have my family and friends to love. For the ones I still have today, I’m grateful. This is my hour of light with them; this is the best part of my life.

Of my earthly life, that is. Because of Jesus I can say and believe with all my heart, the best is yet to be. No sins to cast out of my pockets, darkness gone forever. After the darkness comes light.  

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Bikes and Batteries

by Donna Poole

We wouldn’t have been caught off guard if we’d just looked under the hood. She gave us fair warning.

But we didn’t look.

Follow closely. This gets complicated.

Kimmee was second shooter for a wedding last Saturday; that’s second photographer for you uninitiated. John had agreed to drop her off. He was running a bit late, but they still had time to make it—barely. John and Kimmee loaded all her equipment into our 2000 Toyota Avalon, a gift from dear friends. We love that car. It’s always dependable. They jumped in, turned the key…click… silence. They reloaded everything into our not so dependable 2009 Chevy Uplander and raced out of our driveway.

Here’s where it gets complicated. Sunday comes after Saturday. Wait, no, that’s not the complicated part.

If you’ve followed my blog perhaps you remember that John is a pastor, and my oncologist hasn’t allowed me to go inside our church for two years. Kimmee drives me to what we call parking lot church. Our church transmits services over the radio, but the signal reaches only as far as the parking lot. That’s not the complicated part either.

Here’s the complicated part. Our vehicles are too old to pick up the signal; at best we get static and an occasional muttering voice that sounds like someone speaking in tongues. We know it’s definitely not coming from our quiet, country, Baptist church. We can tune in a great country music station though! To solve the problem of no signal, Drew takes our Avalon to work, and Kimmee drives me to church in their Kia. We can hear the sermon just fine, and we only switch to the country music station if we’re bored. Just kidding; we’re much too spiritual to do that, or maybe we don’t switch because Kimmee hates country music.

Perhaps because it was made it Canada, I don’t know, but the Uplander seat won’t slide back far enough to accommodate Drew’s very long legs. He’d have to drive their Kia to work on Sunday.

I looked mournfully at the Avalon. “It was kind of you to break down right here in the driveway instead of leaving someone stranded far from home, but did you have to pick Saturday?”

It wouldn’t kill me to miss church the next day, but I really wanted to go.

John returned from taking Kimmee to work and drove into the driveway much slower than he’d driven out of it. He checked under the hood, looked at the Avalon’s battery, and laughed.

“It says ‘five-year battery.’ And it’s dated June 2017.”

Well! We couldn’t say the old girl hadn’t warned us. The battery worked right up to its expiration date. Five years to the month.

“I’m going to town to see if I can find a new battery,” John said. “I’m pretty sure that’s all that’s wrong with this car.”

And off he went to the auto parts store.

John hooked up the new battery, and Sweet Avalon hummed her way to life. Vacation over, she took Drew to work on Sunday, and I was grateful to go to parking lot church.

I kept thinking about that old, dependable battery. It didn’t quit working in 2021 or even in March or May of 2022. It worked right up to its expiration date, June 2022.

When I turn on my old, dependable hp computer, also a gift from the dear friends who gave us the car, a black and white picture pops up on the screen. A man is riding a mountain bike down a steep, rocky hill and it looks like he’s heading right into the ocean. Doomed. Expiration date any second now. I liked the picture when I first started using the computer. It spoke of courage and adventure. I hated the picture when I was sick and weak from chemotherapy. It spoke of despair and death. I didn’t want to see someone plunge into the ocean to his demise. I enjoy the picture again now. It says adventure once again. I like to imagine there is a path that curves to the left just out of my sight that the cyclist will take when he gets to the bottom of the cliff.

As you may have guessed, I’ve identified a bit with the cyclist, and with the battery and its stamped expiration date. I don’t know my expiration date; you don’t know yours, and we don’t often think of it. But the date is circled on God’s calendar, rather we think of it or not.

Someone said the two things it’s hardest to get people to consider are these: the shortness of time and the length of eternity. Being a cancer patient changes that. I consider it.  

If time is short, and we know it is, and eternity is forever, and the Bible tells me it is, I better be ready.

“It is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment.” –Hebrews 9:27

I can either face that judgment on my own or flunk it more royally than I did Latin II, Chemistry, and Missions, or I can let someone else take the exam for me. Thank God, Jesus already took the test and paid for it with His life. On the cross my sin was condemned so that I would never be judged for it. The entire New Testament tells me this is beautifully, breathtakingly true.

I don’t know my expiration date, but because of the love of Jesus, I’m ready. Like the battery, I’d like to stay useful right up to the end. When I can no longer talk, fix a meal, or write a story, perhaps I can still pray. I’ll breathe in a thought of those I love and breathe out a name in prayer. I’d love for my last breath to be a prayer of blessing.

But until then, there’s work to do, and I plan to keep doing it. True, this old battery named me needs a jump start now and then, and the Rogel Cancer Center at the University of Michigan Hospital is doing a good job of keeping me going.

Like the cyclist heading down the rocky cliff, I don’t know what I’ll find at the bottom. If it’s the ocean, I’m not going to be afraid, because the same Jesus who loved me enough to die for me also promised never to leave me to face anything alone.

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.” –Isaiah 43:2

Will the path curve left and take me down a level path with years of beautiful seashore views?  

I’m hoping for the level path. I’ll take my hands of the handlebars and my feet off the pedals and yell “Wahoo!” like I did when I was a kid.

But I’m thinking that for all of us who are heaven bound there are joys ahead no “Wahoo!” can even come close to expressing. So, let come what may, whatever it be, I’d like to say, let’s keep walking each other down these backroads until we see the lights of home.

I’ll be there for you; you be there for me, and that’s not complicated.

Photo Credit: John Poole

See You Next Morrow

by Donna Poole

“See you next morrow!”

When Reece, our grandson, was a little boy with golden curls he used to say that to us when we said goodbye. “Last morrow” was yesterday or any time past, and “next morrow” was tomorrow or any day in the future.

Sometimes we still use those two sweet phrases in our house just for the nostalgia of it because we hold close in our hearts those little boy days too quickly gone. Time gives; time takes away.

What is time, really? Our understanding of time and eternity is so limited. Past, present, future; what are those terms but just words? They are nothing to our God who holds them all in the palm of His hand as one. The Bible says to God a day is as a thousand years and a thousand years as a day.

To an author crafting a novel, time is relative. She knows what happened to her characters in the past; she writes about what they’re doing in the present, and sometimes she knows what they’re going to do in the future, although they often surprise her and do their own thing. When it comes to her novel, an author also holds past, present, and future in the palm of her hand. Time is a relative term; it’s of no consequence. Unless she has a deadline, and then time quickly goes from abstract to concrete!

Perhaps in heaven we’ll view time as God does, and a thousand years will be but a day, and we’ll no longer be slaves to time. But when we’re still walking the earth as mere mortals, there is a past, present, and future; time is very real, and sometimes it hurts.

We love someone dearly; as Erasmus said, “We had but one soul between us.” Suddenly, time is up. The train whistle blows, and our loved one is gone down the tracks, out of sight, into infinity. We can follow them only with our hearts, not our eyes. We have the memories of last morrow, but no next morrow to ramble a backroad together here on this earth. If we both knew Jesus as Savior we have the promise of eternity together, but eternity can seem a long way off to a mourning heart.

A dear pastor friend of ours said, “Death is a defeated enemy, but make no mistake, it is still the enemy.”

It’s the enemy because it tears apart the fabric of hearts knit together, and though time may mend, the scars remain. A song, a scent, a familiar shape turning a corner, and a tear comes.

In the past eight months death has claimed five people dear to us, our sweet friend Amber Jones, only twenty-two, our friend Pastor Don Harkey, my faithful friend, Chris Albee, our dear brother-in-law, Steve Post, and now, our beautiful friend Lois Pettit Trippet.

Each of these lovely people showed us a glimpse of Jesus. People said about Frances Ridley Havergal that when she came into a room you had a sense of two people coming in, her, and the Holy Spirit. When Jesus lives in us, we should bring the smile of spring into a room, the fresh scent of the Other Land we’re traveling to, and these five people did that for us. We grieve their loss.

Lois was an accomplished musician with piano, flute, and voice. Even her laughter sounded like music. We fought cancer together, and she was a song of hope to me. I don’t think either of us expected cancer to win; we thought God would heal us, but God took her Home. I won’t hear that melodic laugher again on this earth; I’ll never again see her beautiful face or lovely smile.

I wipe away tears but smile at the memories.

Lois was a wonderful piano teacher; I was her only failure in all her years of teaching. It took her from late summer until Christmas to teach me to play “Silent Night,” one finger of the right hand on the melody, and left hand doing a few simple chords. She was so patient with me.

Somewhere along the line we decided we were destined to be soul-mate kind of friends, not piano teacher and struggling student. I quit lessons.

I have so many memories. Lois laughing, singing, playing her flute, talking so seriously about the Lord she loved. Lois, still in her twenties, panicking at my surprise fortieth birthday party when she saw someone arrive she was interested in but hadn’t expected to see there, grabbing my hands, and asking me what she was going to do. Her hands were like ice, and her big blue eyes looked like a little girl who’d been suddenly told she had to sing the national anthem in Yankee Stadium. I laughed and told her she was going to be her usual charming self. And she was. Lois at our house having dinner the night I went into labor for our fourth child. I finished eating even though I knew I was in labor because I’d made a special meal; that was a decision I regretted later. After John and I went to the hospital, Lois spent the evening with our kids and helped them make a “Welcome Baby” banner to tape over the archway.

Lois married and moved out of state. I think the last time we ate together was at DJ’s, a cozy little restaurant in Pittsford. Mark, Lois, John, and I sat in front of the big window, talked and laughed, and the years we hadn’t seen each other evaporated like steam from a cup of tea.

Lois and I haven’t seen each other the last two years. My oncologist won’t let me have visitors, and sweet Lois kept wanting to come sing outside my window. When I heard she’d flown like a songbird to heaven, that’s what I cried about the most, that I hadn’t made that happen.

One of the last things Lois did before she couldn’t do anything but wait for Jesus to take her Home and end her suffering was write us a note and send a gift. That’s the kind of friend Lois was to us. Her life was a song; the echo lingers.

Lois, dear friend, I’ll see you next morrow. Amber, Pastor Harkey, Chris, Steve, see you next morrow. And to all my dear ones loved and lost to me now but known to Christ, see you next morrow!

She’s a Goner

by Donna Poole

We were the Three Musketeers.

We three couples laughed, cried, and adventured together. We solved the world’s problems while enjoying coffee in our living rooms warmed by a wood burner or kerosene heaters. We sat in camp chairs pulled close to crackling campfires and watched the stars appear. We enjoyed countless meals together. John dearly loved our friends, La-Follettes, and Potters, and never got upset with them.

Except for that one time.

The phone rang. “John,” Audrey Potter said, “Marvin and I are at a garage sale. There’s a dryer here for $75.00. Either you’re buying it for Donna, or we are, but one way or another, she’s getting this dryer!”

A clothes dryer wasn’t on our list of must haves, and the must haves far outweighed the income. It’s probably a good thing Audrey couldn’t see John’s face.

“Where is it?” he asked. “I’ll come get it.”

I have no idea where John got the money, because back then we were lucky to have an extra five dollars!

I’d never had a dryer. We lived in the country, and clothes lines strung between trees worked just fine. Unless it rained, or snowed, or a bird pooped on the sheets, or everything got fly spots, or the laundry smelled like manure from the neighbor’s cows.

Did you ever get out of a hot shower, bury your face in a towel that smelled like manure, and come up gasping for fresh air? No? You should try it sometime!

Home came the dryer. John was even less thrilled when he found out the dryer was set up for natural gas and he had to buy a converter so it could attach to our LP gas. But finally, we got the old girl up and running.

Like our other old appliances, the dryer worked great, most of the time. When she didn’t, John learned a lot about repairs. And when the work needed was beyond him, he called Brad, our appliance guy.

Brad is a genius at finding old parts and fixing ancient appliances. We got to know him well, just as we did our furnace repair man. When people replaced old furnaces, he saved parts off them because he knew we’d be needing them. We have good people in our lives.

About a month ago the old girl started warning us. Towels that usually dried in one hour took two. Finally, she said, “Enough is enough; I need a rest.”

We weren’t worried. John tore her apart and thought he knew what the trouble was. He called Brad. Brad confirmed John’s diagnosis of the patient’s illness and added another John had missed; she was terminal.  

“I’ll try, but I really don’t think I can get parts for this anymore, John. This dryer was made in the late 60s or early 70s.”

“Do you have anything second hand available?”

Brad nodded. “I do, but it’s electric. I’ve gone over it, and it works well. I’ll tell you what though, with the price of LP gas as high as it is, you’re going to spend as much to run a gas dryer as you will an electric one.”

Audrey, you’ll be happy to know John is buying Brad’s dryer. You don’t have to threaten to come back to Michigan from Tennessee where you live now and buy it for me if he doesn’t. It costs a little more than $75.00, but it’s very reasonable.

I’ll miss the old girl. I wish I could remember how long we’ve had her, maybe twenty-five years? She gave us a good run for the money, and I’m sorry she’s a goner.

You know what I miss more? I miss the days when three young, then three middle aged, then three older couples cried, laughed, and adventured together. I miss solving the world’s problems while enjoying coffee in our living rooms warmed by a wood burner or kerosene heaters. I miss sitting in camp chairs pulled close to crackling campfires and watching the stars appear. Gone are the days of sharing countless meals together.

Those days will never really be a goner because they’ll live forever in our hearts. We’ll fellowship again someday around the Big Table when we all get Home to heaven. Pastor Potter is there already; we don’t know which of us will go next. There will be no problems to solve there, no tears to dry, but the love and laughter will last for eternity. And I can only hope for a crackling campfire, cups of coffee, and the sweet voices of my beloved friends.

What’s Your Hurry

by Donna Poole

We have many non-negotiable June deadlines.

Time is a precious commodity right now, so John sighed when he realized we were out of a necessary medication and had to make a trip to town. He needed every one of his June minutes to accomplish his tasks, and an extra trip to town wasn’t part of the plan.

I knew I wasn’t going to see much of John this month, so I closed my computer. “I’m riding along with you.”

“Do you have time?”

“No, but I’m going anyway.”

On the way to town, I tried to sing, “Precious and few are the moments we two can share.”

I say “tried” because, as usual, the melody lost itself between my heart and my mouth.

We decided we’d enjoy what little time we had together and make the ride back home a mini date, so we stopped at Arby’s to get a favorite drink, a value size Jamocha Shake.

What! Four cars ahead of us at the drive-through? We definitely didn’t have time for this.

“Let’s skip it,” I said to John.

We hesitated, almost left, but stayed. The wait was only a few minutes, but the looming deadlines made it seem longer.

There always seems to be a reason to rush, doesn’t there? At those times, even fast food doesn’t seem fast enough.

Kimmee, our daughter, and I were sitting in the parking lot at church today, listening to John preach over the radio, when he mentioned restaurant food. He was talking about the Apostle Paul being imprisoned in Rome, chained to two guards, in his own rented house.

“There he was in Rome, Italy,” John joked, “and he couldn’t even go out to a restaurant for spaghetti.”

I laughed then remarked to Kimmee I didn’t think there were restaurants in Italy in Paul’s day.

“Mom,” Kimmee said. “They discovered food stalls in the ruins of Pompeii, and Pompeii was destroyed after Paul died. They had food stalls in Rome too!” She texted me some links to research.

I found out the Pompeii food stalls didn’t offer Jamocha shakes, but duck, goat, pig, fish, and snails were on the menu.

I suppose you could call those food stalls the first fast-food restaurants.

Did the people in line at a food stall in Pompeii sigh about the four people in line ahead of them? I wonder if people then forget as we do now that life is short and sweet? One midsummer day, August 24, 79, A.D., Mount Vesuvius blew its top and buried the city under thirteen to twenty feet of volcanic ash and pumice. Buildings, skeletons, and artifacts lay intact under that ash until archaeologists discovered the city in the mid-1800s. In recent excavations, archeologists found the remains of two people in a food stall. Had they been enjoying the August morning, or had the pressure of preparing food made them in too much of a hurry to notice the day?

I wonder if mankind has been in a hurry ever since God banished Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. That reminds me of a joke Tom told me today.

Despite his own physical pain, Tom loves to make people laugh. He told me the problem in the Garden of Eden wasn’t the apple in the tree, it was the “pair” on the ground!

Come to think of it, Eve was in a hurry when she grabbed that forbidden fruit. Satan had promised her it would fast track her into more knowledge.

Eve was just plain in too much of a rush. If only she’d waited to talk to God, or Adam, or even to have a chat with herself, the outcome might have been different.

Slow down, Eve; “you move too fast. You got to make the morning last.”

But Eve didn’t slow down; the morning didn’t last, and midnight came all too soon.

I wonder how many mistakes I’ve made when I’ve been in too much of a hurry. What precious things have I sacrificed? I do know that being too busy makes me forget to take the long look. I don’t remember two important things: the shortness of time and the length of eternity.

Yes, we must keep moving; some deadlines are non-negotiable. Life itself has an expiration date. But if we’re too busy for each other, too busy to worship, too busy for God, we’re too busy. If we feel frustrated by four cars ahead of us in a fast-food line; it’s time to slow down.

John and I did slow down…for a few minutes. We drove home from town a little slower. We noticed the wildflowers and remarked about the unusually beautiful day, sunny, and warm. The humidity hit a desert like low that afternoon, four percent. Was this really even Michigan? We enjoyed being together, and we enjoyed the Jamocha shakes.   

Yes, make your deadlines. But slow down a bit now and then. Take a backroad.

Next time you’re in too much of a hurry, remember Eve. And ask yourself this: who was the first one in a big rush to leave the Last Supper? Talk about bad decisions!

Photo Credit: Drew Kiefer
Photo Credit: Drew Kiefer
Photo Credit: Drew Kiefer

One Step at a Time

by Donna Poole

Kimmee drove by the silver van parked on the backroad as we traveled home from parking lot church today. “That same van was here yesterday, and there’s a sign in the window.”

“I wonder what it says. Want to stop and see?” I asked.

Kimmee checked it out. “It says not to tow the vehicle because the owner is hiking on the North Country Trail and will return. What’s that trail?”

“I don’t know; I’ve never heard of it.”

Thank you, Safari search; before we got home Kimmee and I knew the trail is 4,800 miles long, the longest in the National Trails System. It extends across eight states from North Dakota to Vermont and includes Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York.

Our section of the trail in southern Michigan goes from the Kalamzoo/Barry County line to the Ohio/Michigan state line. Northcountytrail.org says, “Southern Michigan hosts a mix of forest and farm country that primarily follows multi-use pathways and temporary road walks. Hike over lush farmland and tramp the back roads of a part of Michigan where there are so many lakes they are referred to by number.”

“Tramp the back roads;” I like that. How have I lived here so long and not known about this amazing trail? Now I know why I’ve seen the occasional hikers on our gravel road, backpacks on, walking sticks in hand, looking half-dead!

I read more, wishing I could hike the amazing trail that “traverses through more than 160 federal, state, and local public lands, including 10 National Forests, four areas of the National Park Service, and over 100 state parks, forests, and game areas. It winds along three of the Great Lakes, past countless farmlands, through large cityscapes and vast prairies, and the famed Adirondacks.”

I’m ready to hike; who’s with me? Grab your walking stick!

There’s one tiny problem. Two years ago, before Morticia my lung tumor rearranged my life, I refused to go to bed until I’d walked my 10,000 daily steps. Pedometer in pocket, I kept walking the hall or around the living room every night until I hit the magic number. Back then, I was ready for a hike. Now I stagger from home to car to Rogel cancer center back to car to home to bed. That’s a slight exaggeration, but sadly, I no longer stagger down trails. That’s not to say I won’t hike again someday. I don’t plan to stagger either; I intend to walk the way I used to walk if I can only remember how!

Can you imagine the adventure of hiking the entire 4,800 miles of the North Country Trail from start to finish? Do you know how people accomplish that mighty feat? With their feet. Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Feat, feet, get it?

They hike those many miles one step at a time.

According to my research, if you’re an able bodied moderately active person, you’ll walk much farther than 4,800 miles in your lifetime. If you stay active until you’re eighty years old, you’ll walk 110,000 miles; that amounts to walking the circumference of the earth five times! Walking around the world five times sounds exhausting and impossible.

It happens one step at a time.

My husband, John, saw the lone hiker whose car had been parked on the backcountry road. She drove by us late this afternoon. I wish I could have talked with her to ask why she’d wanted to spend Memorial Day weekend hiking alone and how much of the beautiful North Country Trail she’d hiked. Was she a beginner? A seasoned traveler? Had the hike been difficult? I wonder if she found unexpected beauty, perhaps a fawn sleeping in a hedgerow.

I remember hiking a trail once I thought was going to kill me. The day was too hot for hiking; we were too tired, and we were probably too old, but we tackled it anyway. Down it took us into a steep ravine until leg muscles screamed. Up it forced us to the top until lungs panted and begged for mercy. Just when we thought we’d made it and were getting out alive, it took a cruel sharp turn and plunged us down again. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; both took too much needed energy. I suggested to John he carry me or call 9-1-1. He nixed both ideas; he said he couldn’t carry me so I’d have to keep walking, and he couldn’t call for help because we had no cell service.

When we finally emerged from the wilds into civilization, we saw two hikers about to begin that trail.

“Don’t do it!” I warned them. “It’s the trail from hell.”

They laughed.

“I’m not joking. It’s horrible. We barely got out alive.”

They laughed again. Down the trail they went. Poor souls, we never saw them again.

We did escape that terrible trail though. How? One step at a time.

In our metaphorical journeys we sometimes find ourselves on trails we never chose, expected, and don’t particularly like. We may even feel like calling them the trails from hell. But we aren’t walking alone.

We have a Guide who always comes when we call for help. And when we get too tired; He’ll carry us and point out beauty along the way. We may even see a fawn sleeping in a hedgerow. As soon as our Guide knows we’re strong enough to continue, He’ll set us down and tell us to keep walking. If we complain the day is too hot for hiking; we’re too tired, and we’re probably too old, He’ll tell us to get going anyway because that’s how our spiritual muscles become strong.

When I’m not especially fond of my trail, I trust my Guide and keep walking, because I know these byways, happy and sad, are leading me Home.

But if it’s all the same to my Guide, I wouldn’t mind hiking a little of the beautiful North Country Trail before I walk His streets of gold. Either way, I’ll keep walking. One step at a time.

“A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.” –Proverbs 16:9

May Memories

by Donna Poole

Who doesn’t love the month of May?

Fifty-four years ago this evening was unforgettable, but the story actually began in April, so I’ll have to turn around and walk back up the road a piece.

Mom and Dad Poole, Mr. and Mrs. Poole to me back then, were traveling from cold New York State to beautiful Georgia where spring was already smiling. They were taking their son, John, and a family friend, Hope, and they invited me to go too.

I’d only been to New York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and the Canadian side of Niagara Falls, so that trip was a wonderful adventure to me. The views were spectacular as we drove through the mountains, and every time we stopped, the air was softer and warmer. I felt like we were driving right into heaven.

It was heavenly to be with John, too. We’d been friends since before kindergarten and had dated about a year. We were nearing the end of our second year of college, and at the age of nineteen, felt quite grown up and ready to conquer the world.

During our freshman year of college John had told me he loved me. That terrified me; we hadn’t known each other nearly long enough for that. I responded to his declaration of love with something less than he’d hoped.

“How,” I’d asked, “does a person know something like that for sure?”

John had even proposed to me, more than once, always as a joke. Once I’d almost taken him seriously until he brought the ring from behind his back and presented it with a laugh. It was in a clear plastic egg; he’d gotten it from the bubble gum machine.

Georgia was everything I’d hoped and more. I loved John’s sister Lonnie, warm and funny, and her kind southern gentleman of a husband, Truman. One day during our visit they took all of us to visit Stone Mountain. From the flat land around it, the quartz mountain, more than five miles in circumference at its base, juts 825 feet into the air. The 360-degree view from the top is incredible. You can see downtown Atlanta, the North Georgia mountains, and on a clear day, you can see sixty miles in all directions.

John asked me if I wanted to go to the top of the mountain, and I did. We took Hope with us. When we got to the top, I was exclaiming over the amazing view. Hope was just a few steps ahead of us when John asked, “Will you marry me?”

I gave him a quick look. I knew him. He wasn’t going to propose when he couldn’t kiss me, and he for sure wasn’t going to propose and kiss me with a friend along. That was totally unromantic. This was another of his jokes.

I laughed. “I’m not going to fall for that again!”

He wasn’t joking. He’d planned that proposal for months.

As I may have already told you, we were nineteen and oh, so mature. So, John responded as any mature man would; he refused to speak to me the rest of the morning. Or the afternoon. Or the evening.  

Awkward!

Mom Poole noticed; everyone noticed; how could they not? His face looked like a storm cloud and his silence shouted volumes.

“What did you do to Johnnie?” Mom Poole asked.

I told her. I don’t remember her response.

I do remember wishing I could be back in the cold state of New York where the atmosphere would be a lot warmer than it was sitting next to the guy who refused to say a word to me.

Very late that evening we ended up in a room alone together, and the storm cloud spoke. “Do you want to marry me or not, and this is your last chance!”

I laughed. “Yes, of course. I want to marry you!”

He didn’t yet have the ring; I didn’t realize it, but he was giving a little of each paycheck to a jewelry store in Ithaca, New York, where my beautiful diamond was on layaway.

Let’s leave April and Georgia behind now and walk ahead to 24 May 1968. Between college classes and work—I did both full time—it had been a long day. You know that feeling you get when you need sleep as much as you need air? I got home from work and almost cried when I saw John’s car at Mom and Dad’s. Yes, I loved him; I adored him, but I needed to sleep.

I went inside and managed a smile.

“I thought you might like to take a ride out to the airport!” he said.

“Oh, honey, I’m exhausted. Could we go another time?”

“No, I’d really like you to come with me tonight.”

I sighed.

“Donna,” Mom said, “If Johnnie wants to take you for a ride, you should go with him.”

That didn’t help my mood one bit. She always did like him better. Ever since I’d been a little girl my mom had been telling me when I grew up I should “marry that nice little Johnnie Poole.”

I’d told her on repeated occasions, when I was a little girl, that I would NEVER marry that “nice little Johnnie Poole.”

As I may have already told you, we were nineteen and oh, so mature. The drive to the airport was totally silent. John had his feelings hurt because he knew I hadn’t wanted to come with him. I had my feelings hurt because I thought he should have noticed how tired I was.

John parked where we could see the planes take off and land. Neither of us said a word. Finally, John spoke. Four curt words.

“Open the glove compartment.”

“What’s the matter, did you break your arm? You want the glove compartment opened, open it yourself.”

“Open the glove compartment.”

With an exaggerated, dramatic, and oh so mature sigh, I opened the glove compartment, and the light inside came on. There, in a box, sat a beautiful diamond solitaire in a tiffany setting.

“I could have gotten a bigger one for the same price,” John said, “but the jeweler had me look at both diamonds through his glass. The bigger one had lots of black specks. This one didn’t have any. He said this one was almost perfect. I thought you should have the perfect one, because it reminded me of you.”

Perfect? Had he already forgotten the way I’d behaved just minutes before?

“Love,” as the Scriptures say, “covers a multitude of sins.”

Our love has covered a multitude of sins for many years now, and it grows sweeter as we get older.

People can cherish their memories of fancy proposals made in five-star restaurants or on romantic cruises. I’ll take my two memories any day. “Do you want to marry me or not, and this is your last chance!” “You want the glove compartment opened, open it yourself!”

I remember, and I laugh. And then I thank God for all the love and laughter we’ve shared since.

John Poole, when you read this blog, and I know you will because no matter how busy you get you always make time to read what I write, I want you to know this. There’s no one I’d rather ramble the backroads of life with more than you. Happy engagement anniversary. You’re still outside putting siding on the porch at 6:41 PM and I’m still writing. We haven’t been together more than a few minutes today. If you want to take me for a ride to the airport tonight, I’ll open the glove compartment.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

The Card that Wasn’t

by Donna Poole

“Oh, come on, Mary! We can do it!”

“Donna! Mom said we could ride our bikes fifteen minutes before supper. That store is fifteen miles away. There’s no way we can get there and back in time.”

“But I know we can do it if we ride fast enough. I want to buy Mom a real card for Mother’s Day.”

Passion won over logic; my sister Mary caved in, and we began pedaling the hills as fast as we could.

Strange as it sounds, I wasn’t lying to Mary. I honestly thought if we tried hard enough, we could get home in time. I was plenty old enough to know fairy tales don’t come true just by determination and wishing, but I didn’t. I’m not sure I know yet.

I can’t remember exactly how old we were when we set out on our grand pre-Mother’s Day adventure. We lived in Taberg, New York, middle of nowhere USA., when I was in fifth, sixth, and half of seventh grade. So, I must have been ten or eleven. Mary was fifteen months younger but years wiser.

The details get fuzzy. I remember we got lost; Mary thinks we didn’t. I recall getting tired and sitting on a bench outside of a closed laundry mat just as Mary hollered, “Don’t sit down!”

Mary saw what I didn’t. There was bleach on the bench, bleach on my long jacket, and soon to be bruises on my backside.

As you may guess, hours passed, and Mom panicked. I believe she called the police, the fire department, the boy scouts, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I may be exaggerating. Sadly for us, Mom was the one who found us.

Nothing makes a mom more furious than fear. She tossed our bikes in the back of the station wagon with strength I could only admire even though I knew what was coming.

“Get in!”

In we got. It was dark outside. Our futures looked dark. We were not to have any futures; this was to be our last day of living. It had been a good life. I looked affectionately at Mary, my sister, my best friend, my comrade in crime—though usually dragged unwillingly into said crime. It had been a good life. I was sorry to get her executed at such a young and tender age. And poor Ginny, our little sister, what was she going to do without us?

Mom’s voice pronounced our death sentence. “You girls. Will go home. You will eat your supper. You will get the worst spankings you’ve ever had. And then you will go to bed.”

And then Mary, sweet, quiet Mary, who usually only got into trouble with Mom when it was my fault, spoke. The audacity! The sheer bravery! I admired her, but my hero worship was going to grow when I heard what she had to say.

“What’s for supper?”

“Boiled dinner.”

Cabbage, potatoes, carrots. Mary hates the stuff. What a horrible last meal. Aren’t people on death row supposed to get steak?

Mary asked, “Can I skip dinner and go right to the spanking and bed?”

You, dear readers, most of you, did not know my mother. You have no idea how much courage it took to utter those words. I almost gave Mary a standing ovation. Mary, who unlike myself, never sassed or talked back? I didn’t know she had it in her. My fellow innocent prisoner had, in her last minutes, spoken with a true hero’s bravery!

Mary had to eat the accursed meal, every last bite. We both got the promised spankings; Mom always kept her word. Off to bed we went. Mary may have repented; I don’t know. I did not.

There I lay, sore and angry, and thinking like a true ten-year-old martyr.

And all I wanted to do was buy her a Mother’s Day card so she’d know how much I love her, even though I disobey, drive her crazy, and talk back. We rode our bikes so far and so hard; between that and the spanking, there’s nothing on me that doesn’t hurt. I’ll probably die tonight, and so will Mary. Mom will be sorry when Mother’s Day comes, and two of her kids are gone.

I couldn’t hold the martyr’s pose long; I never could. Soon I was grinning, thinking of what a grand adventure it had been, and not regretting a bit of it, not even the bleach on the jacket I knew I’d have to keep wearing.

Mother’s Day came, and Mom still had all her children. I woke up the way I always did back then and sometimes still do, thinking something wonderful was going to happen. If it didn’t happen by itself, Mary and I could always think of a way to make it happen, couldn’t we?

Poor Mom, you always said we were going to drive you crazy. I remember telling you more than once we weren’t going to drive you crazy because you were already there. That never ended well for me.

Mom, I did love you; I still do love you, and I’ll see you in heaven someday. Maybe I’ll bring you a card, a real card, one from the store. You’ll probably look at it and ask me if I ever learned that to obey is better than to sacrifice. And I’ll have to be honest, because I can’t lie in heaven, and tell you I hope so, but I don’t know.

***

You can find my books on Amazon:

Corners Church: https://amzn.to/36ImxOj

If the Creek Don’t Rise: Corners Church Book 2 https://amzn.to/3jqarv2

The Tale of Two Snowpeople: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09GJKG83R

She Gave Me Diamonds

by Donna Poole

There she stood at my car window one Sunday, tiny and beautiful, with a smile that rivaled the sunshine for warmth that early spring day. The breeze blew her blonde hair into her face, and she brushed it back with a small hand.

“Grandma, these are for you!”

One at a time she carefully put three diamonds into my hand. I turned them this way and that, and we both admired the way they sparkled in the sunlight.

“Thank you, Ruby! I love them!”

She nodded, smiled her shy smile again, and ran off down the church sidewalk to find more adventures the way only a five-year-old can.

Did I drop the three sparkly stones back into the parking lot the minute her back was turned? I did not! I treasure the gift, given with love. Ruby seems to be continuing the heritage of others in her family, some in heaven, some still here; Ruby is a giver.

The other day I got a text from a friend. She’d been at school picking up her friend’s daughter who’s in Ruby’s class. She wrote, “I was out of my car talking to my niece whose daughter is also in Ruby’s class. Suddenly I realized I was holding up the line. When I pulled up and looked at the kids there was Ruby smiling and holding her hands in the shape of a heart. For me! It blessed me so much I wanted to get out and hug her!!! Instead, I waved so she would know I saw her! I felt so loved! And as I thought about it, I thought what a great reflection of her parents!!! With God’s help they are doing a great job. I prayed God’s wisdom and protection over them as I do my own. Anyway, can’t you just see her sweet smile.”

Yes, I could see Ruby’s sweet smile, and I smile again now just thinking about it.

So, what exactly did Ruby give that warmed my heart on a Sunday, my friend’s heart on a weekday, and Ruby’s parents’ hearts when I passed the text on to them? Three rocks and two tiny fingers and thumbs shaped into a heart, is that what she gave?

Ruby gave love. Anything given with love makes a memory, and memories are precious.

I remember well when our kids were young how wealthy we were, rich in everything but money. We were rich in friendship, and our friends sometimes ate supper with us several times a week. My friend said to me, “You’re the only person I know who can feed a dozen people with a third of a cup of hamburger.”

Our friends were rich too, the same way we were, in everything but money. Looking back, I don’t know how they managed to feed and clothe their family of four children. Yes, I do; it was the grace of God. In dry times, they sometimes didn’t have enough money to buy postage stamps.

During one of those dry times, they called and asked if they could come over for a cup of coffee.

“We’d love to have you come. Please do, but we don’t have any coffee, and John doesn’t get paid until Sunday.”

Later, our friends knocked on the door. Smiling, they held out coffee, not the generic or store brand we usually bought, but Maxwell House.

My eyes filled with tears. “Where did you find the money to buy this?”

They looked at each other and smiled. “We managed.”

Can you guess how long ago that was? I wish you could, because I can’t remember, but I know it was at least forty years.

I’ve forgotten so much of my life; it’s like a giant hand erased half the blackboard of my memories, and those of you who know me through my writings understand why. Open brain surgery started the job; seizures took the eraser to do their part, and then aggressive chemo said, “You can give that eraser to me now, I’ll wipe out a few more!” But despite all I’ve forgotten, I remember that coffee in my friend’s hand like it was yesterday. I remember it better than yesterday; what day was yesterday?

Why do I recall such a simple gift when I’ve been given many elaborate ones? Because it was given with so much love.  

The kindness of family and friends has enriched my long life. I’ve lived many years, but I honestly don’t think of myself as an “old lady” or even a woman in poor health. Perhaps I dream-walk in a Pollyanna world, but when I look at my life, past and present, I see diamonds. I’ve been given so many diamonds, so many expressions of love. Even the heartaches and tears God has allowed have passed through His loving hands before they touched me, and I’ve never cried a tear He hasn’t treasured and kept in His bottle.

Someday, God will do for me what George Matheson prayed so many years ago, “Show me that my tears have made my rainbow.”

Do you know what I see when I look at my life through my tears? I see diamonds, sparkling in the sunlight of God’s unfailing love. And I’m blessed!

When Push Comes to Shove

Wherein the writer breaks every writing rule in the book, and never say “never” or “every.”

by Donna Poole

Not to overuse the idioms or anything, but when push comes to shove, you want someone in your corner you can count on.

My husband, John, knows a thing or two about pushing, shoving, yanking, and pulling when it comes to his yard equipment. His senile push mower, chain saw, and weed whip conspire in the shed all winter and behave worse every spring and summer. They refuse to start on the first or even the twenty-first pull.

In the evenings, back in the shed, they have a heyday.

“I made him sweat like a pig!”

“Oh yeah? That’s nothing! I made him double over and gasp for breath!”

“You pilgrims! I scared his wife so bad she called the squad! They diagnosed…wait for it…whip lash!”

Then they all laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and slap their personified or is it anthropomorphic knees.

The ancient rototiller contributes to John’s woes with its baby-bottom smooth tires and uncooperative “you can’t tell me what to do” attitude. Even after he puts chains on the tires, John struggles to force it to dig into the heavy clay soil.

And the doddering old man riding mower? Its favorite trick is getting stuck in the ditch. After pushing, shoving, and muttering, John must quite often swallow his pride and pull the thing out of the ditch with his truck. And don’t even get me started on the antique truck!

Inside appliances aren’t John’s friend either. All the beastly old things conspire to break down, but at least they usually do so one at a time. His most recent fix was the furnace. Before that it was the washer.

John doesn’t give up easily. Someone asked a famous old preacher; I forget who, his secret of success. He replied, “I can plod.”

John can plod; he has what it takes; he can stay by the stuff!

My man’s no spring chicken; he’s pushing seventy-four, but when push comes to shove, I can count on John to give a situation his best, whether the breakdown is the yard equipment’s, the appliances’, or mine. John is in my corner; he always has been, and I’ve always known it.

My fascination with idioms sends me down a rabbit trail. Want to come?

Grammarphobia says “when push comes to shove” means “when action must back up words.”

“It originated in 19th century African American usage…. The expression wasn’t recorded until the 1890s…, but no doubt it was used conversationally for years before it ever showed up in print.”

You probably know that “in your corner” is a boxing term. If I’m in your corner, I’m the one to encourage you in the fight, patch up your wounds, and make sure you and your boxing gloves are ready for the next round.

A “real” writer knows not to overuse idioms lest the reader groan, slap a virtual forehead, and slam shut book, computer, or phone. Obviously, I’m ignoring that rule of thumb.

Rule of thumb originated…oh, never mind.

If you have someone, a human, you know—a being with skin on—in your corner, be grateful. If you don’t, how about trying to be there for someone else when push comes to shove?

If you’re a long time reader, you knew I’d get around to this eventually. If you belong to God, He’s always in your corner.

“Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness. For I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.” –Isaiah 41:10, 13

You can count on Him when you’re in dire straits, at your wits’ end, facing a catch—22, or grasping at straws.

And now I’m going to type the end, because even I am sick of these idioms. It seems to have become a vicious cycle.

The End

***

You can find my books on Amazon:

Corners Church: https://amzn.to/36ImxOj

If the Creek Don’t Rise: Corners Church Book 2 https://amzn.to/3jqarv2 The Tale of Two Snowpeople: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09GJKG83R

When John and the mower were both a few years younger

What He Heard

by Donna Poole

What were the first sounds Jesus heard?

Perhaps it was the soft bleating of a lamb, the whispered love of His mother, or a Jewish blessing from Joseph. He surely heard awe and joy in the rough voices of His first visitors, shepherds from a nearby hillside, whose hearts were overflowing with wonder at this Savior in a humble manger.

As Jesus grew, He heard the familiar sounds of saw and hammer in the carpenter shop where He worked with Joseph. I wonder if He loved the beautiful things He made with His hands in that shop, even though before He’d chosen to limit Himself in a body, He’d created the stars of the universe just by the breath of His mouth!

Jesus heard lovely things in His short life; the crashing of waves on the seashore where He loved to walk, the quiet sounds of mother robins singing babies to sleep, the night sounds of owls hooting in the trees.

He heard the fluttering wings of tiny sparrows and taught us God the Father cares about each little bird that falls to the ground. He noticed the rustle of the lilies swaying in gentle breezes and preached about a heavenly Father who dresses flowers in beauty and can take care of us.

Jesus heard sad things. Cries for help; pleas for mercy, and sobs of the bereaved—Jesus heard all of these.

Jesus heard terrifying things. He listened to the crazed sounds of demons and the voice of Satan himself and emerged victorious and unsoiled.  

Noise, Jesus heard noise. Crowds of 4,000 and 5,000 clamored with need; yet He often made time for just one voice. He held a quiet conversation with one woman at a well that transformed an entire city.

Jesus heard what no one else did. He always listened for words too deep to be spoken. When a sinful woman washed His feet with her tears and dried them with her hair, she couldn’t say a word. But He heard the prayer of her tears and answered, “Your sins are forgiven.”

When crowds of people surrounded Him in Jericho, Jesus saw a short man, a tax collector, and a cheat, who’d climbed a tree just to catch a glimpse of Him. The little man never said a word. Jesus heard his unspoken need and changed his life forever.

Jesus heard His Father’s voice. He went alone to quiet places where He heard only the sounds of nature. There, He prayed, sometimes all night.

Jesus heard praise. What joyful sounds surrounded Him on the day we call Palm Sunday! As He rode into Jerusalem, shouts echoed through the streets. “Praise God! The Messiah is coming!”  

But Jesus knew what was really coming. The people weren’t going to accept Him as their king, their Messiah; quite the opposite, and He needed to prepare. It would be the spiritual battle of His life and could be won only by prayer.

Jesus loved to pray in the Garden of Gethsemane, but He wasn’t enjoying the beautiful sounds of nature His last night there as He begged His Father for strength to endure.

Jesus heard the hostile crowd coming before He saw them, swords and staves clanging, feet stomping. Then he heard the treacherous words from a man He loved, one of His own disciples betraying Him for money, “Hail Master.”

Jesus felt the traitor’s kiss.

That was the sign Judas had given Jesus’ enemies. “Grab the one I kiss; He’s the one you want.”

Grab Him they did.

The sounds Jesus heard next were sounds from hell; blows to His face, clothes being torn from Him, a razor-sharp whip whistling through the air and cutting into His back. The sound of a crown of thorns being pounded into his head.

And then came the blood thirsty cry of the crowd; “Crucify! Crucify! Crucify!”

Jesus heard His own labored breathing as He struggled to carry His cross up the hill, until He fell under its weight, and they forced another to carry it for Him. Then came other horrific sounds: the pounding of nails into flesh, the tortured screams of the two being crucified with Him, the jeering of the crowd.

Finally, after an agony of suffering, Jesus heard His own victorious shout, “It is finished! Father, into thy hands, I commend my spirit.”

And then, blessed, sweet, peaceful silence.

“All night had shout of men and cry/ Of woeful women filled his way; Until that noon of sombre sky/ On Friday, clamour and display/ Smote him; no solitude had he, No silence, since Gethsemane.

“Public was Death; but Power, but Might,/ But Life again, but Victory,/ Were hushed within the dead of night,/ The shuttered dark, the secrecy./ And all alone, alone, alone/ He rose again behind the stone.” –Alice Meynell

Then came Resurrection Morning.

Jesus didn’t have to wait to hear the grating sound of the stone being rolled away to leave the tomb; He was already outside. Joy had washed the world with newborn glory! Did Jesus breathe the fresh air and rejoice in the songs of the birds He’d created?  

Jesus heard a woman weeping; His dear friend Mary Magdalene was sobbing because she thought He was dead. Through her tears He showed her a brighter rainbow of hope than a weary world could ever have imagined in its wildest dreams.

“Jesus lives!”

Oh, my sweet Lord Jesus, you still hear all our voices; hear my voice now. You said you died for sinners, so you died for us all. You took our sins into your own heart on that horrible cross; you felt our guilt and shame and paid what we owe.

 “The wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.” –Romans 6:23

I took that gift God offered as my own in a short prayer of faith many years ago. It was a simple child’s prayer, but He heard it!

On this Resurrection Morning we call Easter Sunday, I read the promise of my own resurrection not just in God’s Word but in every springtime flower. I fall to the knees of my heart in joy, and I sing today! I want Him to hear it!

My praise is so imperfect; I stutter and stammer, and sometimes tears shorten my song to just a word. But just as a mother loves to hear her baby say his first, “Mama,” God loves to hear even my broken notes. And so, through all the seasons of my life, I sing.

Jesus heard everything when He walked our planet; He hears everything now. What’s He hearing from us?

Lord, sadly, our country church has no choir to praise you this year, but we join our hearts with millions of others to make a magnificent cantata. Do you hear the music, Lord? This Easter your people are singing your praises all over the world! I hope the sound is sweet to your ears!

“God sent His son, they called Him, Jesus/ He came to love, heal, and forgive. / He lived and died to buy my pardon/ An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives.

“Because He lives, I can face tomorrow. / Because He lives, all fear is gone. / Because I know he holds the future, / And life is worth the living/ Just because He lives.

“And then one day, I’ll cross that river. / I’ll fight life’s final war with pain. / And then, as death gives way to vic’try, / I’ll see the lights of glory and I’ll know He reigns.” –William J Gaither and Gloria Gaither

The End

***

You can find my books on Amazon:

Corners Church: https://amzn.to/36ImxOj

If the Creek Don’t Rise: Corners Church Book 2 https://amzn.to/3jqarv2

Tale of Two Snowpeople: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09GJKG83R

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

God Loves Donkeys

by Donna Poole

God Loves Donkeys

by Donna Poole

You won’t think it’s funny without a little backstory.

Our kids grew up in the home of a conservative Baptist preacher; that would be my husband. In the same way the mayor in the Music Man wanted his daughter to watch her phraseology, John wanted our kids to watch theirs. Certain words were taboo. I won’t list those words here, because unfortunately or fortunately John reads my blog.

We were driving down the road one day when our eldest exclaimed, “Look at that ass!”

Her younger brothers, who often found reason to laugh at her and always made her furious when they did, howled with laughter.

“What? All I said was look at that ass!”

She pointed at a donkey in the field.

Trying to stop laughing, one of her brothers said, “We don’t say ‘ass’ in this family, and you should know that by now.”

“What’s wrong with the word ‘ass?’ It’s in the Bible!”.

She had a point. The word ‘ass’ is found 436 times in the King James, and that’s the version she grew up reading.

Her dad managed to keep a straight face, told her brothers to stop laughing at her, and suggested donkey was a more appropriate word.

The family I grew up in was all about appropriate words.

We didn’t speak Italian, but we all called my Italian dad “Chooch.” He called my sister, Mary, “Little Chooch.” A pastor who did speak Italian visited us one day and looked shocked when he heard us using that word.

“Do you know what that word means, Dominic?”

Dad laughed. “I know.”

 “Ciuco” is the Italian word for donkey but also the other word no one used in my home growing up! I don’t think Mom knew the word’s alternative use, or she would have shut it down faster than she slammed a door to keep flies out.

In my home if you even thought a bad word, Mom somehow sensed it, and out came the bar of soap. I can’t remember if the soap was Dial or Zest, but Mom never dialed it down and she had a zest for using it! Not only did she wash out our mouths at the merest hint of a bad word she made us bite down on the stuff, and we weren’t allowed to brush our teeth afterward. It wasn’t even a clean bar; it was the one everyone used to wash their hands! That’s what Mom thought of foul language.

Mom was nothing if not consistent, so you’d think the threat of biting that disgusting soap would have cured us from bad language for good, wouldn’t you? You’d think…. Remind me to tell you a few stories another day about a song I sang to Mary whenever I got mad at her. It starts with “Bloody Mary is the girl I love,” and ends with what I dare not type lest Mom return from heaven with zest and a bar of Dial! And then there was the time Mary and Ginny were taking down laundry and telling each other in no uncertain terms where they could go. It wasn’t to the grocery store. They didn’t realize the window was opened. Mom had the bar of soap ready when they came inside, and their mouths were soon cleaner than the laundry though not as well rinsed.

I digress. Back to the lowly donkey. The chooch. The ciuco.

God spoke to his disobedient prophet, Balaam, through his donkey, and it puzzles me that Balaam wasn’t even surprised his beast could talk. Either Balaam was insane with anger, or it was common for animals to talk in those days, and perhaps they will again in God’s kingdom on earth. I choose to hope for the later.

On Palm Sunday Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey colt just as God had prophesied through Zechariah five-hundred years before: “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion; shout, O daughter of Jerusalem: behold, thy King cometh unto thee: he is just, and having salvation; lowly, and riding upon an ass, and upon a colt the foal of an ass.” –Zechariah 9:9

I’ve made a donkey of myself more than a few times in my life.

I inwardly wince when a reader wants to meet me. Like some real author said—I forget who—perhaps C.S. Lewis, “Don’t hope to meet me. You’ll be disappointed. You have the best of me in my books.”

Meet me and you’ll discover a heehaw of a person who too often says and does the wrong thing. It’s easy to correct my mistakes in a blog. Someone tells me they’re there, and I go back and fix them. If only life were that simple.

I take great comfort in these two thoughts: If God could speak through Balaam’s ass, perhaps he can still say a few words through this one. If Jesus could ride a donkey into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, perhaps even this donkey can help advance His kingdom.

I wave a palm branch with that joyous crowd of two millennia ago. I throw my coat in the road for Jesus’ donkey to walk upon, a humble carpet for its noble feet.

I bow my head and heart low as Jesus passes and whisper, “It’s me Lord, your donkey, standing out here in the field, trying to bind up wounded hearts with my four clumsy feet. I’m right here, my Lord, if you ever need me.”

He calls back, “I love you, my child. Keep showing sad hearts where to find me; I’ll take care of their wounds.” And then with the clip clop, clip clop of tiny hooves He’s gone. I think a sentence floats back to me on the breeze, “And watch your phraseology!”

The End

***

You can find these books on Amazon:

Corners Church: https://amzn.to/36ImxOj

If the Creek Don’t Rise: Corners Church Book 2 https://amzn.to/3jqarv2

Tale of Two Snowpeople: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09GJKG83R

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Martha Town, taken on her recent trip to Israel

The Ice Will Melt

by Donna Poole

Spring finally arrived, and I didn’t care.

Kimmee, our youngest daughter, knows how much I usually love springtime. Just as she has done every year since she was a little girl, she took me outside and pointed out all the first signs of spring. I nodded. I smiled.

And I felt nothing.

The cold numbness encasing my heart frightened me. What’s wrong with me? Where’s my usual springtime joy, my delight in the warm breezes, the birds calling to their mates, the first flowers turning adoring faces to the sun?

I felt even more afraid when I realized I didn’t feel much emotional response to anything. Me! Donna! The person who, had I been born a punctuation mark, would have been the exclamation point! Now I was just the ellipsis, the dot dot dot, the yawn, the nothing.

I. Felt. Nothing.

Perhaps the open brain surgery I’d had a few months before had changed me forever; I’d never be my exuberant self again. I took myself back inside and had a serious sit-down with me, myself, and I. This wasn’t the first time I’d felt emotionally numb, was it? My wounded brain struggled back through its maze of memories. I’d felt this way other times, after great emotional pain and loss. Joyful feelings had eventually returned, though in a more chastened, less exuberant form, making a quieter, gentler, and perhaps more compassionate me. I’d heal from this brain surgery. The ice around my heart would melt. And the ice did melt, but not that spring.

Cancer treatment has sometimes left me feeling wintery too. I understand aggressive cancer requires aggressive chemo, but …I’ll just leave the ellipsis, the dot dot dot, and you can fill in the blanks.

Life’s blows hurt and may make us wonder if spring will ever return. Nothing wounds the heart more than the death of a loved one. As a dear friend says, “For a Christian, death is a defeated enemy, but make no mistake; it is still the enemy.

From the depths of physical suffering or of emotional grief, God’s children cry out, “Lord, to my heart bring back the springtime!”

If you, through faith in Jesus Christ, are one of God’s crying children, I can’t promise you the ice will melt in this life, but I can promise the ice will melt. An eternal spring is coming. When it does, a north wind will never again freeze a tear on your cheek. Love will never again frame the bitter word, “Goodbye.”

I wish I could describe God’s eternal spring to you, but I don’t know much myself. God tells us only a little about it, but the little is enough to give us a sturdy hope no ice storm is strong enough to kill.

“And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.” –Revelation 21:3-4

Songs of the Spring Days

“A gentle wind, of western birth

On some far summer sea,

Wakes daises in the wintry earth,

Wakes hope in wintry me.

“The sun is low; the paths are wet,

And dance with frolic hail;

The trees—their springtime is not yet—

Swing sighing in the gale.

“Young gleams of sunshine peep and play;

Clouds shoulder in between;

I scarce believe one coming day

The earth will all be green.

“The north wind blows, and blasts, and raves,

And flaps his snowy wing;

Back! Toss thy bergs on arctic waves;

Thou cans’t not bar our spring.” –George MacDonald

See you in the spring, my friend. Don’t pack your winter coat; you won’t be needing it!

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

And Then We Laughed

by Donna Poole

We call them “the Southerns.”

That’s our affectionate term for our family who lives south of the Mason Dixon line. We use the term as in, “The Southerns are coming!”

Three of our Southerns came for a visit this past weekend, and with efforts rivaling that of a professional contortionist, our Michigan kids and grandkids were able to arrange schedules so we could spend two whole days together. One Michigan family couldn’t come because they have a wonderful new baby—and a terrible stomach flu. We missed the nine of them, but the other eighteen of us ate enough Kimmee desserts to last us through the month of April. We shared burdens, and between all our extended families, there are some seriously heavy ones. Two have cancer. One is moving into assisted living. A few of us have memory problems. Everyone is dealing with stress and loss of some kind. We had some quiet conversations, a few tears, and some silent prayers.

We shared meals together, and you don’t realize what a sweet joy that is until circumstances and distance make that possible only every few years. Eating together has a deeper significance than we may realize at the time. At our first meal this weekend, my heart hummed the old song, “Let us break bread together on our knees; let us break bread together on our knees; when I fall down on my knees; with my face to the rising sun; O Lord, have mercy on me.” 

O Lord, have mercy on everyone I love, for they are many. O Lord, bless everyone who made this gathering possible, especially Kimmee who worked so hard.

We ate meals here and at two other houses because our kids opened their homes too. Wherever we were, I heard the quiet hum of conversation punctuated by laughter, and I was happy. Deeply happy. In the laughter of loved ones, I heard the echo of heaven.

We laughed like carefree kids in the kingdom of our God. We played, “Doggie, doggie, where’s your bone?” Even the youngest grandkids quickly learned to disguise their voices and sound like opera singers or Kermit the Frog. We tried “Big Bootie, Big Bootie,” a clapping game, but discovered some of us didn’t have enough rhythm for that one. The kids played Limbo. We used a broom for a couple of fun games, and no, none of us flew on it. We told a story where each person added a sentence as soon as he or she could stop laughing long enough to get the words out.  

Leg wrestling was the most fun to watch. Our strong fireman son found himself flipped by his slender female cousin in less than three seconds, and I’m still grinning when I remember the shocked look on his face. He laughed so hard. Now he calls it “the game of humiliation.”

Laughter is one of God’s sweetest gifts. It’s a promise. I can almost hear the ringing laughter around the Big Table in heaven. Listen! Can you hear it too? It sounds as clear as bells, doesn’t it? That’s because there’s no minor key accompaniment of tears to laughter’s song in heaven.  

After our last meal together, we looked at old slides our patriarch, John’s dad, had taken, smiled at the memories, and laughed at the clothing styles. I don’t think I was the only one whose eyes stung a few times to see a smiling face looking back at me that has been in heaven for many years.

All too soon the slide show ended; someone turned off the old machine’s light and silenced its whirring noise. It was time to say goodbye.

It was hard. We hugged like it was the last time because we never know when it might be. We whispered prayers and words of love and encouragement. We cried, wiped our tears, and went out to our cars.

Our son, daughter-in-law and family came out to wave their goodbye blessings from the porch. A couple of them scooped up our twenty-two-year-old granddaughter and held her in their arms.

And then we laughed.

One of the Southerns jumped out of the car and snapped a picture of the family on the porch who were still waving goodbye, holding their twenty-two-year-old, and laughing.  

“Laughter is like a windshield wiper; it doesn’t stop the rain but allows us to keep going.” –Unknown

“Oh, blest be God for love and laughter, today, tomorrow, and hereafter.” –Amy Carmichael

My Can-Do Attitude

by Donna Poole

“In this family we don’t say ‘can’t!’”

We Piarulli kids heard Mom say that one or a thousand times. Mom was born in March, the lion-lamb month, and she could roar like a lion when the occasion warranted. She didn’t like quitters!

Mom absolutely believed I could do anything if I made up my mind to do it and tried hard enough. Perhaps I should reword that. Mom believed I could do anything if I trusted God and tried hard enough.

Mom was an avid reader; I don’t know, but perhaps she read about Oliver Cromwell and adopted his can-do attitude. You’ve probably heard the old saying, “Trust God and keep your powder dry.” When England invaded Ireland in 1649, Cromwell said to his soldiers, “Put your trust in God, my boys, but keep your powder dry.”

Wet gun powder was useless in battle. The saying has come to mean, “Trust God, but do your part!” Proverbs 21:31 combines the same two ideas: “The horse is prepared against the day of battle, but safety is of the LORD.”

Mom was a huge proponent of faith. But had I dared tell her I hadn’t studied my spelling words for a test but had instead prayed and trusted God, she would have knocked me into the middle of next week. (Mom sometimes threatened to do just that, and being a curious child, I often wondered if the middle of next week might be more fun than present circumstances.)

Mom taught us well. We Piarulli girls don’t give up easily. Some might say we share a streak of stubbornness a mile wide, but I prefer to call it our can-do attitude. I’ve seen all my sisters face adversity with a daunting combination of determination and faith.

And I suppose we sisters can all be a bit stubborn about everything, the others more than I. Funny, something just made me choke.

But can even the stubborn Piarulli girls really do anything we make up our minds to do?

Let me tell you about my piano lessons. There was a time, back in the day, when we needed a piano player at church. Every other pastor’s wife I knew could play the piano, so God must want me to learn, right? I tackled those lessons with determination, enthusiasm, faith, and prayer. No matter how busy I was or how I felt, I practiced the piano. If the teacher said practice thirty minutes five days a week, I practiced forty-five minutes to an hour seven days a week.

I took to the piano like the proverbial fish takes to water; it was glorious. My concentration was borderline obsessive.

Once, when I was practicing, John said, “I’m going to town now, honey. Love you.”

I intended to say, “Okay, honey, love you too.” Instead, as I kept staring at my music and playing, I said, “Okay, 2,3,4.”

John still laughs when he remembers how I called him “2,3,4.”

I took to the piano, but the piano did not take to me. I think it actually hated me. My first piano teacher is now in glory, and no, I didn’t drive her to an early grave, but my second teacher is still alive. You can ask Lois Pettit how hard I tried and how miserably I failed at learning to play the piano. After three years I finally… I, gulp, can barely write the word—sorry, Mom—I QUIT!

Some things take more than determination. I admire the tiny snowdrops that push up through last years leaves and this year’s melting snow to announce spring is coming even here to Michigan where March is at her lion-lamb best. To me snowdrops are a metaphor for a can-do attitude. But are they really? They don’t do their work alone. They push up through our heavy clay soil because of sunshine and God’s grace.  

So many things require grace. My best efforts won’t get me to heaven. I can’t get to heaven by doing good deeds or being a good person. Sorry, but neither can you. God says all our self-made righteousness is like a filthy rag. –Isaiah 64:6

True, we might be better people than a serial killer, but here’s the thing. Trying to get to heaven by a can-do attitude is like trying to jump the Atlantic. You can jump farther than I because I’ve been unable to jump since brain surgery nine years ago. Tajay Gayle can jump farther than you. He holds the record for the long jump. On September 28, 2019, he won the World Championship in Doha, Qatar, with a jump of 28 feet 6 inches. That’s impressive!

But even a Tajay Gayle jump won’t get you far if your goal is to jump across the ocean.

I can’t get to heaven by being good and thank God I don’t have to. I’d be really tired of even trying by now. Jesus, God’s Son, lived the perfect life I can’t, died on the cross for my sin, and rose again. All that’s left for me to do is accept God’s grace freely offered.  

“For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast.” –Ephesians 2:8-9

Do my sisters and I still have our can-do attitudes? That attitude got me into a lot of trouble when I was a kid. Once Mom said we could ride our bikes for fifteen minutes before supper. I convinced Mary we could ride fifteen miles to a store and be back in fifteen minutes. It didn’t end well. No grace was extended.

I remember a sister who shall remain unnamed who determined with her can-do attitude she could eat a dozen potato pies, each one half the size of a dinner plate. She did it. Her name wasn’t Mary. Her name wasn’t Eve either.

Perhaps we sisters have learned to temper our can-do attitudes with a bit of common sense. The last time we were together we ordered take-out from Little Venice, our favorite Italian restaurant. We ate. And we ate. And we ate. Then someone said the “can’t” word. None of us finished our meals.  

When it comes to life, though, we may be old, battle-scarred soldiers, but I think Mom would be happy. One sister finished her fight and is in heaven, but the three of us who remain are still trusting God and keeping our powder dry.

The Long Goodbye

by Donna Poole

The Long Goodbye

by Donna Poole

I noticed the other day how white his hair looks in the sunshine, almost as white as mine. I caught my breath. Oh John, dear John, how did we arrive so quickly to the years of the long goodbye?

So much of what we do now is bittersweet because we wonder if this time may be the last time.

I cried when we left our campsite in Nashville, Indiana eighteen months ago. It was a chilly fall day, and my head, bald from chemotherapy, was cold. My heart shivered too. I pulled my beanie down over my ears.

“Don’t cry, honey.” John hugged me. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m afraid this is our last time camping here.”

I couldn’t say more words, but my mind was seeing the miles of trails we’d hiked, the scores of campfires we’d coaxed to light, and the thousands of quiet conversations we’d enjoyed there in Brown County State Park during our many years of camping there.

“This isn’t our last time, honey. We’ll be back.”

As we drove the beautiful curving road through the park one last time, I tried to memorize it all, the steep ravines, the hills aflame with color, the hundreds of acres of uninhabited wilderness—all made by the extravagant hand of God. The falling leaves were saying goodbye too, but they weren’t crying like me. They seemed to be dancing their way down with joyful abandon. It was time to go, so why not celebrate with one last dance praising their Creator? Once again, God spoke to me through His creation.

We haven’t been back. Our old truck informed us in no uncertain terms it was done hauling Bertha, our ancient camper.

I don’t know if we’ll ever camp again in Brown County or in Muskegon State Park or at Goose Lake or in any of the other campgrounds I’ve loved so through the years.  

We never know, do we, when the last time is the last time. There have been too many funerals lately. We never guessed the last time we smiled, hugged, laughed, waved, or texted an “I love you” it would be the last time.

I sent our beautiful, brilliant granddaughter, Megan, a text with a photo the other day. “Hillsdale Academy Colts won the trophy tonight! Six years ago today! Look how cute!”

Megan texted back, “There’s no way! Wasn’t that yesterday?”

“It WAS yesterday,” I replied, “so cherish today, dear Megan. Hug your parents and siblings, yes, ALL of them. I’ll hug you when I see you! Love you forever and like you for always!”

“Ah man!! If I have to! 😊 Hopefully I’ll see you AND hug you tomorrow night! Love you forever and like you for always!”

The tomorrow night didn’t happen; plans were postponed, but I’ll hug the stuffins out of her when I see her because I always do. And I never know when the last time will be the last time.

Today is all we have.

Today is a good day to live, to love, to laugh.

Today is a good day to sigh, to grieve, to cry.

And today is a good day to remember we don’t walk these backroads alone. Others need our love and prayers. Now is the time to rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep.

Tears often fall on our paths as we ramble these backroads, but perhaps a violet to cheer the next traveler grows from every teardrop that falls. Life is a gift; even when it crushes us like a grape sweetness may come from our hearts to encourage others and to show them the way Home to heaven. The directions Home aren’t complicated; even a child can follow them. “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” –John 3:16  

John and I feel we’ve entered the years of the long goodbye, the bittersweet season of our journey together, but the reality is the years of the long goodbye began with the first breath we took as newborns. It’s just that age and loss are good teachers. They are teaching us the shortness of life and the length of eternity.

Life is a gift, and I’m going to take a lesson from the leaves. I too want to celebrate with abandon, praising my creator, dancing in my heart until my last breath.

Oh, and all those girls in the photo are cute, so in case you wonder which one our Megan is, she’s sitting on the floor, the last one on the right as you look at the picture. And she’s probably going to move me to her list of least favorite relatives for sharing this information! But I’ll still love her forever and like her for always!

Refunds, Exchanges, and Me

by Donna Poole

At the wise old age of sixteen I ran the refund and exchange desk at Grand Union. That store was kind enough to give me a job, but I was too young to run a register or even work the lunch counter, so returns and exchanges it was.

If it wasn’t tough enough to let disgruntled customers take their angst out on me as though I had personally manufactured the faulty item, I also managed the Kiddy Korner at the same time. Kiddy Korners, thankfully, are a relic of the distant past, so I’ll have to elaborate. A parent opened a half-door, shoved seven screaming, snotty nosed offspring into my cubicle, left to blissfully shop for seven hours, and then relaxed with a hamburger and a cup of coffee at the lunch counter. Already in my cubicle were an assortment of other screaming, fighting, playing, children. Some clung to my legs terrified to be there while I said, “Yes, sir,” and “No, ma’am,” to the aforementioned disgruntled refund and exchange customers. Oh, and the Kiddy Korner had only half-walls. Stock boys threw heaps of boxes behind the walls. More than one adventurous child managed to climb over a half-wall and disappear into the boxes, and I had to dive over myself and retrieve escaped prisoners.

Now, here’s the funny part about my job. I loved it. Honestly, I did. At sixteen, who isn’t up for a challenge? I aimed to make the angry customers smile, calm the crazy littles, and comfort the terrified ones. When I turned seventeen, the store promoted me to the lunch counter and dismantled the Kiddy Korner. Even though I’d never lost a child, I think someone with a brain realized Kiddy Korners might equal insurance liability.

That job taught me to be considerate of weary clerks running return and exchange counters. Yesterday, when we were both twenty-something-young, I went with Lonnie, my sister-in-law, to return a gift at a store in Ithaca, New York. Think of the kindest, nicest person you know, multiply that by ten, and you may come close to imagining Lonnie. She held her return in her arms and stood quite a distance back from the next person in line. Leaving a considerable distance between yourself and the person in front of you in a line must be a family trait, because my husband, John, does the same thing his sister Lonnie does. Not me. I’m Italian. We don’t mind close.

Lonnie stood so far back that other people, many of them, cut in front of her. Lonnie didn’t say anything to them. The Italian part of me said things like, “Hey, rude dude! Back off! She was here first!” But I didn’t say anything out loud for two reasons. I was with Lonnie, the nicest human God ever created, and I was shy yesterday, when I was young.

After we’d waited in line about a half hour with people cutting in front of us, I said, “Lonnie, maybe we should move up closer. I don’t think the other people realize you’re waiting in this line.”

“Oh, you don’t think they know I’m waiting?”

Actually, I did think they knew. They were just being rude and taking advantage because that’s what some people do, but I didn’t want to tell Lonnie that. She was too nice to hear it.

I haven’t been to a store’s refund or exchange department in years. I’m all for supporting local businesses, but because my oncologist sealed me in a bubble, I haven’t been in a store for two years. I’ve discovered the ease of Amazon. (Please, small businesses, don’t hate me.) I love Amazon’s return and exchange policy. You notify them you’re returning an item and send it back. There’s no long waiting in line.

I’ve used another even easier exchange department for years. I remember well the day I discovered it. I was sitting in the rock garden at the little house we used to live in next door. The tiny white lilies of the valley were in bloom. I breathed in their beautiful fragrance. Gentle, peaceful, patient, trusting, beautiful—I thought how unlike them I was. Unloving, selfish, impatient me—definitely not beautiful or fragrant.   

Exchange what you are for what I’m waiting to give you.

The thought came suddenly and with joy. I could do that, couldn’t I!

What was that Amy Carmichael had written? “Love through me, Love of God; /Make me like thy clear air/Through which, unhindered, colors pass/As though it were not there.” And this? “Think through me, thoughts of God, /And let my own thoughts be/Lost like the sand-pools on the shore/Of the eternal sea.”

What a wonderful God, willing to pour His love, His life, His thoughts through me! So, I gave it a try, right there in the rock garden, among the lilies of the valley.

Lord, here’s my selfishness. I’d like to exchange it for your love. Love through me! Here’s my impatience; please, may I exchange it for your patience?

I prayed a long time in the rock garden that day. Did I leave with saintly behavior? Not exactly; ask those who live with me! God takes His time making us like Jesus. But now I pray often, “Love through me, love of God; think through me thoughts of God, live through me life of God.”

When a nasty attitude creeps in, I know just where to take it. I march right up to the exchange department; Jesus accepts it with a smile and gives me His own sweetness. I trade despair for courage, criticism for compassion, and harshness for tenderness. Often, I trade fear for faith.

I’m sure there must be lines a million miles long at His desk, but I never see another person. Why? Because, as someone said, “God loves each one of us as if there were only one to love.”

So, no long waiting in line for me. There’s no one to cut in front of us at God’s exchange department, Lonnie, although I’m sure you need to visit it far less often than I do!  

I wonder what happened to all my refund and exchange customers and those children who bounced off and over the walls in my Kiddie Korner. I haven’t thought about them in a long time. Bless them, Lord, bless them all.  

Madam President

by Donna Poole

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

I heard that often when I was a child. I’m still trying to decide on my answer!

I didn’t want to be president. Talk about a thankless, stressful job! Why would anyone want to be president of the United States? It’s a reasonable question to ask on President’s Day. Your answer depends on whether you’re a cynic, an optimist, a psychiatrist, or a combination of all three! A cynic says a candidate is in it only for money and power. An optimist objects: no, it’s altruism; the person really cares about the country. The psychiatrist may say whatever the motive, the individual must be crazy!

I had no aspirations to be president. I did think it would be fun to be Queen Elizabeth so I could use the editorial “we” when speaking of only myself, as in, “We are not amused.” My sister Mary and I thought that phrase was hysterical and used it at every opportunity; Mom was not amused.

I remember for a time wanting to be an Amelia Earhart and fly solo across the Atlantic, an ambition my family laughed at because I’d been getting lost since pre-school days. At a young age I got angry with my parents about something and informed them I was running away.

They shrugged. “Go ahead.”

We lived in town at the time. I marched out of the house, and my anger dissipated into delight in my newfound freedom as blocks passed. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. Dad! I hadn’t been free; he’d been following me!

“Time to go home.”

I was furious. “You said I could run away!”

“Now I’m saying it’s time to go home. Where were you going anyway?”

“Aunt Virginia and Uncle Tom’s!”

He laughed. “Well, you were going the wrong way.”

Our family was visiting Aunt Virginia and Uncle Tom when I was a little older. They lived in a charming row house in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I was an outdoor girl, a tomboy, and I got restless and probably rambunctious. Someone told me to go outside and play.

I had so much fun running up and down the block in front of their house getting rid of the excess energy accumulated from spending too much time indoors. It took a while, but I got tired. Time to go inside. That proved to be a problem. Row houses all look alike. I wandered aimlessly, up the block, down the block. What to do?

At last, I saw a familiar figure standing in front of one of the houses. Uncle Tom! I ran to him, trying to keep relief from showing.

He chuckled. “You got lost, didn’t you? Your secret’s safe with me.”

I’ve outgrown many things in my life, but I still have zero since of direction. Once I started driving the few short miles to our Michigan church and ended up hopelessly lost in Ohio. My tales of getting lost could fill a tome. Let’s just say some of my back road wanderings have been unintentional.

It’s a family trait this getting lost. My older sister Eve and I were supposed to serve the food at our baby sister Ginny’s wedding reception, so we left the wedding as soon as the ceremony ended to get things ready. By the time we got to the reception almost everyone was gone. Our husbands had served the food. They looked cute in aprons.

I gave up on flying solo across the Atlantic. I remember wanting to be a detective like Nancy Drew. I also wanted to be an airline stewardess. That’s what they called them back in the fifties; there were no positions for men.

Dad worked for an airline, and he dashed my hopes.

“Honey, there’s a height requirement to be a stewardess. You’ll never be tall enough. And you must be able to see fairly well without your glasses; you’re legally blind without yours. And besides, those stewardesses are glamorous!

What are you saying, Dad? I can be glamorous! Just let me get out of these jeans and wash my face a few times!

After I thought about it, glamor didn’t appeal to me, so I discarded that ambition too.

I was pretty shocked when we were newly weds and John said he thought God was calling him to be a pastor. Wait! That would make me a…pastor’s wife? God hadn’t said a word to me about that! Weren’t pastor’s wives everything I wasn’t? As a joke I went and put on the most old-lady looking outfit I could find and wound my long hair into a severe bun. I came back into the room, stood pigeon-toed, and tried to look saintly.

“What are you doing?” Mom Poole asked.

“Practicing. For when I’m a pastor’s wife.”

She was not amused. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit…sacrilegious?”

No, I didn’t. And that’s exactly why I thought God should maybe have given John a different wife if He planned to make him a preacher! But we’ve both survived and thrived these almost forty-eight years in the ministry, and despite more than a few tears, I confess, it’s the life for me. I’ve loved it. I guess God knew what He was doing after all.

My sister Mary remembers when I was a kid, I said I wanted to be a hermit and a writer. Well baby, look at me now! I’m a writer, and my oncologist has enclosed me in a hermit’s bubble for almost two years. I keep trying to connive my way out, but nothing works. I think he’s heard it all before.

I look back at my life with a heart full of joy. I look to the future with anticipation. I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. Not the president; you’ll never have to call me Madam President. I don’t suppose I’m English enough to qualify to be the queen either; nor was I born into the royal family, and you know what I say to that? We are not amused!

We four sisters sharing a happy day long ago.
Baby me excited about life. I still am.

They Called Me Warthog

by Donna Poole

I tried to keep my gnarled hands from trembling when I heard them coming and quickly hid my new MacBook under my sheets.

“It’s G and M,” I whispered to Beth. “Pretend you’re sleeping. I won’t let them hurt you.”

I didn’t feel a bit guilty about calling those night shift nurses Godzilla and Minion. They were monsters, and I had the bruises to prove it. Of course, I kept the marks well hidden from my children. I was relieved G and M had left Beth alone so far. Non-verbal, and paralyzed from the waist down, Beth was far more vulnerable than even I. I weighed only ninety pounds and was helpless myself against the “fun” G and M liked to have with me.

“You should be sleeping, honey,” Godzilla said to me, in a voice silky sweet. “Let me pull you up onto your pillow.”

She grabbed me under my arms and squeezed where she knew it would bruise but not show. She held her grip for a long time, watching my face for a tear I refused to give her, while her minion giggled.

“What have we here?” She yanked my laptop from under the sheets. “I bet your adoring children gave you this for Valentine’s Day. It’s a lot nicer than your old one!”

I clung to the MacBook with every ounce of strength I had.

G sent a smirk M’s way. “We must remember we’re in the presence of a published author. Maybe she’ll even write about us someday.

I might just do that.

“She wouldn’t dare,” Minion said. “She knows what you’d do to her.”

“She won’t write about us because she’s too ashamed of her nickname. Besides, she won’t have a computer to write on. She’s giving me a little gift for Valentine’s Day, aren’t you Warthog?”

That time I couldn’t hide the pain in my eyes. Godzilla had probed out all my weak points soon after she’d come to work at the care home. Sociopaths are geniuses at that. At my age there weren’t many things that troubled me about my personal appearance, but my warts did. I’d long been sensitive about them, especially the one on my nose. When I’d been a teen, my mother had tried to comfort me by telling me that even important people had warts; Oliver Cromwell had a huge one on his large very red nose. Her pep talk hadn’t helped my feelings.

“Thanks, Mom,” I’d said. “We just learned in history that Oliver Cromwell died in 1658, and people are still talking about his red nose and his warts? I really don’t want these stupid warts to be part of my legacy!”

Well, I’m not dead yet, but I’m eighty and people are still mocking my warts. At least Godzilla is. She’s right; I’m ashamed of that nickname, and I do hope no one ever finds out.

Godzilla snatched the MacBook from my hands. “Oh, thank you, Warthog. I knew you loved me. I’ll remember this gift forever.”

“Give it back. You’re not getting it.”

She dropped the computer on my toes, leaned over me, gripped my arms just above my elbows and squeezed. A tiny moan escaped.

“I don’t care what you do to me. You’re not getting my MacBook. You’re right; t’s a gift from my children. And let go of me, or I’ll tell.”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard nastier laughs than came from G and M.

“And just who you gonna tell, Warthog?” Godzilla jeered. “You gonna tell your kids? They’d yank you out of here so fast you wouldn’t have time to say no. And I know you don’t want to live with them.”

She was right. She knew too much about me. I didn’t want to live with my children because I loved them. I’d cared for my own mother and had loved doing it, but the strain on my family had been tough. I didn’t want to add to my kids’ burdens. People told me I was robbing them of a blessing. Maybe so, but I can be stubborn, and I wasn’t giving in on this.  

Godzilla let go of me and my skinny arms dropped to the bed. I wanted to slap her, but I was too weak to raise a hand, and I didn’t want to sink to her level. I prayed for her instead. She studied me, thinking.

Then she headed for Beth. “She never has any family who visits, does she?” she asked Minion. “If I’m careful where I bruise her, the bath aides will never notice, or they’ll think they did it themselves lifting her.”

“No!” My voice could have been heard rooms away.

“Shut the door.” Godzilla said to Minion.

She came back to me, a crafty look on her face. “Now, if you were to give me the gift you know I want….”

I sighed, more tired than I’d ever been. “How much time would it buy Beth?”

“Oh, I’d never touch her, unless you happen to get another gift you might need to be persuaded to give me, you know, because you appreciate me so much.”

I opened the MacBook to delete my files.

“Oh no you don’t.” Godzilla yanked it from my hands. “It’s slow tonight. The two of us need something to laugh at to keep us from dying of boredom. Your stories might amuse us, Warthog. What’s your password?”

They left the room, laughing.

Beth looked at me, tears rolling down her cheeks, her eyes saying all she couldn’t.

I eased myself out of bed and wiped her face with a tissue. “It’s okay, Beth. Sleep now. I promise, I’ll never let them hurt you. Don’t be sad; it was only a laptop.”

But Beth was sad. She knew what that laptop had meant to me. Writing was what kept me sane in this place.

A few days later Lacey was our day nurse. When she came in the room she went straight to Beth’s bed. It was the first smile I’d seen on Beth’s face since the night G and M had taken my laptop. I smiled too. We residents called Lacey an earth angel. When she walked in a door, it was as though God came with her.

Beth signaled for Lacey to raise her bed to a sitting position. Sadly, no one had ever taught Beth ASL, or she could have had a way to communicate. Beth held one hand flat like a piece of paper and pretended she was writing on it with a pen.

“Do you want to write me a note, Beth?” Beth nodded vigorously.

“I didn’t know you could communicate that way!”

Lacey looked at me. “Do you have any paper?”

“I have about ten yellow legal tablets in the top drawer there. I use them to outline my stories.”

“Hey, why aren’t you hard at work on your new MacBook?”

Oh boy, here it came. What was I going to tell her? And what story could I make up that my kids would buy the next weekend when they came to visit? Maybe I’d die before then. I half wished I would.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to answer Lacey’s question. She was distracted by Beth’s scribbling. Lacey waited several minutes. She chuckled. “I see this is going to take a while. I’ll go help a few other patients and come back, is that okay, Beth?”

Beth nodded without looking up.

When Lacey returned a half hour later, Beth had filled a few pages. Lacey read them, her face growing red, then a tear ran down one cheek.

I was puzzled. What had Beth written?

Lacey turned to me. “Is this true, dear? Why in heaven’s name didn’t you tell me this has been happening? There are laws to protect you! Elder abuse isn’t tolerated in this home, or this state. Those two will be going to prison!”

She handed me what Beth had written. Beth must have a near perfect memory. She’d written down every instance of my abuse, even ones I’d forgotten. She’d recorded the verbal abuse and the nickname of “Warthog.” She’d told about the theft of my new computer.

Lacey hugged me. “I wondered about that MacBook on the shelf in the nurses station. I didn’t open it because I thought it was none of my business, but it is now.”

In a few minutes Lacey returned. “Is this yours?”

I typed in my password and all my files were still there.

I tried to thank Lacey but couldn’t get the words out.

“It’s okay, honey. I know what it means to you. And my supervisor called the police. They’ll be in to talk to both of you later. Do you want to go down for breakfast?”

Beth nodded. I shook my head.

“I have something I want to write.”

Why had I let this happen to me without speaking up? What if I hadn’t been here to protect Beth? And how many others had G and M hurt? Were there people like them at other homes? Were there patients like me who weren’t being honest with their families and so enabling the abusers to keep hurting others?

Soon the room was quiet, and the only sound was my favorite one, fingers tapping the keyboard. I typed the title of my story, “They Called Me Warthog.”

Better Stock Up

by Donna Poole

We couldn’t say we didn’t know it was coming.

The meteorologists had been predicting the giant snowstorm for days, so John went to the store to stock up on a few things just in case we couldn’t get out for a few days. He did a good job of getting almost everything on the list and bought something not on the list he finds it intolerable to be without.

 Mustard.

It didn’t matter that we already had two other containers of mustard; what it the snow trapped us inside for, oh, I don’t know, a year or so, and we ran out of mustard? What then? People might die from mustard shortage!

When I was a child, I didn’t worry about running out of anything in a storm, especially mustard. Looking back, perhaps I should have been concerned because we never had much food in the cupboards. Mom and Dad shopped once a week when he got paid and bought only enough to last until the next paycheck. They didn’t have enough money to buy more.

I’m sure Dad was concerned when blizzards came. Sometimes the pipes under our house trailer froze, and he had to thaw them without burning down our dwelling place. Snow piled up by the foot when we lived in snow country in Taberg, New York, and Dad had to shovel it off the trailer roof. He also had to put chains on the car tires and try to get to work whenever possible.

But I was a kid. When blizzard winds howled, and sleet and snow pellets hit my bedroom window at night, I smiled and snuggled deeper under my blankets. This was going to be fun!

When morning came, I yelled, “Wahoo, no school!” collected a sister or two, and headed for the sledding hill. Storms were fun.

As I got older storms showed me the other side of their face. We lived in Maine, New York, when I was a teenager, and I was trying to navigate my nemesis, my untrustworthy fifty-dollar Renault, down Twist Run Road in an ice storm. That little car slid first one way then another. Finally, I managed to pull into someone’s driveway. A sweet older lady let me use her phone.

“Dad, please come get me. I’m on Twist Run Road, and I can’t drive this car home. It’s too icy.”

I refused to listen to any of Dad’s calm logic on how I could manage to drive home, and frustrated with me, he finally agreed to bring someone with him and get me home. In the amount of time it took him to get to me, it warmed up, and the ice melted. I didn’t realize it until we headed home on clear roads. It took me a long time to hear the end of that!

I’ve never gone hungry in a storm, although in the blizzard of 1978 we ran out of everything except the wonderful half a beef a kind church family had put in our freezer a month before. We ate beef three meals a day.

Our Angie voiced a complaint I’d never heard before and haven’t heard since, “I’m tired of steak! I want a casserole!”

Ready or not, storms will come, and often they blindside us. It’s then the things we’ve stockpiled help us survive.

You guessed it; I’m about to get all metaphorical on you. Along with God, the family and friends I’ve “stockpiled” through the years are my shelter in life’s storms. I know they’re praying for me. The Scripture I’ve read and learned by heart comes to my aid too.

As blind Fanny Crosby said shortly before she died, holding a Bible close to her heart, “This book has nurtured my entire life.”

I love to read and have saved hundreds, probably thousands of quotes on three by five cards I keep organized by subject in my antique library card cabinet. I’ve memorized so many of them, and they help me.

Quotes like this give me courage: “Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.” –Helen Keller

We had a college professor who said “G.I.G.O.” ad nauseum, but guess what? I still remember it; so, he achieved his goal, at least with one of us. It stood for Garbage In, Garbage Out.

The opposite is true too. Good In, Good Out. Let’s stockpile our souls with all good things that can come out to sustain us when we face the blizzards of life, because oh, my friend, we will face them. If we’re prepared, we can be like the “householder, which bringeth forth out of his treasure things new and old.” –Matthew 13:52

Don’t despair if you haven’t put many good things into your cupboards and your spiritual pantry is bare. It’s never too late to start. I have a wonderful promise for you to stockpile, and it’s one that will carry you through all of life’s storms and into eternity: “That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved. For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.” –Romans 10:9-10

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, our promised storm did come. And we didn’t run out of mustard.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Mousey Tales

by Donna Poole

There she was, just a tiny field mouse curled up in a bag in the garden. Kimmee found her and told us the mouse was grieving the loss of her family, and everything in the bag smelled like her loved ones and was making her life intolerable.

“Let’s put this in the bag.” John pulled out of his pocket a facemask he’d worn to the doctor. “It will smell different to the mouse and cover the old scents. She can build a new nest in the mask and be happy again.”

Kimmee nodded. “Okay, Dad. We could try that.”

I objected. “Honey, the poor mouse will think she lives in a hospital, and what kind of life is that? She’ll be even more miserable than she is now!”

Then I woke up.

The dream reminded me of another mouse tale. When I was younger, and our kids were small I was push mowing our yard. A scurrying movement caught my attention, and I stopped the small mower just in time. A trembling mouse stood on her back legs looking at me, front paws folded like she was praying. Her whiskers and the rest of her trembled in fright. Why, I wondered, wasn’t she running away?

Then I saw them, tiny, pink, hairless mouse babies. I called the kids to come see them. Even with the kids crowding close Mama mouse stood there, looking at us. Then she picked up one baby by the back of its neck, the way a mother cat carries a kitten, and ran off with it.

“Will she come back?” one of the kids asked.

“I bet she will. Let’s watch and see.”

A few minutes passed, and Mama mouse, still shaking with fear, came back for baby number two. I think there were five babies. It took her awhile to move them all, but Mama mouse saved every pink baby from us giant people and the monster mower. A mother’s love turned her mousey heart into a lion.

John and I both are rather mousey, at least regarding confrontation. We’d rather walk away. Though, when the occasion calls for firmness, we have what it takes, or rather, God gives it to us.

Mess with our kids and these two mice become lions.

When Johnnie and Danny were in grade school, two school bullies, we’ll call them “Billy” and “Larry” picked on them mercilessly. One day, John had all he could take.

He did something no parent could get away with now. He went to school when the boys were in gym class.

“May I help you, Pastor Poole?” the gym teacher asked.

“I need to talk to Billy and Larry,” John said.

The teacher sent the two boys to the rear of the gym, where they stood, backs against the wall.

“My boys are a lot smaller than you, aren’t they?” John asked.

Billy and Larry looked at each other. They knew exactly where this was going. They nodded.

“And I’m a lot bigger than you, right?” John asked.

More nods.

“I’ll tell you what. The next time you feel like picking a fight with someone, you call me. I’ll come right over.”

“Everything okay back there, Pastor Poole?” the gym teacher called.

“It is now,” John replied. “You can have these two back.”

Our sons were embarrassed because their dad went to school to fight their battles, but it worked.   

Until brain surgery left me without a filter—you know—that thing that says, “Stop! Don’t say it,” I was terribly shy. I never confronted anyone about anything, especially not at church, until that one day. When I needed my lion’s heart, I found it, just like the little mouse in our yard.

Kimmee was about five years old when one of her little friends got into trouble with her mother and told her Kimmee had done it. Kimmee told the woman she hadn’t done it.

I entered the room just in time to hear the end of the conversation, or rather, just in time to end it. The woman was screaming at Kimmee, calling her a liar. Kimmee’s eyes were huge, and she was shaking so hard she could barely stand.

“Whoa!” I pushed myself between the two of them. “You do not ever, ever scream at my daughter!”

She muttered something and stomped off. I expected to hear more about it later, but I never did.

When our kids are grown, they no longer need our protection, or do they?

After our four were adults, I kept having the same nightmare. They were all little again, and I could see a tornado coming across the fields. I’d get one child safely in the basement, and just as I was taking two more down, that one would laugh, run by me, and escape outside. The kids made it into a game and ignored my warnings.

One day I told our daughter-in-law, Mindy, about the dream.

“I know why you’re dreaming that,” she said. “You’re afraid you can’t protect them anymore now that all of them are grown up.”

Everyone should have a Mindy. She’s pretty wonderful and quite wise.  Her dream interpretation must have been right because I never had that nightmare again.

It’s an illusion, isn’t it, thinking we can keep our kids safe no matter what age they are? Like Mama mouse, we’ll grow a lion’s heart and risk anything to try to protect them, but so much of life is beyond our control. We couldn’t protect any of ours from the near-death experiences and accidents they had. Nor could we protect them from sorrow. And we still can’t, no matter how lion-like our mousey hearts grow.

What can we do for our family and friends, for all our loved ones? We can take them to God, the Lion of the tribe of Judah.

Oh God, who mends and uses broken things,

I don’t beg you spare my beloved the pain life brings.

I know they must travel a broken road,

Because that’s the only path there is, or so I’m told.

May tears show them the shortness of time.

Please, teach them to trust when life has no reason or rhyme.

Let heartaches make them tender to the weak

And more careful of any scornful word they might speak.

Please, give their hearts overflowing love to share,

Let nothing unloving feel comfortable there.

Hold them closely on these backroads of life,

And give them joy for the journey despite the strife.

I can’t always be here when things get tough,

But I know you’ll always be for them more than enough.

When life starts to crumble and fall apart,

Give them lion-like courage from your own strong heart.

If they must break, hold them, mend them, use them.

Keep on loving this hurting world through them.

Drawing by Cass Kruger Art. Used with permission.

Helpless in the Snow

by Donna Poole

dedicated to all my friends who have received difficult news lately and to one dear friend in particular

I’m one tough bird; just ask my mate! I’m a northern cardinal and live in Wisconsin. Surviving these harsh, frigid winters with below zero wind chills and frequent snowstorms isn’t for the faint of heart! I’m used to below zero temperatures in December, January, and February. I must keep my body temperature between 105—108 degrees Fahrenheit to survive. I fluff my feathers and tense my muscles and shiver to stay warm. I can even drop my body temperature a few degrees to survive. My Maker taught me to seek shelter in pine trees, and people often see the brilliant red flash of my mate against the pines in our nesting area.

The other day I left the shelter of the pine where I was cuddling with my mate and flew off to explore. It was lightly snowing but a balmy twenty degrees, so I felt quite warm. I missed my mate; he wanted to sleep in that day, but my Maker is always with me, so I’m never lonely.

I blinked to clear my vision. Surely that couldn’t be what I thought it was, a woman lying in the snow without even a coat or a blanket!

“Maker! Do you see that? Why is she alone; has she no mate? And why is she crying?”

“Her mate died suddenly a few years ago. She’s crying because she just got some very bad news.”

“She shouldn’t be alone! She’ll get sick, lying out here in the snow in the freezing cold. Has she no friends?”

“She is very sick already, the kind of sick that has no recovery. And she has many friends.”

“Why aren’t they here with her? Isn’t that what friends are for?”

“Little Cardinal, will you fly back in time with me? I want to show you something.”

“No, I won’t go with you. I don’t want to leave her alone like this.”

“She won’t be alone. I will be with her.”

“But, Maker, you just said you’d be taking me back in time.”

“I am everywhere. I am in what you call past, present, and future. It is all now to me. I hold it in the palm of my hand.”

I looked at Maker. I had no idea what he was saying but gathered he could somehow be back in time with me, and here with the poor broken woman. I didn’t want to leave her, but what could be so important that Maker wanted me to go?

“Okay, I’ll go with you if it won’t take too long.”

Maker laughed. It sounded like thunder, or waterfalls, or like music coming out of a great cathedral my grandfather told me he’d once heard.

“It will take less than what you call a minute.”

Suddenly we were at a pit, a hole in the ground. I peered down into it and saw an emaciated man sunk in mud up to his waist. His eyes had the glaze of a dying man. He looked reproachfully at Maker, but he said nothing; he didn’t even cry out for help.

“Who is he, Maker? Why is he in that horrible pit?”

“His name is Jeremiah. Wicked men threw him in that pit for preaching the words I told him to say.”

“And you let this happen to him! Why?”

“I would gladly explain, little cardinal, if you could understand. But watch. I brought you here to see something.” He nodded and I looked.

A group of men hurried to the pit. They hollered down, “Jeremiah, we’re throwing down a rope. Put it under your arms so we can pull you up. Pad your arm pits with these old rags we’re sending down, so the rope won’t hurt.”

“That’s what real friends do,” Maker said to me. “They came to rescue him and thought of everything possible for his comfort.”

Suddenly, we were back in the snow. The light snow that had been falling earlier had become a storm now. The woman wasn’t crying anymore, but a tear had frozen on her pale cheek. Her lips and eyelids had turned a pale blue. I knew she was alive though, because she was shivering, the way I do to bring my body temperature up.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it, Maker? She’ll be alright now that she’s shivering.”

He shook his head. “She is getting hypothermia. She will die alone here in the snow if a friend doesn’t come.”

“I don’t understand. You said she has many friends. Why don’t they come help her like Jeremiah’s friends did him?”

“It’s easier to come when you can actually do something to help. Her friends can’t change her diagnosis. They can’t pull her out of her pit. They can’t bring her mate back. They can’t change the fact the time she has left will be very painful for her. They feel helpless and uncomfortable, not knowing what to say or do. They have no idea how much she needs them now. So, they stay away when they could do something to help her today.”

“All of them? Won’t even one come?”

“Watch and see.”

I sat near my Maker, and he sat close to the woman, giving her warmth and comfort she knew nothing of.

Time passed, and I heard footsteps in the snow.

“Emilia, honey, do you want to talk?”

The woman shook her head and sat up. “Talking is the last thing I feel like doing. Go home, Kathryn.”

Kathryn was carrying a thermos and a thick quilt. She poured steaming tea from the thermos, and Emilia drank. She wrapped the quilt around Emilia and tucked her in until every inch of skin was covered.  

Kathryn sat in the snow next to Emilia and put her arms around her. She didn’t say a word to her. She just looked at the Maker, and he nodded and smiled at her. I think they were talking silently about Emilia. After a while, Emilia put her head on her friend’s shoulder and slept.

“Go home and back to your mate,” Maker said to me. “Cuddle and enjoy every minute I give to you. Your time will come too, as it has for Emilia. You will count yourself blessed then if you have even one friend who knows how to just suffer silently with you in the snow and pray.”

“But…will they be alright? Emilia and her friend?”

“They will both be more than alright. Their friendship will deepen here and continue forever.”

Cardinals don’t cry, but I hid my head in my wing for a minute.

“Master, when my time comes, will you sit next to me in the snow?”

“You do know who sits beside the dying sparrow, don’t you?”

And then he laughed his beautiful laugh again, Emilia’s friend heard it; her eyes filled with tears, and she smiled a grateful smile. Emilia woke; Kathryn helped her to her feet, and they walked back through the woods to a little house.

I don’t know what happened after that.

I flew home and talked to my mate about how Maker holds past, present, and future in his hand, and how he doesn’t let any of his children suffer alone in the storm. We cuddled and fell asleep counting our blessings, fearing nothing, not the cold, not the storm, and not our time to die in the snow.

Photo Credit: Jenny Bowers, Sycamore Lane Photography

Shine On

by Donna Poole

What captures the souls of poets and lovers but makes policeman and prison guards apprehensive? You probably know; it’s the full moon.

I especially love the Harvest and Hunter’s moons of September and October when the moon rises huge and orange and makes me feel nostalgic and bittersweet. Those moons strum a forgotten cord and sing of my dozens of heartbreaking goodbyes and of thousands, millions of eternal hellos.

My love, my John is not poetic; he expresses his feelings more by tucking me in every night and pulling the covers up under my chin than he does by quoting sonnets, and in this, the winter of our lives, I’ve come to much prefer being tucked in. But even he notices the moon; he can’t help it. It’s because our oldest daughter, Angie, has loved the moon since she was very small. And she made sure we noticed it too.

An astronomer might tell you Monday’s full moon was a micromoon, the smallest we’ll see this year and is named the Wolf Moon; a poet might sing of its splendor; but Angie can tell you more. She’s known it since she was a toddler.

“Mommy, do you think we’ll see Ralph tonight?”

I searched my memory. Still in my twenties, forgetfulness didn’t plague me as it does now, and I was sure no Ralph shared our lives.

“Honey, we don’t know anyone named Ralph.”

“Yes, we do! Ralph Moon!”

“Oh! So, you think the moon’s name is Ralph?”

“It is his name. He told me so.”

I looked to see if Angie was lying. I could always tell because she pushed her tongue into her cheek and averted her eyes. Talk about a “tell” coming in handy for a first time Mom! She would have made a terrible player had there been a Toddler Poker’s Convention.

She wasn’t lying. She really thought the moon had said his name was Ralph, so Ralph it must be.

We had many conversations about Ralph in years to come. Sometimes Angie said he was “fingernail Ralph.” When he was full, she said Ralph was smiling at her. I doubt Angie still calls the moon Ralph, now that she’s pushing fifty, but her dad and I still do.

Statistics say we’ve raised four children, but wisdom tells us those four children also raised us. The wise ones among us say our artists, poets, and photographers help us see. I add children to that list. They show us things we’d otherwise miss on our backroad ramblings.

Listen to any child and sooner or later you will find yourself in the position of humble student. When our youngest daughter, Kimmee, was a toddler she was surprised I couldn’t see the angel at the top of our stairs, so real and visible to her. I thought of Matthew 18:10: “Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, That in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven.”

Kimmee smiled and waved at her angel and went back to her toys as though there were no barrier between that world and this, and for just a minute, the wall was down for me too. I stared at the place where she’d seen her angel. I saw nothing, but I saw more than I’d seen in a long time.

Years ago, when our Dan and Mindy’s children were very young, we took Macy and Reece to Walmart and gave them each a dollar. Their eyes grew huge at such a vast sum. We told them it wouldn’t buy much, but it would buy a matchbox car or a puzzle.

Reece folded his money carefully like the treasure it was to him, put it into his little pocket, and talked fast and furious about the matchbox cars he wanted to look at. Macy held hers in her hand; she already knew exactly what she wanted. She pulled my hand and hurried me to the back of the store. Electronics. My heart sank. Even back then I knew what a dollar would buy in electronics, exactly nothing.

“Look, Grandma, I want that!” she pointed at a tablet that cost well over a hundred dollars.

“Oh, Macy honey. You only have one dollar, and that costs more than one-hundred dollars.”

“Uh huh!” She nodded, face happy and expectant. We realized she had no conception of money. She had a whole dollar, and she’d picked out what she wanted to buy.  

Reece pulled his treasured dollar out of his pocket, dreams of matchbox cars overshadowed by a more powerful emotion, and held it out to me.

“Here, Grandma Donna! Macy can have my dollar too! Now you have enough money to buy it for her.”

I almost sobbed right there in electronics, not because we couldn’t get Macy the tablet, but because of a little boy’s unselfish, giving love. Those two small children were far from spoiled and accepted graciously the denial of the tablet. I don’t remember now what they did buy, but each was happy with a small gift, and this grandma treasured all these things in her heart.  

Shine on, Ralph moon. Shine on, children who see angels. Shine on, little boys who will gladly give their last dollar for love. You make this world a brighter, more beautiful place for the rest of us. We need all the light we can get as we keep walking each other Home.

photo credit: Cecelia D. Hill. She says, “Framed it through the branches of the tree in my front yard. Looks like God’s eye.”
photo credit: Cecelia D. Hill

Just a Little Talk with Jesus

Dedicated to all who are living in limbo

by Donna Poole

Lord, I’m tired; I’m grumpy, and I’m scared.

I’ve noticed. I know why; but do you?

I don’t know my own heart, and I don’t trust the parts of it I do understand. So no, I don’t know why I’m scared or grumpy. I do know why I’m tired.

Well, let’s start there. Tell me why you’re tired.

You know why! I’ve been fighting this cancer for nineteen months, and I’m tired of fighting, of treatments, of doctor visits, of tests. Most of all I’m tired of being in limbo. I know others suffer far worse and way longer, so I feel guilty even saying this, but I thought by now it would be over, one way or the other. I figured I’d be healed or in heaven. Now all I’m hearing is “no interval change” after every test!

So, you think maybe being tired of it all is what’s making you grumpy?

I don’t know! Maybe. Yes!

Did I say anything in my letter to you that can help with the tired and grumpy you?

Hundreds of things! You said to give thanks in everything. Come to think of it, I’m grateful for science. The modern technology of these tests is amazing! Did you know the CT and PET scans I’ve been getting every six weeks can look right inside and see if the cancer is growing or shrinking?

Yes, I think I did know that. I believe I gave Allan MacLeod Cormack, Edward J. Hoffman, and Michael E. Phelps the wisdom.

Who? Anyway, I’m grateful for my wonderful oncologist and nurses. They’re about the only people I get to talk to since they won’t let me go into public. I’m so tired of the isolation. I think I’m going to have to miss going to church forever!

No, you won’t. You’re being a bit melodramatic; don’t you think?

You made me this way! If I were a punctuation mark, I’d be the exclamation point!

Yes, I believe I’ve noticed that a time or two. So, now you know why you’re tired and grumpy. Can you leave your burdens with me as you’ve done so many times before? I see how heavy they are. You know I’ve offered to carry them. Why are you lugging them around yourself this time?

I can’t leave them with You this time. I really can’t. Because I’d have to say… you know. And I don’t want to say it.

You used to wake up every morning saying, “Lord, not my will but yours. Think through me, thoughts of God; love through me, love of God, and live through me, life of God.” What changed?

I guess maybe I’m a little angry with you. There were times I was so close to Home, ready for heaven, happy about coming—and thought you were ready and waiting to welcome me with open arms! This was my hope:

I’ve journeyed far; I’ve stumbled long—

But always hearing that distant song

Hummed in joy by heaven’s choir

Calling me to come up higher.

Softly I walk through cleansing snow

With chastened grace and faith aglow.

Hushed to silence the wind’s low moan,

I almost see the lights of Home!

But no! You weren’t ready for me to come Home. And now I don’t know how close the lights of Home are, and it’s dark here! I’m too tired! I don’t think I can do this anymore!

My child, have you uncovered the reason for your fear? Are you more afraid of living than of dying? You don’t want to say, “Not my will,” because you’re afraid the words I said in my letter might apply to you, “I shall live and not die and declare the works of the Lord”?

Yes! That’s it! It silly and ungrateful; I know life is a marvelous gift, and I have a wonderful life full of love and laughter; I have an amazing family and precious friends, but I’m just so tired. I want to come Home and rest. Living is hard. I’m afraid to stay here.

Did I say anything to you in my letter that helps with fear?

You said perfect love casts out fear. I know I should love you more. You are perfect, holy, lovely, forgiving, longsuffering, and have never given me a reason not to love you.

Stop. How about instead of trying to love me more, you think about how much I love you? I have loved you with an everlasting love. I’ve engraved your name on the palms of my hands. I notice every time you stand or sit. I care so much about your tears I save each one in a bottle. I love you in life as much as I will love you after death. Nothing can separate you from my love. I am infinitely more than sufficient for whatever you must face, living or dying, because I’ll never leave you. Whatever comes, I’ll love you through it.

Oh, my sweet Lord. How could I have doubted You? Not my will, my own selfish twisted will that wasn’t even thinking of others or You. I guess if You can give me dying grace You can give me living grace too until my work is done! Will you give me the strength to live in the joy of the Lord? And help me face the future with faith not fear?

I can do that.

But this being in limbo is really, really hard.

Please, my child, stop saying you’re living in limbo. You do have the prospect of moving to a better place.

When? Could give me just a hint about how long it will be before I see the lights of Home?

No.

-Sigh- That’s what I thought. Do you want to go for a walk with me that lasts the rest of today?

Always. Are you still tired, grumpy, and scared?

Not now, but I can’t promise about after lunch. Why are You laughing? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I love the sound of Your laughter. Lord, I love you. It’s far from perfect love, but I love you.

I know.

photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer
photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer

What if I Fly?

by Donna Poole

Lola, the little monarch larva, curled up inside the milkweed leaf and tried to make herself invisible, but Alan found her. He always did.

“Are you crying and hiding again? Come out and enjoy this beautiful Florida sunshine. You’re wasting prime eating time. Are you going to eat that leaf you’re hiding in or not? Because if you’re not, I am!”

“Go away!” Lola sniffed and a tiny tear dripped onto the leaf. “You fat old caterpillar! How can you even think of eating after what happened to Betsy yesterday? You saw that nasty bluebird bite her in half and eat both halves of her. We could be next!”

Alan looked around. “No bluebirds in sight. It’s safe to come out. You can’t hide forever!”

“Oh yes I can. I’m staying right here in yesterday. Yesterday I escaped with my life. Who knows what might happen if I come out into today? I might die!”

Lola shuddered and crawled deeper into the leaf, hard to do since Alan was eating holes all around her.

“It’s today whether you come out or not. And if you come out, you might not die. You might fly!”

“Alan, you’ve told me a hundred times your name means handsome and cheerful, but I think you’re ridiculous. Who ever heard of a caterpillar flying?”

“Grandpa Blythe told me. He said after we caterpillars hang in our J’s and go into our cages, we come out as beautiful flying creatures!”

“Did you ever see such a thing yourself?” Lola demanded. “Those cages are our tombs. No one who goes in ever comes out. Look around at all the cages of our friends! They’re all dead, Alan, dead! And you aren’t making anything better by living in your pretend world where we come out of our cages and fly!”

Alan kept calmly eating. It was infuriating the way that caterpillar refused to get angry. Finally, he mumbled with a full mouth, “You’re not making your life easier by assuming every change means disaster. Nothing wrong with having a little hope.”

“The world is full of trouble, Alan. Only one out of us ten eggs lives to grow up. Flies, wasps, parasites, viruses, bacteria, and…bluebirds can all get us! Hope is a lie, Alan!”

Lola started crying again.

Alan clumsily patted her head with one of his six feet. “Listen, Lola, I know the world is full of trouble, but it’s also full of survivors. Yesterday was terribly sad, but you survived. You might be one of the ten who lives, and you might even fly! But you’re never going to do it without eating. You better get chomping this milkweed!”

 And with that, Alan curled his chubby self into a ball and started softly snoring.

Lola looked at him sadly. He was the last friend she had left. He was getting so big; she knew soon he’d hang into a J, spin his death web, go into his cage, and die. Then she’d have no one. She missed all her friends, especially Sheri.

Lola looked at the milkweed plant next to her. That’s where she’d last seen Sheri, the place Sheri had hung in a J, spun her death web, gone into her cage and died.

What was happening to Sheri’s cage? It had turned transparent, and now a lovely creature was climbing from it. Slowly the creature opened and closed its wings, over and over, its beautiful colors catching the sunlight.

“Alan! Alan, wake up! You need to see this!”

But Alan kept snoring.

The beautiful creature climbed higher on the milkweed and looked directly at her. There was something familiar about it. It looked like…but it couldn’t be!

“Sheri,” she whispered, “Sheri, is that really you?”

Sheri opened and closed her wings a few more times, circled Lola’s head and then flew high into the sky.

Alan was right! There was reason to hope.

She looked for him, but he was hanging in a J shape and had already spun a web around himself. Could he still hear her?

“I’m going to be one of ten, Alan,” Lola hollered in her loudest voice. “I’m going to fly.”

Alan’s voice sounded so faint and far away. “Better get chomping then.”  

Yes. That was it. While waiting to fly she’d just do the next thing that needed to be done. In this case, it was stuffing herself with milkweed. Lola was going to miss Alan, but she had a feeling she might see him again.

Used with permission

The True Miracle

by Donna Poole

Agatha raised herself on her elbow and gagged weakly into the bowl at her side. She heard the curtain to her room push back.

“Please, go away,” she whispered.

Mary and Dorcas heard her, but they did not go away. Dorcas dipped a cloth into cool water and held it to her forehead as Mary gently supported her shoulders until the rest of her breakfast left her body.

Tears ran down Agatha’s cheeks. She’d always been a strong, proud woman, and she didn’t want her friends to see her like this.

“Go, now, please,” she said.

Instead of leaving, they sat on the floor next to her mat.

“Jesus is back here in Capernaum,” Mary said with quiet excitement.

Dorcas nodded. “He can tell you what’s wrong with you, and He can heal you. You know He can.”

“Let us help you get to Jesus,” Mary begged. “You can lean on us.”

Agatha shook her head wearily.

“Just let me die in peace. I know what’s wrong with me. I’ve told you before. My father taught me that three-thousand years ago ancient Egyptians cauterized breast tumors with a tool they called the fire drill. Four-hundred years ago a Greek physician, Hippocrates, called tumors carcinos and carcinoma. And just in the last few decades the Roman physician, Celsus, translated the Greek word into the Roman word ‘cancer.’ I have cancer. It’s all through my body. Just look at me! No one can help me now, not even Yahweh!”

She closed her eyes and threw one thin arm over them. Agatha’s friends did look at her and then at each other with tears in their eyes. In the last year she’d lost a third of her body weight. Her soft snores let them know she was asleep.

“Mary,” Dorcas said, “sometimes I think her Greek father educated her too much for her own good. She has too much learning to have any room for faith.”

Dorcas shook her head. “I don’t think it’s that. I think she’s just too tired to have faith, so we’re going to have to have it for her. If she can’t remember the song of her heart, we can, and we’ll sing it back to her.”

“You speak in riddles. What do you have in mind?”

“Come,” Dorcas whispered, and the two friends tiptoed out of the house. As they walked down the dusty street, they made their plans.

“It might work,” Mary said excitedly. “We’d only need four good sized boys. She weighs barely more than a child.”

***

Agatha cried out in terror and woke from her dream. Let me die in peace I said to my friends, but there is no peace. My sins are like tormenting spirits haunting me waking and sleeping!

“Why did you name me Agatha, Father?” she whispered to his memory. “I am not a good woman. I have no sins of the flesh to confess, but oh these secret sins of the spirit eat at me more than the cancer. The envy, the spite, the selfishness in my heart! If only I could leave my sin behind when I die, I’d gladly die this minute to be free of it! But will it follow me into the great unknown? You taught me so much, Father. Why didn’t you teach me this? I’ve followed all of Mother’s Jewish customs, but were they enough? None of the sacrifices have set me free from myself!”

Agatha turned on her side and sobbed herself back to sleep. She was only semi-conscious when she felt her mat being lifted from the floor. Through tear-swollen eyes she squinted up at four smiling lads.

“Where are you taking me?” she cried in alarm.

“It’s alright,” Mary said, reaching for her hand.

Dorcas took her other hand. “We’re taking you to Jesus.”

“No!” She struggled to sit, but she was too weak. “He cannot help me. Please don’t carry me into the streets like this where people will see me.”

Her friends pulled soft coverings up to her chin and pleaded with their eyes. How could she refuse such love?

Through the streets of Capernaum they went until they came to the house where Jesus was teaching. It was one of the larger homes, able to hold about fifty people crowded closely together, but the crowd had spilled out of the door and stood deep around the windows, a quiet crowd, straining to hear every word of the Master.

“We cannot get through,” one of the lads said. “Shall we go back?”

“No!” Dorcas nodded at the outside staircase. “Carry her to the roof.”

The boys looked apprehensive but obeyed. Even Mary was alarmed.

“Dorcas, what do you have in mind?”

“Do you believe Jesus can heal her?”

“You know I absolutely do!”

“Then get ready to get dirty!”

Dorcas had to promise the boys they wouldn’t get into trouble with their parents, and she would pay for damages, before they agreed to help, but soon six pairs of hands were digging through the mud roof. Mud and debris began falling into peoples’ hair, and the crowd looked up in amazement. Jesus laughed.

As soon as the hole was big enough, two of the boys jumped down, while Mary, Dorcas, and the other two lowered Agatha on her mat. There she lay, in front of Jesus. He looked deep into her eyes.

“Welcome, Agatha. The Greek name meaning ‘good woman.’”

She shook her head, tears running unhindered down her face. Agatha was in the presence of pure goodness and had never felt her own sinfulness more. She groaned, and it wasn’t from the pain of the cancer. She looked away from Jesus. How could sin look at such holiness?

Jesus took her two thin hands in his two strong ones.

“Look at me, my daughter,” He said in a voice of love.

“Your sins are forgiven.”

Agatha could almost see them leave, those heavy condemning spirits, the ghostly chains of sins past, present, and future. She felt so light and free, so full of joy!

Agatha looked up through the hole in the roof at her friends. They were frowning. That is not why they’d brought her to Jesus. They were quite unhappy with this outcome.

Couldn’t they understand? She didn’t care about the cancer in her body anymore. Everyone died sometime. The cancer in her spirit was gone, and that was the true miracle! She was good now with a goodness not her own.

She could hear others in the crowd murmuring, some wearing the robes of the elite Pharisees.

“Who does Jesus think he is? Only God can forgive sins.”

Jesus nodded at Agatha. “Get ready,” He whispered.

Then with a commanding shout He ordered, “So they will know the Son of Man has power of earth to forgive sins, Agatha, good woman, take up your bed, and walk!”

Jesus stretched His hand down and lifted her up. She felt the cancers leaving her body and the strength of youth flowing into her.

“How?” she asked Him in a whisper. “How?”

Now Jesus looked sad. “You’ll know later when you stand at the foot of my cross. Go now. Live your life in joy.”

She’d never known, with all her learning, that holiness was just another word for happiness.

Agatha rolled up her mat and looked up at the roof. How was she going to get back up through that hole?

“You might try going out the door,” Jesus said. And He laughed. She laughed too, and then the whole room was laughing. The crowd parted, making a way for her to get through. People patted her back.

“Go with Yahweh, good woman!” Someone shouted.

That was exactly what she intended to do.

From a few years ago. Friends are God’s good gifts!

My Best Gift

by Donna Poole

Growing up, we Piarulli kids never thought of ourselves as poor. We were like many other large families of the 1950s and 1960s when one paycheck had to stretch too far. It never occurred to us to wonder if other kids were still hungry when supper was finished; that was just how life was. It’s only in looking back and remembering snatches of conversations that I realize how hard my parents struggled financially. And yet, we were better off than many.

Somehow Mom and Dad managed to give the five of us children a wonderful Christmas every year. Perhaps my memory is tangled with stars and silver bells, but I recall most Christmas days as white with snow. Each strand of tinsel hung perfectly straight on our tree strung with lights, and the house smelled wonderfully of pine.

Carefully wrapped gifts, not many but more than enough, were piled under the tree, and for a few days of the year, everything was close to perfect.

Until the arrival of that hideous thing.

We came home from school one day, laughing, rosy cheeks, stomping snow off our boots, and stared. What was that?

Mom stood next to it, smiling proudly, waiting for our reaction. That hideous thing was a tree about three feet tall with skimpy, silver-colored branches. At its foot was a color wheel.

“Wait until you see this!” Mom plugged in the color wheel, and it rotated, turning the branches red, blue, green, and yellow. All ugly. All artificial. All hideous.

I wish we’d been more considerate of Mom’s feelings; she obviously thought she’d found a lovely treasure, but we hated it. And we said so. We disliked it more every year. There were no more real trees, no rooms filled with the scent of pine. The tree stood on an end table, not on the floor where a proper, real Christmas tree should stand.

True, as Mom pointed out, it didn’t drop needles and make a mess. We wished it would drop its needles, but it endured with the tenacity of Methuselah. It’s probably still alive in a landfill somewhere!

Christmas gifts were wonderful when I was a child. When we were very young, Mom always put two unwrapped dolls on the couch for Mary and me. The first one to the sofa got first pick. Aunt Mary, who owned a dress factory, gave each of us girls a beautiful thick sweater every year. One year Grandma gave Mary and me teddy bears we cherished.

When we went to bed at night, one of us would ask, “Does your teddy bear love my teddy bear?”

“My teddy bear loves your teddy bear if your teddy bear loves my teddy bear.”

Once it was settled that the bears and their owners loved each other, we slept, each holding close her bear. I don’t know what happened to my bear, but Mary had hers until just recently. Those bears were among our favorite gifts.

When I got a little older, I looked under the tree for a book shaped package and was never disappointed. My new Nancy Drew book was there, and I devoured it before Christmas Day ended. I loved those books.

One year Dad told us to come outside to see our gift, a lovely wooden toboggan. That was an amazing present!

My favorite gift didn’t come from Mom and Dad, Aunt Mary, Grandma, or any family member. It didn’t even come at Christmas. It came from someone who terrified me, Mrs. Green.

Mrs. Green was a fearful presence who ruled children’s church. I’m sure she must have been a nice person, but I couldn’t see it back then. Her stern persona and hawk like eyes made me shudder.

One Sunday Mrs. Green used a flannel covered board with flannel illustrations that stuck to it. We called them flannelgraph figures. She put up pictures of heaven and talked about how wonderful it would be. Next, she did something I don’t recommend for small children; she placed fiery pictures of hell.

“Boys and girls don’t think that because Jesus, God’s Son, came to earth as a baby, grew up. and died on the cross to pay for the sins of the world that you’re going to heaven. It doesn’t work that way. Don’t think that because your mom and dad bring you to church every Sunday, you’re going to heaven; it doesn’t work that way!”

She jabbed a bony finger at the flames.

What was she saying? I wasn’t going to heaven just because Jesus died for me, and I came to church every Sunday?

She had my attention. How was I going to get into heaven? Whatever it took, I’d do it!

Up went a picture of a cross, and the explanation that Jesus died for our sin. For my sin. Something stirred deeply in my young heart. What kind of love was this that someone would die for me?

Mrs. Green put flannelgraph gifts on the board. “Jesus died to give you salvation from sin and a home in heaven. But does just looking at a gift make it yours? No. You have to reach out and take it.”

So how did I take this gift? I had to admit to God I was a sinner. Well, God and I both knew that! I needed to tell Him I believed Jesus died for me and ask Him to save me.

Mrs. Green told us to bow our heads for silent prayer. “If any of you took that gift and accepted Jesus as your Savior, raise your hand. I’d like to talk to you.”

What? Talk to Mrs. Green all by myself?

I didn’t raise my hand. My heart was filled with faith and joy, but I saw no compelling reason to become a martyr for my faith on the first day I had it. Alone with Mrs. Green? That was worse than Daniel being thrown into the lion’s den!

I never did thank Mrs. Green for giving me the best gift of all! When I get to heaven, I’ll look her up and do it. Maybe. If she doesn’t still terrify me.

I read somewhere Patrick Henry said the gift he wished he could give everyone was his faith in Jesus Christ. I wish I could give that to you too, but you’ll have to accept the gift yourself. I hope you will.

Jesus grows sweeter to me every year, and He fills my heart with hope and joy that run clear and deep under the ice of life’s many storms. I’m still pondering the question my child’s heart asked so many years ago: What kind of love was this that someone would die for me?

It’s not just grace; it’s amazing grace, a grace that came to earth as a tiny baby who gave us a way Home to God

Merry Christmas, dear friends! See you at Home.

P. S. Mary, my teddy bear still loves your teddy bear, always.

Photo Credit: Mary Piarulli Post

Our Practically Perfect Christmas

by Donna Poole

Magic gently falls over our home like a blanket of snow each family Christmas. I can’t explain it, but even with thirteen grandchildren, no one ever gets sick. The twenty-three of us manage to gather every year without having to reschedule the date. The cousins play like the angels they are, and for just that one day, siblings don’t get frustrated with each other for invading personal space.

And the adults? The ten of us, who usually have twenty different opinions on almost everything, merge in a spirit of love and unity beautiful to behold. If people disagree, they smile and let it go. Not only do we love each other; we like each other. We like everything about each other because we’re family. After all, it’s Christmas.

Christmas carols play softly on someone’s phone, and the children wait quietly as each opens a gift in turn. It’s never too noisy. You’d hardly know thirteen children were here.

And then, we feast on the roast beast. Just for that one day, nothing burns or undercooks. As we gather at tables with only peace and love in our hearts, it’s not unusual for someone to say, “Look, Grandma! It started snowing!”

And if you believe that piece of fiction you just won GOTYA—gullible of the year award.

Let’s get real here. Getting the twenty-three of us together is a gymnastic feat not accomplished some years despite amazing contortions. Kids get sick and we try to reschedule, but sometimes we end up with two celebrations instead of one.

Kids wake up sick on family Christmas morning. Siblings remove each other from their personal spaces. And we ten adults? I know how to read faces. I’ve known these people a long time. I see the raised eyebrow; I can tell when someone is biting a tongue. And the kids’ noise? I love it, but I think next year I’ll put ear plugs in everyone’s Christmas stockings to prevent hearing loss.

One Christmas a little grandson started feeling not well and laid on the couch most of the time. He went home and threw up. Poor kid! We shouldn’t have laughed when we heard about the comment he made after getting sick, but we did.

“It’s still corn! How can it still be corn when I ate it!”

There was a Christmas John and I had to leave because a church member needed us.

There were two Christmases when a grandchild fell into the Christmas tree. The same grandchild. It’s one of my favorite memories. The same grandchild, when a bit older, told me at Christmas, “You’re getting really old, Grandma. I guess pretty soon you’ll be dead.” I adore him; he makes me laugh!

There was a not at all funny Christmas when parents had to rush a very sick child to the emergency room. And one when our fireman son had to leave. And one where a whole family of littles got sick because of germs caught at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

I could continue, but you get the idea.

I blame Mom and Dad Poole for starting the tradition of holiday trouble. Once Mom put dinner roles in the oven in a paper bag to warm them. The bag caught on fire, and she yelled for Dad. He came running in his underwear, grabbed the rolls, ran out to the back porch, and threw the burning mess into the yard. We all laughed about that for years, wondering how many of their neighbors laughed too. And my husband remembers the year of the famous seafood dip that gave everyone food poisoning.

We have enjoyed a few practically perfect Christmases when everything was like a storybook. But no matter what happens, they are all perfect for me, and here’s why.

As imperfect as the twenty-three of us are, we all really do love each other, and I love each one of them fiercely. I hold them in my thoughts, heart, and prayers always. I would do anything for them, and when we’re all together, no matter what happens, I catch my breath at the perfectly imperfect beauty of it all. Just having everyone together is magic for me.

And then the best part happens. Before we open gifts, a grandchild reads to us verses from Luke chapter two. Megan did it for many years. I think she was only four or five when she started. When she got older, we passed the honor down to her younger brother, Reece. When he began, he was so young he mispronounced some words, and anyone who snickered got a grandma scowl from me.

Reece is still our reader. John hands him the Bible, and Reece begins to read,

And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.

(And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)

And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.

And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)

To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.

And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.

And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

10 And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

12 And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

14 Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

15 And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.

16 And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.

17 And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.

18 And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.

19 But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.

20 And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.

Yes, they are good tidings of great joy! When I hear my beloved grandson read those old familiar verses, the joy fills my heart and runs out of my eyes and down my cheeks. It’s Christmas. It’s not just practically perfect; it’s perfect in every way!

Come to think of it, the only perfect thing about the first Christmas was the baby born in the manger, born to die for our sins!

I leave you with a Merry Christmas from my heart, dear friends, and a thank you for traveling the back roads with me this year. Enjoy your imperfect Christmas! And now, please excuse me. The ham is drying out; the sweet potato casserole just caught fire, and someone, you know who, just fell into the Christmas tree.

The Winter of My Content

by Donna Poole

There I was, enjoying the Fourth of July parade, when a freak snowstorm came from nowhere. Sometimes it rains on the parade, but snow? The first few flakes quickly turned into a white-out. As winds howled and the temperature dropped sixty degrees in six minutes, bystanders rushed for cars. The parade halted, and participants hurried to find the closest shelter.

Okay, so that didn’t exactly happen, but it’s true metaphorically speaking. There I was, enjoying the long, lingering summer of my life. Winter was far away, or so I thought, and the blizzard caught me unprepared, still wearing my summer flip-flops.

Are we ever ready to get old? Isn’t old always at least twenty years older than we are? That’s how I used to think. I’m still shocked at the little old gray-haired lady who stares back at me from the mirror, and then we both start singing, “The little old lady from Pasadena, go Granny, go Granny, go Granny, go!” And we laugh.

This is, I think, just the beginning of my winter; it could be the end. I don’t know. No one really knows how long a winter may last. When I was young, I planned this winter in my imagination. I’d be a briskly walking-still jump roping-up for any adventure-grandma. When I wasn’t having adventures with my grandchildren, I’d sit by a fire and read and write. I’d enjoy the short but sweet winter twilights and then smile myself to sleep with happy memories of yesterday and robust plans for tomorrow.

I didn’t imagine cancer, or what it would do to dreams of the kind of old lady I’d be. I still have adventures. It’s an adventure to get from the bed to the car in one piece! It’s an adventure to fit all the doctors and test visits into the calendar. Sometimes, when I’m feeling extra daring, I even take a shower…and skip the nap after!

This is not, however, the winter of my discontent. I’m not unhappy. I find happiness in different ways than I’d imagined. Today I woke from a nap to hear feet on the stairs. I don’t know which of the three people who live with me was going upstairs, but I smiled. It made me feel warm and happy to hear footsteps on the stairs and know they belonged to someone dear to me. Had I been the jump-roping-always-busy-grandma I’d imagined; I don’t think I’d have ever known how sweet it is to hear footsteps of a loved one on the stairs.

Small blessings bring grace to my heart and instant tears to my eyes. Today my sister told me my brother-in-law, who’s alone in a hospital in New York City and very sick, was out of an expensive skin cream he really needs. The hospital doctor, without being asked, went to a drugstore, used his own money, and bought the cream. When my brother-in-law tried to pay him, the doctor said, “Nope. We’re good.”

I’ve been thinking about that often today, the kindness of strangers, and how much more it means when someone is sick and hurting. God has many earth angels, and as someone once said, “Human kindness is Jesus showing His hands.”

I’m grateful for human kindness and hundreds of other small things I never thought much about before. Smiles. Waves. Hugs around the knees from a tiny granddaughter. A text from one of my adult kids or in-law kids. The changing slant of light with the seasons. The quiet, country view out of my bedroom window.

Yes, I’m sick. Yes, I’ve lost people dear to me. Yes, this is hard. But when I lie in my cozy bed, even when my sore bones don’t exactly let me get comfortable, the music starts. Under the ice of my storms, a spring stream flows, and it sings to me. It sings of grace and mercy. It hums of love and laughter. Sometimes lyrics run through my mind, as eclectic as I am: old hymns, Ron Hamilton, southern gospel, old time country, music from high school. Occasionally I sing along; “You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch.”

With each new medical test, I’m like the Grinch’s cartoon sleigh tipping back and forth on that impossible precipice of a mountain.

Which way will I slide? And yet, I’m at peace. I’m wrapped in a cozy blanket made of the kindness of family, friends, and strangers. The music grows faint sometimes, but it’s always there when I get quiet enough to listen. The winter winds howl, and everything freezes, but the spring stream flows under the ice, and I am contented.

These days the stream under the ice is lit with tiny white lights and sings Christmas songs to me.

The winter of Jesus’s life came when He was so young. The shadow of a cross fell over the manger; His birth was the prelude to His death. Yet what joy He found along the way, even though the road led to Calvary.

“Those who watched Jesus dying saw nothing but loss and tragedy. Yet at the heart of that darkness the divine mercy was powerfully at work, bringing about pardon and forgiveness for us. God’s salvation came into the world through suffering, so his saving grace and power can work in our lives more and more as we go through difficulty and sorrow. There’s mercy deep inside our storms.” –Timothy Keller

Oh, that’s for sure. There’s mercy deep inside our storms. And that’s why this is the winter of my content. God is at work, and all is well.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

A Grateful Heart

by Donna Poole

“Emma,” Mia whispered, “you still awake?”

“Yep. Just looking for a happy minute from today to think about before I fall asleep.”

“You do that every night. Well, you can stop trying to find your happy. I’ve got one for you. Mom and Dad are taking us to Alabama for Thanksgiving! We’re staying in an ocean front condo. But don’t tell Mom I told you. Maybe she wants to surprise you.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the ocean! What’s it like?”

“You know how much you love Lake Michigan? It’s like that only way better. And we’ll walk the beach and collect shells. We’re going to have so much fun!”

“Mia, you’re the best foster sister I’ve ever had!”

Mia laughed. “I think I’m the only foster sister you’ve ever had. Didn’t you say all those other foster homes had only boys?”

Emma shuddered at the memory of what had happened in some of those homes, things she’d never tell Mia. In her thirteen years she’d been in eight different homes, and this was the first place she’d felt safe. But she wasn’t going to think about those places now, not when she could imagine sinking her toes into white sand in Alabama!

Emma usually woke long before Mia and helped Nancy in the kitchen before everyone left for work or school. She’d long ago learned things went better for her in the foster homes if she made herself useful.

As she hurried to the kitchen, Emma wondered if Nancy would tell her about the trip. Thanksgiving was just a few days away.

“Sit down, Emma.” Nancy sighed.

Have I done something wrong? I can’t think of anything, but she looks so upset!

“Mia doesn’t know this yet. Her dad’s company has transferred him to Alabama. We’re going down there for Thanksgiving, and we’ll be looking for a home to buy. It’s going to be hard for Mia to leave her school, her friends, and you. We can’t take you out of state, Emma. I want to make this as easy as possible for Mia. I’m trusting you not to say anything to her; we’ll tell her when we’re in Alabama. You’ll go to the sitter’s when we leave for our trip. By the time we return, you’ll be in another foster home. I think it’s better for Mia this way. It’s going to break her heart, and that’s partly my fault. I’ve let her get too close to you. I thought she understood you were just a foster child, but I’ve heard her refer to you as ‘my sister’ several times lately. Can I trust you not to say anything to her?”

Emma nodded mutely, tears running down her face. Am I just a piece of furniture to be shoved aside or donated to someone else? Don’t you care about me at all?

Nancy raised surprised eyebrows. “Don’t take this so hard, Emma. You’ve been in more foster homes than I can count. Surely you didn’t expect us to adopt you?”

It was only when she heard the words Emma realized that was exactly what she’d hoped. Mia was like a sister to her, perhaps Mia’s parents would learn to love her too.

Now I’m gong to be alone again.

Emma remembered words she’d memorized as a little girl when someone had taken her to church. It felt like God Himself was standing next to her, lifting her chin, putting steel into her spine.

I will never leave you or forsake you.

She heard Mia coming downstairs. Nancy gave her a sharp, warning look.

Mia hugged Emma. “Good morning, sister!”

Emma’s heart twisted.

“You girls need to pack right after breakfast,” Nancy said. “Mia, you’re packing for Alabama, and Emma’s going to pack to stay with the sitter.”

“What! Emma isn’t coming with us? Then I don’t want to go.”

“Mia,” her mom said, “we need to spend some time as a family. Emma understands. We’ve talked.”

Mia was furious and crying. “Emma is family. She’s as much family as you and dad.”

Nancy’s lips tightened into a thin line. “This is exactly why we need to spend time as just a family.”

Mia knew when she’d lost a battle. She sighed. “Emma, I’ll bring you back lots of shells, okay?”

A few hours later two thirteen-year-old girls parted in the driveway, one to go on vacation, the other to go back into an overwhelmed foster system. Mia thought they were parting for a few days. Emma knew it would be for years, or maybe forever.

“Mia, I want you to remember something Abraham Lincoln said.”

Mia smiled through tears. “You can’t go on vacation with me, and you want to talk about Abraham Lincoln? Sometimes you’re too funny, Emma. Okay. What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.’”

“So that’s why you try to think of a happy every night before you go to sleep? You’ve made up your mind to be happy?”

“Enough goodbyes!” Nancy said. “We need to get going, and the sitter is here for Emma.”

Emma watched Mia and her parents get into the taxi. The last leaf fell from the Maple and danced its way down to the driveway. In her heart, Emma was the tree, lifting bare arms in mute appeal to heaven.

The sitter tossed Emma’s luggage into the car and backed out of the driveway.

“Will I be at your house for Thanksgiving?” Emma was surprised at how timid her own voice sounded.

“Sorry, Emma. Your case worker is picking you up tomorrow. I don’t know where you’ll be for Thanksgiving. I hope you’ll get a good turkey dinner wherever it is.”

Emma stared out of the window at the bleak November landscape. She thought for a minute about warm, white sandy beaches, Alabama sunshine, and collecting shells with Mia. She let herself feel how wonderful it would have been to be Mia’s adopted sister. Those dreams were gone, and who knew what else life might take from her. Well, no one was going to get her grateful heart. That belonged only to her and God. She was barely more than a child, but somehow, she knew her survival depended on keeping it.

“Open your hand,” the sitter said softly. She placed a tiny, beautiful shell into Emma’s outstretched palm. “I went to Alabama once and brought back a few shells. I want you to have this one.”

Emma whispered her thanks and stared at the shell; its pale pink center swirled into smooth pearl, fragile as a dream, beautiful as hope. Her hand closed around it.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

The Little Church that Could

by Donna Poole

It had been a glorious autumn day at the little church, the last day of October. The trees in the countryside were still wearing their best colors; their dress had never looked more radiant. Still, as the sun began to lower in the west, the little church on the corner of two dirt roads sagged on its foundation and began to quietly weep. Tears streamed out of its windows and traced paths through the dust on its white sides.

A man with a long black coat flapping below his knees walked rapidly down the road. His walking stick barely touched the ground as little clouds of dirt stirred up around him but didn’t seem to settle on him. His white hair touched his shoulders and made a startling contrast to the coat. He stopped suddenly, looked at the tears of the little church, and glanced up. Then he nodded, turned the corner, and sat on the church’s cement steps.

“Do you mind if I rest here awhile, my friend?”

“All are welcome here,” Little Church said, trying to keep from sobbing.

“I noticed your tears. What seems to be the problem?”

Little Church was used to solving problems for others, not telling others its difficulties. It studied the man sitting on its steps. He had kind, blue eyes above a neat, white beard. Little Church was sure he’d never met him before. Did he dare share his burdens with this stranger?

“Are you from around here?”

“No, my friend, I’m just passing through. I hold many secrets in my heart. Yours are safe with me.”

At that Little Church stopped trying to hold back its sobs. Out spilled its whole bitter story of better days, of days when little children filled pews, of days when there was barely enough room to hold all the people.

“Those were my better days. But there were so many things I couldn’t do that other, bigger churches could. I couldn’t have a variety of Sunday school classes. I couldn’t have wonderful programs and activities for each age group; I didn’t have the room or enough help. I couldn’t keep up with what the people wanted, and I’ve lost so many. They left for bigger and better. I’ve failed the Master, and I’m worried about tomorrow. We have so few children now; who will keep me going so I can be a light here on the corner until Jesus comes?”

“Why do you say the former days were better than these? Can you judge like our Master can judge? And as for tomorrow, like my friend Elisabeth Elliot once said, ‘Tomorrow belongs to God. Tomorrow is none of your business!’”

“Do you know Elisabeth Elliot?”

“Oh yes. We talk often.”

“You speak in present tense, but Elisabeth Elliot is dead!”

“And you are a white frame building, but we are talking, so there is that. Just remember, tomorrow is none of your business!”

The words were stern, but the merry laughter and the kind tone soothed the heart of the little church. Where had this wise man with white hair and long black coat come from?

“You don’t know which of your days will count most for eternity,” the man continued. “God isn’t finished with you yet. So, perhaps you should major on what you could do in the future instead of what you couldn’t.”

All was quiet for several moments. A soft breeze blew from the west where the sun was becoming a glowing, red orb. The very air around the little church seemed to hint of heaven.

The man spoke again. “When Jesus lived on earth, He walked dirt roads much like these. He didn’t have any big programs to entertain people. He had no involved children’s clubs that required many workers; He just took the children on His lap and blessed them. Jesus was a servant who taught with love. Can you listen each Sunday for the ‘whisper of His sandaled feet’ and follow Him? Can you teach, love, and serve?”

“I could. I can listen for Him. Teach, Love, and Serve—that has always been my song, but fear stole my words. Thank you for singing them back to me.”

“You’re welcome,” the man said. “I best be on my way before darkness falls.” He stood, stretched, and picked up his walking stick.

He headed west down the dusty road into the sunset.

“Wait!” Little Church called. “I want to always remember the man who put the song back into my heart. What is your name?”

In a voice that echoed like thunder, the man said, “You may call me Gabriel.”

The black coat turned brighter than the sun, and in a flash of lightning the man disappeared.

Little Church stood tall once more on its foundation and never again forgot what it could do. For some, it would not be enough, but Little Church would teach, love, and serve with joy. And it would remember that tomorrow was none of its business.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Summer Sun was on His Wings, Winter in His Cry

by Donna Poole

He knew.

How did knowing winter more brutal than any other was coming for Him not darken His every thought, color His world with frigid foreboding, and freeze all thought of joy? And yet, somehow, it didn’t.

Jesus was a paradox, a man of sorrows acquainted with grief (Isaiah 53:3) and yet more joyful than any other (Hebrews 1:9).

Jesus, living daily with the knowledge the cross was coming, yet found Himself a magnet for small children who ran to Him, crowded around Him, and crawled onto His lap. Kids aren’t attracted to a man with a stern, frigid, grief-lined face.

Remember those lines in the movie, Miracle on 34th Street, when the lawyer pointed to the prosecutor and asked the little boy on the witness stand, “Could that man be Santa Claus?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Santa don’t got no grumpy face!”

Though winter was in His cry—Jesus warned His disciples He was facing crucifixion—the summer sun was on His face. Children adored Him. I imagine they loved His laugh, I can’t wait to someday hear that laugh myself!

I think of Jesus today when sickness, suffering, and death is wounding many people dear to my heart. I know where He found the sunshine on His wings despite everything. He found pure joy in communion with His Father.

He found it too in His love of nature. No wonder Jesus loved creation; He made everything and holds it together. Colossians 1:16-17

In the loveliness of a created work, we see the beauty of the artist. When I admire a sunset, a flower, the patterns of clouds racing through a brilliant blue sky, I catch my breath at the thought of how beautiful the soul of Jesus must be.

Though winter was in His cry, Jesus noticed the beauty of wildflowers, the helplessness of lambs, and the needs of sparrows. He was the one who taught us, as George MacDonald said, God sits beside each dying sparrow.

Picture Jesus walking those dusty backroads of Galilee, on His way to minister to yet another crowd of needy people, but taking the time to talk to His Father, to notice the shepherd with his lambs, and to stoop and study the beauty of the lily. I imagine at night He smiled up at the stars He had named.

Jesus found joy even as winter grew near.

Yes, my heart is heavy, and winter is in my cry for those I love who are suffering. But I relish the feel of the sunshine on my face. I live in the minute and love the beauty of each tree vibrant with color, because winter is in their cry too.

In His creation Jesus has given us more than beauty to enjoy; He has given us a glimpse of His own radiant heart. When we appreciate beauty and thank Him for it, we find a bit of healing and peace.

Something Told the Wild Geese

by Rachel Field

“Something told the wild geese

It was time to go.

Though the fields lay golden

Something whispered, –‘Snow.’

Leaves were green and stirring,

Berries, luster-glossed,

But beneath warm feathers

Something cautioned, –‘Frost.’

All the sagging orchards

Steamed with amber spice,

But each wild breast stiffened

At remembered ice.

Something told the wild geese

It was time to fly,–

Summer sun was on their wings,

Winter in their cry.”

My view from University of Michigan Hospital Yesterday
How kind of someone to plant and care for all of this beauty!

Valley of Tears

by Donna Poole

Her life was a song, and then—she was gone.

Amber was a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a friend, a writer, a poet, a lover of creation, and a lover of God. She knew her worth; she was God’s child, a Daughter of the Star Breather. Amber even wrote a book with that title.

“By the word of the LORD were the heavens made; and all the host of them by the breath of his mouth.” –Psalm 33:6

Amber liked driving back country roads with the windows down, music loud, and wind blowing through her hair. She also delighted in the quiet, listening for the first spring peepers, and watching stars and fireflies. She loved the changes in the seasons.

I first met Amber at church when she was two years old, blonde hair hanging to her waist, and a wide, sweet smile. When it was prayer time the rest of us stayed in our pews, but not Amber. She slipped out into the aisle, knelt, and put her forehead on the floor. I grinned to see her little backside high in the air, but tears stung my eyes at the sweet reverence in one so young. From the first, she refused to leave church without hugging me. That hugging tradition continued until cancer and my oncologist’s orders kept me from church. For almost twenty years Amber blessed me with her hugs.

Long ago, I had a kids’ club that met on Wednesday nights during adult prayer time. The kids got older and before I knew it, they were teens. School and sports’ obligations claimed them one by one until only Amber was left on Wednesday nights. For years the two of us met. We talked, laughed, cried, and prayed. Often, we leaned on the railing and watched the sun set over the fields west of the church. As she got older there were times when she would say something that made me wonder who the teacher was and who the learner. Near the end of Amber’s life, we were just two friends sharing what God was teaching us.

On the last night of her life, Amber went home, hugged her mom, and had cinnamon tea and cookies with her sister. Then the two of them laid out on the trampoline laughing, talking, and watching the stars. It was late when Amber went back to another sister’s house where she was living. She curled up in bed, and sometime in the early morning hours the Star Breather called her name. Amber went Home. Now she’s looking at the stars from the other side. Amber always wanted to know God better; now she does. But she was only twenty-two.

The rest of us still journeying Home are walking through Baca, a weary weeping place, the valley of tears. We’re happy for Amber but staggering with grief.

A pastor friend said, “Death is a defeated enemy, but make no mistake; it is still the enemy.”

And a cruel enemy it is.

Our tears aren’t without hope. Long ago Amber knew she could never be good enough to get to heaven. That’s an exercise in futility, right? It’s like trying to jump across the Atlantic; you might jump farther than I, but neither of us is going to make it. Even as a child Amber rejoiced in the relief that she didn’t have to be good enough to earn heaven because Jesus had lived the perfect life she couldn’t and had died to take the punishment for her sin. She trusted Him as her Savior, and the minute she did, He entered her life and forgave her.

Amber and I sometimes talked about how it would have felt to have been Jesus, never to have known the awful feeling of guilt, and then to suddenly take into His heart every sin ever committed in the history of mankind and to feel the horrible guilt of it. It must have been every bit as excruciating as the physical pain of crucifixion, but He triumphed over sin, death, and hell. He made that sin cease to exist for everyone who trusts Him as Savior. That’s Amber’s family, that’s her friends, and that’s me. We’ll see her again. We’ll spend eternity with her. I’ll get more hugs. We’ll watch together things even more beautiful than the sun setting west of our country church.

Meanwhile, what do we do with all these tears? The Psalmist said, “Blessed are those whose strength is in you, in whose heart are the highways to Zion. As they go through the Valley of Baca they make it a place of springs; the early rain also covers it with pools. They go from strength to strength; each one appears before God in Zion.” –Psalm 84:5-7 ESV

Because of our tears we will someday provide refreshing pools for others. Meanwhile we go from strength to strength and lean on each other and on our God.

I picture our dear Lord Jesus holding a loaf of bread in His hands, blessing it, breaking it, and giving it to others. That’s an allegory for life; we’re blessed, broken, and given in a continuing cycle. I’m wondering where you are in the cycle. God bless you, wherever you are; don’t lose hope!

Right now, all who love Amber are broken, standing in the valley of tears.

A friend from Ireland sang me a song today I’d never heard before. It had these words, “spreading a beautiful rainbow over the valley of tears.” God is doing that for us.

George Matheson said, “Show me that my tears have made my rainbow.”

Our son, Dan, was thinking of Amber on his way to work this morning when he saw a rainbow in the western sky. He took a picture and sent it to me.

Dan’s wife, Mindy, posted a lovely photo of fall leaves on Facebook with these words, “This morning on the way to school Ruby said, ‘Momma, it’s so peach outside. It’s so pretty.’ It was beautiful. The birds were singing, the rain was falling, and everything was some shade of Amber. I told her it was an Amber morning.”

Yes, today was an Amber morning, and someday we’ll have Amber mornings forever.

Amber
Photo credit: Dan Poole
Photo credit: Mindy Poole

An Unexpected Trio

by Donna Poole

We were an unlikely trio, two women and a man, separated by many miles. One lived in Iowa, one in Michigan, and one in South Carolina. We began our song in May/June of 2020, a melody of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, sung in three-part harmony. When I prayed for one of us, I prayed for three of us.

Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma has a mind of its own and goes where it will go. Irv’s settled in his brain; Debbie’s went to her pancreas, and mine made itself at home in my abdomen and lung.

We went to college with Irv and hadn’t seen him since, but we followed him on Facebook. Irv earned degrees from Clarks Summit University, Bob Jones University, and the University of Cincinnati Conservatory of Music—and he had incredible, God-given musical talent. He became college professor at three different colleges and was a Minister of Music at four churches. His passion in life was Soli Deo Gloria—Glory to God alone. When he found out the NHL cancer had invaded his brain, he commented to loved ones, “Now is the time to practice our theology.”

Irv didn’t whimper or whine or ask, “Why me?” His life sang praise to God alone for all the short but brutal days of his cancer journey.

Irv’s daughter wrote, “June 2020 was the beginning. November 2020 was the end. 143 days fell in between.”

Now our trio was a duet. Debbie, a pastor’s wife beloved by her family and her church family, was still fighting. Her battle was hard; the side effects of the treatments were almost unbearable. But Debbie didn’t whimper or whine or ask why me, though I’m sure she sometimes sobbed in pain.

For all the days of her treatment Debbie wanted the same thing Irv wanted, Soli Deo Gloria.

In May of 2020 Debbie received her cancer diagnosis in the emergency room. She wrote, “God was in control—I knew that. I determined there in the ER that I would be a grateful, thankful patient, and trust God with everything.”

Finally, Debbie heard the wonderful news that she was cancer free. Through all the difficult days of chemotherapy and still today, Debbie’s life sings praise to God alone.

In May of 2020 I started wheezing, a funny noise that made me laugh. I thought it was just my Myasthenia Gravis. Kimmee, our daughter, wasn’t laughing. Concerned that I might have pneumonia, she insisted I see our family doctor. Within days I had my cancer diagnosis. At first the doctors thought it was small cell lung cancer, but a biopsy showed it was NHL, a cancer that usually responds well to treatment.

The key word is usually. If you’ve been walking these curving backroads with me long, you know that Morticia, my lung tumor, is stubborn and resistant to treatment. So far, she has survived six treatments of R-Chop chemotherapy, eight of GemOx, and eleven of radiation. I’m continuing with a drug trial of Epcoritamab, a new medication not yet on the market, but showing great promise for resistant cancers like mine.

I’m the last member of the trio still singing the melody of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Will I be like Irv, promoted to the heavenly choir? Or will I be like Debbie, restored to health and using every ounce of energy for God, her family, and her ministry? Only God knows.

All I know is I hope to practice my theology. Either God is all-loving and all- powerful, or He is not. He is, and He is my Father, and I don’t plan to live or die like an orphan!

Sometimes I’ve whimpered and whined. Then I remember whose child I am. And I recall wise words from Oswald Chambers, “Some moods don’t go by praying; they go by kicking!”

Like Irv and Debbie, the other two members of our unexpected trio, I want the song of my life to echo the joyful theme, Soli Deo Gloria—Glory to God alone.

A Real Winner

by Donna Poole

It was a beautiful autumn day, perfect for cross-country. We stood in the crowd cheering on the exhausted runners as they raced to the finish line. Megan, our granddaughter, was in the first group, blonde ponytail swinging side to side, running like a deer, her graceful stride making the long race look so much easier than it was. We hollered her name until we were hoarse, and Megan finished well, earning another PR and winning a medal. Now Reece, our grandson, runs for that same school Megan graduated from many years ago, and he too runs fast and finishes well.

On that long ago autumn day, we waited for Megan to cool down from her run, talk to her coach, and get congratulations from her teammates. When it was our turn, we hugged her and told her how proud we were.

By then the cross-country teams were gathering under their schools’ brightly colored canopies, packing gear, and getting ready to board buses. Spectators drifted away from the sidelines and walked to their cars. We said goodbye to other family members and turned to head to our vehicle.

Then I saw something almost unbelievable. “Wait! John, look!”

He followed my glance down the track. A lone runner was still coming in, so late, so far beyond all the others. Her weary feet pounded the track slowly, but she kept coming. I searched her face for signs of sorrow or embarrassment, but all I saw was a spunky determination to finish what she’d started.

You go girl! You run! You’re a real winner!

Years have passed since that perfect autumn day. I don’t remember Megan’s time now, or where she placed, though I was proud of it then. But I remember that determined girl running so slowly, almost at walking speed, but finishing what she started.

I wonder what became of that girl. Did she go on to college or get a job? I have a hunch whatever she did or will do in life it won’t involve quitting.

We don’t always get to meander back country roads in beautiful sunshine on perfect autumn days when life is easy for the living. Sometimes hard, heartbreaking circumstances force us to push through cold rainstorms, slosh through mud. and keep going even when we’ve already spent our last penny of strength five miles earlier.

It would be so easy then, wouldn’t it, to curl up and give in, to let our tears mingle with the cold rain and call it quits.

“It’s always too soon to quit.” –Warren W. Wiersbe

God says when we’re weak we’re strong—strong in the strength He gives us. We can pound the track with weary feet, even when we’re so far behind the others no one sees us on the track.

God Himself and an unseen heavenly host cheer for us.

“Keep going! Keep putting one foot ahead of the other!”

And so, we do. We run; we walk, and we crawl until hands and knees bleed. We may not see the other runners, but we gain courage knowing they too are giving their best. We’re not alone; we’re walking each other Home with our love and prayers.

When weary and bedraggled we finally reach the finish line, God will greet us with a smile, a hug, and the words, “Well done! Well done, my good and faithful servants.”

Heaven’s halls will echo with cheers of joyful celebration, and we’ll be so glad then we didn’t quit!

Reece, giving his best, earning another PR, and a medal.

Dance of the Butterflies

by Donna Poole

I’m standing in a country field in a comforting September silence, alone except for the thousands, perhaps millions of butterflies dancing with delight over the wildflowers. My memories are fading fast—the horrified looks of my comrade firefighters when we realized the thuds we heard among the shrieking sounds of collapsing metal and screams for help were bodies—bodies hitting the canopy. People were jumping to their deaths?

I looked up at the twisted building torn almost in two by the plane and I ran for the stairs. I had to help people get out.

I prayed as my feet pounded the steps, prayed for my wife and babies at home, prayed for my own safety, prayed God would help me rescue some from this burning hell. Smoke seared my lungs and blinded my eyes, but I did save a few before pain, unbearable crushing pain unlike anything I’d ever imagined in my thirty-two years pinned me down. I must have passed out.

This field, is it a dream? I hold out my hand, and butterflies land on it. I feel their tiny feet before they fly away to rejoin the dance.

I breathe deeply, the sweetest air I’ve ever known. My eyes are clear, no longer crying black, smoke-filled tears. Running through the field toward me I see so many people I’ve loved, my parents, my grandparents, my favorite Sunday school teacher when I’d been a little boy, so many family members and friends. I’m enveloped in love, and the butterflies dance around us.

Suddenly, the butterflies hover midflight, unmoving. My dear ones stop their shouts of rejoicing and fall to their faces. So do I. There they are, the Father, and the Son. Where is the Holy Spirit? Oh, I know. He fills my heart so completely that there is nothing left but love, and I weep tears of joy.

The Son lifts me up, and I look into His face, Jesus, the One I have loved so long. I kiss the nail print in His hand.  

“Thank you, my Savior, for taking my sin into your heart when you suffered on the cross, for taking my punishment, and making my sin not to be. Why, why did you do it?”

He throws back His head and laughs, and the melody fills the heavens. “I did it for love. Love is the reason for everything.”

The Father holds out His arms, holds me to His chest, and I feel the beating heart of the universe. With every beat it says, “love, love, love.”

I pull back, struggling to remember, the smoke, the screams, the suffering, the stench of death. “But why?” I ask.

“Love is not the law of earth yet,” the Father says. “But it will be someday. Will you help me with that?”

He stands me to my feet. The Lord Jesus takes my hand, holds it high, and says, “Of course he will. He has already begun. Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

Now millions take up the chant, “Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

But they aren’t looking at me. They are looking at Jesus, God the Son.

“Lord,” I whisper to Him, “what is the date?”

He smiles. “Do you mean in earth time?”

I nod.

“September 11, 2021.”

“What? 2021? But didn’t I get here just a minute ago on September 11, 2001?”

He laughs again, that beautiful sound. I can’t help but join, and so do millions upon millions of others.

“Yes,” He says. “It was just a minute ago heaven time.”

We’re standing on a bit of a hill; I can overlook the crowd and see the field with the butterflies. Still they dance.

Photo Credit Kimmee Kiefer

When Daylight Fades

by Donna Poole

Today is the end.

How’d you like that for a dramatic opening? Okay, I know it isn’t the end of summer, but August 31 and Labor Day weekend have always seemed like summer’s last hurrah to me.

Not that I even noticed much of summer this year. Ross Ellet, my favorite meteorologist, says 2021 is Toledo’s second hottest summer since people began keeping records in 1873.  I did notice the heat and the humidity. Our antenna TV picks up the Toledo stations and “tropical” is a word we heard a lot about the weather this summer. I felt the heat as I staggered from house to car to go for my chemo treatments. We saw the haze over corn and bean fields as we traveled. I remembered how the blacktop used to bubble and stick to my flipflops on hot days and wondered if the roads were the same now, but I was too tired to ask John. He drove me to my treatments and understood when I was too tired to talk. I felt bad about the wasted conversation time, but we held hands sometimes, and we were together.

If I were a child going back to school and the teacher asked how I’d spent my summer, I’d say, “getting chemotherapy, being sicker than the proverbial dog, and sleeping.”

If you’ve been walking this bumpy road with me, you know I have a refractory cancer, resistant to treatment. Morticia, my lung tumor, ate R-chop chemo for lunch and grew. She stubbornly survived radiation and GemOx chemo. John and I decided no more chemo once GemOx finished, and my oncologist agreed. So, after fourteen chemo treatments and eleven radiation sessions Morticia still lives.

 But I’m remaining in the drug trial for Epcoritamab, and it’s helping. Recent scans showed Morticia shrunk a bit, and perhaps my upcoming ones will show she has shrieked and melted like the wicked witch of the west!

With my last chemo a few weeks behind me, my brain is starting to wake. I notice the shorter days and feel sad. I don’t love summer’s extreme heat, but I do love long days filled with light. Ross Ellet says our next 7am sunrise won’t be until March 7, 2022. We’re losing three minutes of daylight every day.

I chase that daylight in my imagination and beg it to return.

One of my favorite verses says, “The path of the just is as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day.” –Proverbs 4:18

The Berean Study Bible puts it this way, “The path of the righteous is like the first gleam of dawn, shining brighter and brighter until midday.”

When daylight fades from our view it’s getting light on the other side of the world. The sun is always shining somewhere, and when God trusts us to walk in the dark, we can be sure He’s holding our hands.

It’s interesting, I think, that there won’t be any darkness in heaven. “And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever.” –Revelation 22:5

Until heaven comes, we will face times of darkness, of suffering, of loss, times when daylight fades. It helps then, I think, to turn our faces to the light we have, however dim.

It doesn’t take much light to brighten the darkness. That’s why I love the little electric candles in the windows of our old farmhouse. It’s why that commercial was such a success, “We’ll leave the light on for you.” We’re drawn to light.

Tom Bodett was a NPR personality when Motel 6 hired him in 1986 to be the voice for their commercials. He ad-libbed the line, “We’ll leave the light on for you,” while recording his first commercial. It became an instant and lasting success for over a quarter of a century. It won many awards. Advertising Age Magazine named it one of the 100 best ads of the twentieth century.

God always leaves a light on for us. When we turn our faces to God, we reflect His light, and we can leave the light on for others who are hurting and feeling alone in the darkness. I can’t think of a better reason for still being here and not over there where the daylight never fades.

At twilight time

When August Lasted Forever

by Donna Poole

It was time! Mary and I left early in the morning. We wore our sweaters, because even though it was August it was cool in the foothills of the Adirondacks Mountains. We shoved our lunches into brown paper bags, even though we knew we would eat lots of the treasure we were hunting and sure to find. We set off with our buckets, the kind of energy only nine-and ten-year old’s can claim, and lots of enthusiasm.

We had no set hiking route; we didn’t know exactly where we were going, even though this wasn’t our first time climbing the foothills to look for wild blackberries. We just walked down the road until we found a field not fenced off with barbed wire or a hot wire—the worst—cut through and started the steep climb. Our younger sister, Ginny, remembers going with us once. I imagine it was a strenuous hike for her little, short legs!

It didn’t take long for us to find our first row of luscious wild blackberries growing in a tangle with cat claw thorns impossible to avoid. Blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, and almonds all belong to the rose family, but we didn’t know that then, and wouldn’t have cared if we did. We only cared about stuffing our mouths, filling our pails, finding adventure, and finally heading home for our reward, Mom’s best in the world blackberry pie.  

Once we stumbled on a long-forsaken boy scout camp with its old, crumbling buildings. My imagination told me a story of a deranged killer who’d found the camp at night and now the bodies of little cub scouts and their scout master were skeletons buried beneath my feet. I made up some excuse why we shouldn’t stay there long.

Mary tried to teach me the art of walking silently through the woods like a native American, one foot exactly ahead of the other, making no sound. She was much better at it than I. Every time I snapped a twig, she looked back reproachfully at me with her dark eyes until we both laughed and gave up.

As the day warmed, we took off our sweaters and tied them around our waists. We rolled them and used them as pillows for naps after a picnic lunch.

We saved our lunch bags; woe to the child who returned from an adventure or a day of school without a lunch bag. I remember detesting the old, wrinkled bag at lunch time in the school cafeteria. It was sad enough not to have money to buy lunch, but couldn’t we at least throw out the lunch bag each day the way the other kids who brought their lunches did? Apparently, their moms weren’t in the running for the title of Most Frugal Mom USA. But then, their moms probably couldn’t make the best blackberry pie in the USA either!

After lunch we either continued exploring or picked more berries. I remember reaching into one bush to get a berry bigger than my thumb when several snakes slid over my right arm, dropped to the ground, and slithered away. It happened so fast there wasn’t even time to scream.

“Did you see that? I almost got bit by three, or six, or maybe even nine rattlesnakes!”

Mary shook her head. “I didn’t see any snakes. And I’m sure they were just garter snakes.”

Though rattlers do live in the foothills of the Adirondacks, I later learned that it’s very common for garter snakes to lurk in the berry bushes. Mice love berries; snakes love mice; you finish the equation. But in my mind back then, I was a hero, almost as brave as Nancy Drew who stood up to criminals. I stayed right where I was and kept picking berries. No two dozen rattle snakes were going to scare me away from getting blackberry pie!

As you might guess, my story of the dangerous encounter grew with the telling. I was quite disappointed when my parents, instead of admiring my sheer courage of braving rattlesnakes, agreed with Mary that the snakes had been harmless garter snakes, waiting to eat mice, with no interest in eating a sweaty fifth grade girl.

It seemed to Mary and me those carefree days of August adventure would last always. Forever we would be sisters, climbing the hills, stuffing our mouths with the sweetness of wild blackberries, sharing laughter and the scratches from thorns, and going home to parents, siblings, and the world’s best blackberry pie.

Kimmee’s Raspberry Pie

Grow Old Along with Me

by Donna Poole

The bride’s mother was trembling with exhaustion; it was her first outing since the stroke that had paralyzed her right arm and left her right leg with a limp. The groom’s mother was choking back tears; was her baby boy really grown and married? She said when she got home, she felt like standing on the roof of the house and shouting to the world, “You can’t have him. He’s mine!”

But for the minute both mothers and the rest of the guests smiled and waved goodbye with calls of, “Good luck!” and “God bless you!”

The twenty-year old bride and groom drove a few miles; then he pulled over and stopped.

How romantic! She thought. He’s going to kiss me.

“Do you have the envelope with the money people gave us?” he asked. She nodded. “Let’s count it!”

Money for the honeymoon was short, and he wanted to see if there would be enough.

Money through the years would be short. Sometimes they didn’t even spend money on anniversary cards, let alone flowers, dinner, or gifts. A simple, “Happy anniversary, honey,” had to do.

The twentieth anniversary is special, but the two of them had no more money than they had the day they married. There would be no celebration, or so they thought. They had a baby, five months old, and three older children, a happy, simple life, and that was celebration enough.

But the three older children had something else in mind. They were seventeen, fourteen and twelve, and had a little money left from birthdays and Christmas. To supplement what they had they looked under couch cushions and in the car and found some change. Off to the grocery store they went, came back, and prepared a delicious picnic.

“Mom and Dad,” one of them announced, “we’re taking you to Cascades Park to celebrate your anniversary.”

The weather was perfect that day, August 1, 1989, not too hot or too cold. The mom cried when she saw the beautiful picnic so lovingly prepared.

“We have a surprise, Mom. We heard you say once you wished you could go on one of the paddle wheel boats. We rented one for you and Dad. We’ll push the baby in her stroller and watch you. Go have fun!”

The mom felt like a kid that half hour in the paddle wheel boat. It was even more fun than she’d imagined.

“Now you kids take the boat for a ride,” the mom said, when they hauled it back to shore.

The kids looked at each other sheepishly. “We don’t have enough money to rent a boat for us. We only had just enough to rent it for you.”

“Oh, honey!” The mom looked pleadingly at the dad. “Can we rent a boat for the kids to ride? They did all this for us!”

The dad looked miserable. “I’d love to rent a boat for the kids. But I only have fifty cents.”

Someone laughed, and then they were all laughing. It was okay. It had been a wonderful day. And as sad as the mom felt not to be able to give the kids a ride on the paddle wheel boat, her gratefulness for their love and sacrifice overshadowed the sorrow. They had raised loving, giving, generous children.

And the baby in the stroller? She began giving before she could talk. At church, she gave all her cheerios to the baby boy sitting in front of her. When she was a little girl, she planned special things for her parents as often as she could. She spent all her money on people she loved.

One year their giving girl turned into a miser and refused to spend a cent on anyone or anything. Her parents were confused by this abrupt change in personality, but the mystery cleared up as August approached. She had saved every penny to send them back to spend their anniversary night where they’d spent their honeymoon. Her brother pitched in the little she lacked at the end.

Years flew by, and it was time for the fiftieth anniversary. The giving girl organized a beautiful party, far lovelier than her parents’ wedding had been. The decorations and food were perfect.

The giving girl’s husband and some of her family helped, but she worked so hard her feet swelled so she could barely get them into flip flops.

Family and friends came from near and far to celebrate with the couple and watch them renew their vows. It was a magical day, the kind you read about in story books but never expect to live, and the mom tried to hold every minute in her heart.

The mom and dad watched their grown kids, in-law kids, and others clean up after the party. The mom and dad helped too. By then the giving girl could barely walk, but love kept her going.

That night the mom lay in bed with tears running down her cheeks, thinking of the beauty of the party and the story of love those swollen feet told. She thanked God for the love and sacrifice returned to them by their children.

How rich they were in the love they shared together! It had grown so much it had burst the seams of their hearts and flowed out to comfort the wounded and the hurt God sent their way. The mom hoped what Oswald Chambers had written was true of them, “Our love but makes a more sure haven of rest for multitudes of strained and stressed lives. From our love should spring great patience and gentleness and service for others, for love is of God.”

August 1, 2021, that couple will be married fifty-two years. He will preach at the country church he has loved and pastored for forty-seven years. If her chemotherapy reactions don’t prevent it, she’ll listen to him preach on the radio in the parking lot; her oncologist won’t allow her to be in a group of people. Later, their giving girl, who has been taking wonderful care of them during this year long cancer journey, will fix them something to eat.

Before they sleep, they will repeat their vows, and she will say, “Grow old along with me; the best is yet to be.” Please, dear Lord, may it be true.

She’ll think of their four kids, their four in-law kids, and their thirteen grandkids. She’ll think of the extended family, church family, and the multitude of friends who love and pray for them. And she’ll know something: they are the richest couple alive.

Let Freedom Ring

by Donna Poole

“Ring the bells that still can ring,

forget your perfect offering.

There is a crack in everything.

That’s how the light gets in.” –Leonard Cohen

Memorial Day, July Fourth, Labor Day, I’m a sniffling, patriotic mess at our small-town parades, perhaps to the dismay of my family; though, I think they are used to me by now. From the children wobbling by on their decorated bikes, to the band—never in step though usually in tune, to the groups giving away water and tiny flags, everything makes me cry. And forget it when the VFW passes by proudly carrying our American flag. I stand with my hand over my heart, and tears run down my face. God bless America!

One long-ago parade holiday we were about ready to load the kids in the car to go to the parade when someone from church called my pastor husband and needed him to come for counseling.

“Please, hurry,” the person said.

John rushed out the door. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “Maybe you can get a ride to the parade with Kenneth and Mae.”

I hesitated. I hated to bother the Hales, our neighbors; though, I knew they’d say it was no bother. Johnnie was just a baby and didn’t know we’d planned to go to the parade, but Angie, his toddler sister knew. I looked at her face, her brown eyes begging. And I wanted to go too. I called Hales.

Kenneth and Mae were elderly, and two of the kindest people God ever made. They pulled up to our back door. I put Angie in their backseat first, told her to wrap both arms around her chunky brother until I could get in, loaded the old, impossibly heavy baby stroller in next, and climbed in last.

I took Johnnie from Angie and held him on my lap; baby seats weren’t required or the norm.

“Thanks so much!” I said to Hales.

“It will be more fun to watch the parade with little ones!” Mae replied.

Kenneth found a perfect parking spot; the parade would go right by us as it turned the corner. The street was full of children and many of them had helium balloons. Angie noticed.

“I’m sure they are giving those away a few blocks up the street by the speaker’s stand,” Mae said. “You could get her one.”

I hopped out of the car, told Angie to wrap both arms around her chunky brother, hauled out the impossibly heavy stroller, and struggled to unfold it. I put Johnnie in it. Angie got out, and we walked the few blocks. I could feel sweat running down my face and back. When we got there, the balloons were gone. I comforted Angie, and we began our walk back to the car.

Repeat. Open the back door. Help Angie in. Take Johnnie out of the stroller and tell Angie to wrap both arms around her chunky brother until I can get in. Fold the impossibly heavy stroller and heave it into the back seat. Climb in myself and take Johnnie.

That’s when the elderly woman from the front seat spoke. “Honey, I do believe you’re in the wrong car.”

Was it worth it all when the band straggled by, out of step but not out of tune, and the VFW walked by carrying our American flag, and I stood with my hand over my heart and tears running down my face? Oh, it was!

It wasn’t a perfect day, and we don’t have a perfect country, but freedom is still ours, if we don’t let it slip through our fingers. No, it’s not a perfect freedom; there has never been such a thing.

Oh wait; there is one perfect freedom offered by God to each of us. Jesus died on the cross to give us freedom from the penalty and power of sin. If we confess our sin and need of saving; He gives us that perfect freedom, and “If the Son therefore shall make you free, you shall be free indeed.” –John 8:36

Free to enjoy eternal life!

I can’t remember if John was home yet when Kenneth and Mae dropped me off at the back door; I don’t think he was. Angie didn’t get her red balloon. I needed a shower. Johnnie needed to chill.

Our country may need a shower, more red balloons, and a time to chill. We all see what’s broken in America, but today, let’s celebrate what we have. I’m not always proud of America, but I’m proud to be an American. God, bless the USA! We don’t deserve it, but please, for the sake of your praying, repenting, hoping people, do it anyway.

“Ring the bells that still can ring,

forget your perfect offering.

There is a crack in everything.

That’s how the light gets in.” –Leonard Cohen

It’s a Noisy World Alright

by Donna Poole

Just smile and wave boys, smile and wave. That’s what I and my kind do because we don’t know any other proper response. We likely have no idea what you just said.

I don’t know how long I’ve been hard of hearing, probably a long while. I do know we’ve had a good friend for over forty-five years, and I’ve never heard more than half of what he’s said. Maybe that’s why we’re such good friends!

Did you know that hard of hearing people are more likely than the general population to get early dementia? I think I know why. Without meaning to, we withdraw little by little into our own worlds and let conversation flow on around us. It’s easier than asking, “What did you say?” or, “Would you repeat that?” every two minutes. We catch fragments of conversations and respond when we can.

Time passes, and we don’t realize how bad our hearing loss has gotten. Until something out of the ordinary makes us face reality.

For me, it was not being able to hear my oncologist and many of my chemotherapy nurses. I do ask them to repeat. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know if my oncologist said, “Call in Hospice,” or, “Don’t eat popsicles.” That’s a difference I might need to know!

So, John and I had the hearing aid conversation. We don’t have the Medicare and the supplementary program that pays for hearing aids, but we don’t want to change it. You wouldn’t either if you were us! It has paid every cent of a brain surgery, ICU stays, other minor surgeries and hospitalizations, monthly IVIg treatments that cost about seven grand each, and all my chemotherapy. Our insurance agent told us never to change it.

Without insurance help, we were on our own to pay for whatever hearing aids we bought, so I started researching. John hates to hear this analogy, but I sometimes ask him how much money he wants to put into an old and perhaps dying horse!

I saw an ad on my phone for inexpensive hearing aids available online and asked my Facebook friends for opinions. I got lots of ideas from them, and something totally unexpected. One of God’s earth angels we’ve known for years lives in a nearby town. He saw my Facebook post and messaged me. He had the kind of hearing aids I’d asked about in an upgraded version. He’d worn them only two weeks and decided to go with something else. The company refused to let him return them. You guessed it; he gave them to me. I wore them for the first-time last night.

We ate in the living room, as we do most nights. Not only could I hear every word said in the living room, but I could also hear conversations in the kitchen when people when back for seconds! It was amazing, and overwhelming.

I always brag about my wonderful family so I’m sorry to tell you this, but they are incredibly noisy. They toss silverware from the island into the sink, and it sounds like bombs exploding. I had to leave the kitchen. One of them has this high piercing whistle. I always enjoyed it pre-hearing aids; I thought it was a quiet, tuneless whistle; at least I could never pick out a tune. When they turn on a light switch in this old house it sounds like a cap gun going off. And their voices are so loud!

They laughed at me. “Wait until the whole family gets together. What are you going to do then?”

I thought about our wonderful family, all twenty-three of us, thirteen grandkids. I know what I’m going to do then. I’m not going to wear my wonderful new hearing aids. I’ve prayed for hearing aids for years, and I’m beyond grateful for these, but like some wise sage said, probably my mom, “There is such a thing as too much of a good thing.”

Thanks for sharing the photo, Linda!

Songs in the Night

by Donna Poole

“In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning,” –F. Scott Fitzgerald

The old mystics used to talk about the dark night of the soul, and singers and poets since have adapted the phrase for their own meaning.

When it’s dark inside, do we forget to sing? We may. Friends can help us then. “A friend hears the song in my heart and sings it back to me when I’ve forgotten the words.” –Unknown

God gives songs in the night (Job 35:10). John and I used to listen to a radio program titled “Songs in the Night” on Sunday nights after we put our young children to bed. Many years later our sons told us that as soon as they heard the theme music play, they covered up their heads with their blankets. They were just little boys and thought the program’s title was “Sounds” in the night. They didn’t want to hear any scary sounds in the night!

God gave me songs this week. A friend visited our church on Sunday, played his guitar, and sang, “The Old Country Church.” Perhaps it’s a good thing I was listening from Kimmee’s car in the parking lot instead of being inside. I used up many tissues crying at the good memories that song recalled.

On Tuesday I heard more music. Bobby Charles is a music therapist at University of Michigan Hospital. He visits oncology patients because he loves to give songs in the night. We patients getting strong chemotherapy listen to him play his guitar, tap our toes in our beds or recliners and almost forget cancer for a while.

We’re hurting; it’s starting to get dark inside, but Bobby Charles hears the songs in our hearts and sings them back to us when we’ve forgotten the words.

I had a chance to talk to Mr. Charles Tuesday. I asked if what I’d read was true, music is the only activity that activates the entire brain. He said he’d read the same thing. We talked about the mysterious ability of music to recreate memories, to calm, to help alleviate pain.

“There is still so much we don’t know about the power of music,” he said.

He can play about any style of guitar music. I requested “Country Road”.

“You mean the John Denver Country Road?” He smiled and not only played it but sang it as well.

Mr. Charles played “The Sound of Silence” by Simon & Garfunkel; suddenly it was 1965, and I was a junior in high school with my whole life before me. I loved music when I was a teenager.

Mom didn’t like us to play music at home; looking back I understand why. Six of us, seven when my older sister visited, lived in a trailer ten feed wide and fifty feet long. That tin box magnified every sound, and we weren’t quiet kids.

I do remember Mom singing a few hymns though, “I Come to the Garden Alone,” and “God Will Take Care of You.” In my memories, when Mom sang, she was always in the kitchen. Mom made wonderful spaghetti, homemade donuts, potato pies, and pasta va zoola, so when I remember her music, I remember her food. I can almost smell the thick spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove.

There was no cussing allowed in the home I grew up in, not even in songs. Mom had a bar of soap ready for anyone who offended the no cussing rule, but when I was a child and got mad enough at my younger sister, Mary, I sang, “Bloody Mary.” She hated the words, “Bloody Mary is the girl I love,” and when I shouted out the last six words including the cuss word, she always told Mom, and I got to sink my teeth into the soap. So, remembering that song makes me taste soap!

Macy, our granddaughter, is a genius at remembering lyrics, and she’s my hero in many ways. With a chromosome deletion and addition, her determination has taken her further than experts ever thought she would go. When Macy was pre-school age, she memorized every word of every verse of every song we sang at church. She picked up the words to songs on the radio and on her CDs as well. She sang a song that named all the presidents. I often thought if someone could put everything Macy needed to know to music, she could learn it all without struggling.

What is there about music? My husband, John and I used to have a nursing home ministry pre the two C’s—cancer and Covid. People in the home, some no longer able to speak a sentence or even tell you their names or room numbers, could still sing the words to hymns they had learned long ago.

After Bobby Charles played on Tuesday at the chemo center, I did something I never do, unless I’m writing. I shared with him, a stranger, some of my own struggles. But you know what? We weren’t really strangers anymore. He gave me one of his CDs to listen to at home. Its an easy listening style and is available on iTunes and Amazon, “Bobby Charles forever and a day.” I think you would enjoy it.  

I hope you aren’t facing that dark night of the soul where it’s always three o’clock in the morning, but if you aren’t, you may someday. If it happens, listen for a whisper of a song. God will give you a song in the night even if its harmony is tears.

When God makes the new heaven and the new earth, we won’t need our songs in the night; I don’t know if we’ll even remember them. He’ll wipe away all our tears and we’ll have an eternity of joy and music!  

The Best Is Yet to Be

Oh, What a Wonderful Gift

by Donna Poole

The little girl had a perfectly heart shaped face, long, dark brown braids, and almost black eyes. She watched, brown eyes dancing with excitement, as I opened my Christmas gift from her, one she’d saved pennies, nickels, and dimes to buy me. I was a year older, and she knew I wanted gold colored doll-sized silverware.

There it was in my hands, the silverware I’d longed for but never really expected to have. I looked at her happy smile, and then I did something so unbelievably cruel tears still sting my eyes when I remember. We’d been fighting, some little girl sister argument over something now long forgotten.

“I don’t want this stupid stuff,” I said to Mary. “You keep it.”

She didn’t say a word, but her face. Oh, that sweet face. Her lips trembled. Tears spilled out of those dark eyes and ran down her cheeks. I did love the gift. I was sorry for the words the minute I said them. It was a lesson it would take me a lifetime to learn; there is no taking back cruel words once said.

Mom grabbed the gift from my hands and gave it to Mary. “Donna, you will never touch these as long as you live. Do you hear me? Never.”

And I never did.

Many years later I finally apologized, and Mary forgave me, but the memory lingers of a wonderful gift rejected and the sweet giver deeply hurt. 

***

I’m getting familiar with my pattern now. I get chemotherapy and a trial drug on Tuesday. By Thursday my five “sick as a dog” days begin.

Someone first wrote the phrase “sick as a dog” in 1705, so it has been around for awhile now! Back then dogs were often stray creatures, usually sick, and left to die unaided in the streets. People didn’t value their lives the way we do now.

I feel for those dogs, lying sick in the streets during my sick as a dog days, Thursday through Monday. I’m too sick to appreciate the beautiful gift of life; I just survive. By late Monday afternoon I start to rejoin the land of the living just in time to drag myself to the hospital for Tuesday’s injection of the trial drug. But! That Tuesday I get just the trial drug and any thing else I need depending on blood counts, NO chemotherapy. On the way home God wipes a film from my eyes and once again I see.

Remember being a kid, swinging high, lying back in the swing. and looking at life from upside down? Breathtaking, wasn’t it? It’s like that when I once again see.

I reach for John’s hand, and he smiles at me. I love how boyish his smile still is, and the way he jokes about driving Miss Donna and never complains about the many hours he spends in the car. I think about how lovely my care team is, doctors, nurses, the lady who schedules everything, and the phlebotomists, especially the one who finds me every week, no matter where I am, and gives me a Bible verse to help me through the day. I picture home and know it will be spotless when I get there, because our daughter, Kimmee, not only cooks gourmet meals, but she also cleans, gardens, and does a hundred other things.

We pull out of the parking lot and ease our way into traffic, and I grin at how young the pedestrian traffic is, students and hospital employees, riding bikes, walking fast, jogging, and running, ponytails swinging side to side. Live kids, live! The world needs your youth, your energy, your enthusiasm.

When we get out of the city, I catch my breath at the beauty of nature’s bounty. It has rained, and June is green with hope. So many different shades of green combine to make one glorious watercolor wash. Flowers brighten the landscape. I’m a tree hugger from way back. If I only had the energy, I’d ask John to stop the car so I could get out and throw my arms around the rough bark of one and thank God for its Creator.

I’ll feel better for a few days now until its time for chemo again Tuesday.

Last Sunday I curled up in bed barely alert, only awake enough to know I was sicker than a dog. This Sunday Kimmee will take me to parking lot church. I might even put my hand over my heart and try to sing if I don’t run out of breath. I know I’ll cry; I seldom make it through a parking lot church service without grateful tears. And Kimmee won’t laugh or roll her eyes. She’ll just hug me or touch my arm and ask if I’m okay.

Later that day we’ll finally celebrate Easter with our kids and grandkids. We’ll watch the grandkids hunt for eggs in the grass at our son and daughter in law’s house and give them their Easter baskets. We’ll take off our masks long enough to eat together. Our son or daughter-in-law will probably build a fire, and we’ll sit around it and laugh and talk and love every minute together until the last ember.

Can we ever cherish the gift of life too much? If we take it for granted, if we let our trials rub off the shine until only the gray remains, are we throwing the gift back at its Creator? “I don’t want this stupid stuff. You keep it.”

In our dog days we may be incapable of loving life; everyone has those survival mode days. But when we can, let’s hug the people we love and the trees too; let’s laugh and sing and put our hands over our hearts and cry. Because life is good. Oh, what a wonderful gift!

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

What I Saw from Where I Sat

by Donna Poole

There once was a whaler from Pompeii,

            Who went ashore to sashay,

            But instead went to church,

            And was forced there to perch

            For a two hour long flowery homily that went neither fore nor aft and said nothing.

            The kind old whaler probably not from Pompeii,

            Wished he had gone to sashay.

            Looked around church sooner.

            Rig was a bark not schooner.

            Its grand tonnage was packed but most of its cargo was sleeping.

            The wise old whaler definitely not from Pompeii,

            Almost stood to sashay.

            Knew the Cap’n wasn’t heard,

            Didn’t even know windward,

            He for sure didn’t have a harpoon onboard and if you aim at nothing you hit it. Always.

By me with apologies to all real poets

So, what did I see from where I sat in the hospital room last week? Once I stopped feeling like a snail too weak to pull its hinder parts back into its shell—that’s not entirely allegorical; don’t ask, I could think. I remembered a story I read early in our ministry and laughed. A whaler did go to church on shore leave and listened to a similar homily described above. As the whaler tried to slip out of church, the clergyman stopped him and asked what he thought of the sermon. Being a kind man, he wasn’t sure what to say. Finally, he responded.

“Well, matey, you had fine words, but you had no harpoon on board.”

Would you believe that story has, perhaps more than anything, shaped John’s preaching ministry and my writing? When John first graduated from college and became John Poole, BA in theology, and ThB in Bible and theology, his sermons were more informational.

When he asked me what I thought after an unusually information-only packed sermon, I’d ask him, “What was your harpoon, matey?”

I sometimes regret that question now when the harpoon touches me! And he never gets behind the pulpit without a harpoon onboard.

The same is true in my writing. Informational writing is fine if that is the writer’s goal. What’s my goal when I write? If I don’t know my goal, I’m wasting my time and yours.

So, I grinned when I thought of that story in the hospital and looked around for harpoons for you and for me. I could find some for me, but I guess you’ll have to find your own!

I found my first harpoon. It had “Jesus” written on the side. Sometimes I forget that Jesus is the hub of the wheel of my life.

I promise I’m not digressing. We saw a twelve-year old on the news who just graduated from high school and college at the same time. He’s quite the goal-driven kid!

I told John, “When I was twelve my goal was to get my cards to stay on the spokes of my bike with clip clothes pins because they made the coolest sound.”

Obviously, I was not the goal-driven kid on the news.

I loved riding my bike. But what if the hub of my bike had been off center so some spokes were longer and some shorter? You can imagine how well that tire would go around! When Jesus is the center of my life, the spokes are even. I don’t mean my life is easy or perfect. I mean things are more balanced.

So, I try to keep the main thing the main thing. Many other things matter dearly to me: family, church family, friends, my writing, my readers, finding joy, and so much more. These are my harpoons in life, my goals, the things that matter. Cancer is my great reminder that we don’t have earth-time forever, and now is when I better polish up my harpoons and stop getting tangled in the million and one nets that don’t matter.

I said you had to find your own harpoons, and so you do. But here’s what I see from where I sat in the hospital room. I see a harpoon with your name on it, because if you’re someone in my life, or just someone who reads what I write, you matter to me. That harpoon may be the most important thing I ever give you because it will prepare you for this life, and for eternity. Next to your name it has the name Jesus and John 3:16: “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

Notice it doesn’t say get eternal life by being a good person, or being a good Catholic, or a Baptist. There are only two names on that harpoon, your name and His. Those two are more than enough for here and forever. And that’s what I saw from where I sat.  

Until the Last Ember

by Donna Poole

Just a few blocks from the hospital the busy traffic narrowed its way into one lane. The huge CAT machine in the other lane hit the road pavement repeatedly with ear splitting noise, breaking it into huge chunks, scooping them into its bucket, raising them high, and dumping them with satisfyingly loud thumps into a waiting semi.

She watched fascinated as the CAT yanked up a big piece of road and dumped it. “Look! It got Morticia! She’s gone.”

He laughed and kept driving.

She prayed in her heart the rest of the way to the hospital. “Make it so, Lord. Let this treatment be the one that works. Yank Morticia out and dump her in a semi somewhere. But I’ll love and bless you either way.”

She’d had been so sick since the last treatment. She hadn’t known if she’d be able to get here today. But God and her medical team had helped her, and here she was, a few blocks from the hospital, where there would be another chance to whisper, “Die, Morticia, die you stubborn lung tumor.”

***

They were camping, the two old lovers. They agreed, silly people that they were, that they much preferred camping in Old Bertha, their 1988 fifth wheel with her perpetual problems, to a cruise, or a trip to Cancun, or Hawaii. Not that they could afford any of those camping alternatives, but even if they could, they’d still pick Bertha.

It had been a satisfying day of short hikes. They were slower on the trails now than they used to be, far slower, but with the health problems they’d both overcome, they thanked God they could still hike at all. They held hands whenever possible. Young lovers should remember life is too short not to hold hands.

They had cooked supper together over the fire in their favorite spot at Brown County State Park, a remote section where it was quiet, and they could be alone. Now they were sitting at a campfire, listening to its love language. A campfire always has words for those who listen.

She was tired and started dozing in her chair.

“It’s getting late, honey, do you want to go inside and go to sleep?”

“Oh, please, no. Let’s stay here until the last ember burns out.”

And so, they did. They kept moving their chairs closer to the fire to share its last warmth, remembering old times, and dreaming new dreams. The stars came out. Finally, shivering but with hearts full of contented gratitude, they put away the camp chairs and went to bed, sleeping the deep sleep that held the promise of many tomorrows together.

***

“Donna, are you still doing okay?” The kind nurse smiled as he looked around the curtain.

“Thank you, Bryant. I’m fine. I guess I fell asleep.”

“That’s okay! You’re here so many hours today. Sleep all you can. Can I get anything for you?”

“No thank you. I’m really fine.”

And she was. Because God would be with her until the last ember burned out, hopefully after many more years of wandering down these backroads, and then a future more beautiful than any dream would begin and never end.

The Magical Month

by Donna Poole

Miracles happen every day especially in the month of May.

When I was a child, we folded triangular pieces of construction paper into cones at school to make May baskets we could fill with flowers we found on the way home. We were delighted to discover violets but were happy even with dandelions. We’d hang a basket on a doorknob, often our own, knock or ring a bell, and run, hide, and watch to see the happy reaction the gift brought. Bless moms and grandmas everywhere for expressing joy over dandelions!

We moved from southern New York State to the northern part after I finished fourth grade. Those were my happiest childhood years, but spring crept slowly into that snow belt land. There was never even a dandelion in sight on May first, so there were no May baskets.

I do remember a teacher constructed a beautiful maypole for us with colored streamers. We sang a song to welcome spring and “danced” around the maypole, weaving the streamers together. It was like side-stepping into another world, squinting up into the blue sunlit sky and watching those streamers weave together; I caught my breath at the magical beauty of being part of it.

It was great fun until my mother, who opposed dancing in all its forms, found out about it. She insisted not only was a maypole wrong because it included dancing, but it was a pagan tradition, and I, who had been often forbidden to dance at school, knew better.

I suppose I did know better, but I didn’t regret it even after Mom’s punishment. I was an incorrigible child who seldom repented of a “crime” if there had been any fun involved. And that maypole had been more than fun; it had been a miracle of celebration and community I felt but only vaguely understood at the time.

Isn’t May a month of miracles? Though our late April snow and freeze killed the bleeding hearts, we’re welcoming May with lilacs dancing and weaving for joy. The lily of the valley, our ground cover, will bloom with abandon this month too, as will many other perennials. If children on our backroads want to fill May baskets, they have many flowers to choose from. Just yesterday we passed a field that looked like someone had planted dandelions; it was acres of sunshine.

Sunshine, fresh air, family, friendships old and new, the fragrance of flowers and freshly cut grass are all gifts to me, new from the hand of God who, miracle of miracles, loves even me, His sometimes still incorrigible child.

I don’t like every event of my life, but my Lord, with loving, nail-pierced hands, weaves them together like streamers on a maypole, and when I squint up into the blue, sunlit sky, I catch my breath at the magical beauty of what I can see.

A college friend died of cancer this past year. As he fought his cancer, he told his family, “Now is the time to practice our theology.”

Now John and I say that to each other. My cancer is a bitter life ingredient, and we don’t like how it tastes, but do we still believe God is good and loving? That’s our theology, isn’t it? Yes, we do believe it, despite fluctuating daily feelings, because we long ago learned to judge God’s love by one thing only: the cross. It was there He proved His love for us. It was there He took our sins into His heart, felt the guilt and shame of each one, and suffered and died for us. And then came another miracle; He rose again.

I know Easter didn’t happen in May, but each year May seems like a resurrection of joy to me. I’m glad I’m here to see it, to rejoice in its beauty, and to celebrate its hope, its many miracles. I’m glad for the miracle of the support and love of community. We’re here to walk, to dance each other Home, to weave our maypole streamers together into something better than ourselves.

I’m expecting my own personal miracle any day now. After a week of less than fun tests that aren’t on anyone’s bucket list, I’m hoping to hear I’m accepted into a clinical drug trial at University of Michigan Hospital. They’ve already set up an appointment for me to get my first dose of the drug on Tuesday. We’re just waiting for the drug company’s final approval.

So what if my balance is off and somedays my walk looks more like a stumble? Does anyone know where there is a maypole? Point me to it; I’ll dance! Do you want to meet me there? And Mom, now in heaven and probably dancing for joy herself, will understand.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Go to Your Room

by Donna Poole

“Go to your room. Stay there. Don’t let anyone in. Don’t come out. Don’t walk in your yard. Don’t go to parks.”

I’m under house arrest without the ankle tether!

Mom often sent me to my room but never without a spanking first. Back in the day there was no cut off age for spankings. Moms didn’t seem to realize that if spankings hadn’t worked by a certain age, they weren’t likely to work at all. So, if you were a member of my family, you got spanked right up to high school graduation.

I knew a man who was engaged when his dad ordered him to lie over the hood of the car. He did as he was told; the dad took off his belt and gave his son what he thought he deserved.

We may shudder now, but that was not all that uncommon back in the day.

I never told Mom how much I loved being sent to my room. Blessed peace and quietness, not to mention I always had a book somewhere in my room, often under my pillow. And even if Mom ordered me not to read, I did anyway. I had a conscience as a child; it just wasn’t terribly active.

Alone in my room I could lose myself in The Five Little Peppers, a world where the mom struggled to provide for her five beloved children and never used a belt on any of them.

Or, I could be Jo in Little Women, the outspoken tomboy who loved to write. Her mother didn’t spank her or her three sisters. They called her Marmee. I thought my three sisters and I could use a mother more like that. I managed to ignore the fact that the children in my book world behaved much better than I did in my real world and weren’t driving their Marmee crazy.

Despite the frequent spankings, I loved my real world every bit as much as my book world. We had many wonderful adventures growing up, and not all of them were against the rules!

I still love retreating to my room to read, write, or watch a movie. “Go to your room!” isn’t a punishment for me, but it has been a few years since I’ve heard it, like maybe fifty-five? So, I chuckled when I read it in my patient portal.

“Go to your room. Stay there. Don’t let anyone in. Don’t come out. Tell someone to slide food under your door. Don’t walk in your yard. Don’t go to parks.” That may be a loose translation.

After yesterday’s bone marrow biopsy and Covid test, the doctors want me to isolate so I’m healthy for tomorrow’s bronchoscopy when they will go into my lungs and grab pieces of Morticia for study purposes. They can only take a few small pieces of her for this biopsy, but who knows? Maybe they’ll get her heart, and it will be a fatal wound. Won’t miss you a bit, MorTish!

Immediately after the lung biopsy I’ll have a PET scan. They scheduled a brain CT for Friday. As you may have guessed, I’m in the process of qualifying for the clinical trial! The trial will involve 130 people in the United States and Europe including five from University of Michigan Hospital.

You want the big medical terms for the clinical trial? No? Skip this paragraph. It’s arm five of an “open-label trial to assess the safety and preliminary efficacy of Epcoritamab in combination with other agents in subjects with B cell non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.”

Epcoritamab has two strong arms; it grabs a T-cell and a cancer cell and hauls them close together.

Then the T-cell says, “Ah ha! I see you now, oh my enemy, you lurking no-good scoundrel! So your name is Morticia? Prepare to die!” And the fight is on.

The trial lasts a year, and I will need to visit the hospital so many times that I’m going to love going to my room at home. John says he loves driving Miss Daisy, but he’s going to appreciate crashing in our room too!

Do you wonder what the rooms in heaven are like? John 14:2 says, “In my Father’s house there are many mansions.” Other translations say, “many rooms.”

Will we each have our own room? I doubt we’ll feel the need to retreat from each other the way we do here, but there is something special about a place of one’s own to reflect, to read, to create.

I think we’ll each have our own rooms and be free to go there whenever we want. Perhaps we’ll visit each other’s rooms, unless the “No Visitors, Please,” sign is out.

I’ll find Mom’s room and tell her how much I love her and how grateful I am for all the times she said, “Go to your room!”

From University of Michigan Website

That’s a Short Number

by Donna Poole

Our adorable four-year-old granddaughter, Ruby, hurried to meet John and me as we carried our chairs to the bonfire. She glanced back at our car and asked about missing family members. We explained.

Ruby looked at the people already gathered in the yard and asked, “Is this all that’s coming?”

We nodded.

“Well, that’s a short number.” Ruby thought for a minute and added, “But if we all end up going inside, it won’t feel like a short number!”

We laughed. No, Ruby, if we had ended up inside the seven adults and five kids would have felt like a much longer number!

I’ve been grinning about that “short number” all week, ever since last Monday night’s wonderful meal and bonfire at our son and daughter-in-law’s house. They agreed to wear masks even outside so I could come.

“We’ll wear hazmat suits if we have to to see you,” our son said.

The two C’s, Covid and cancer, and my team of doctors have grounded me for a year, and I used to think my mother was strict!

You don’t even want to hear the list of my restrictions, but I’ll just say this. Even now, fully immunized against Covid, I’m only allowed to see family and even they must mask up. In my world the inside of churches, stores, and restaurants no longer exists, and I miss my friends so much I feel a physical ache.

My body imposes its own restrictions on me. You’re going to clean, cook, converse, write, read, watch a movie, and make phone calls today? Good luck with that! Have fun waking up! And then I sleep another twenty hour stretch and hope for a Rip Van Winkle reprieve the next day.

If I let myself think that way, life could feel like a “short number” right now. But it isn’t. It’s still a long number.

Have you noticed how many things are a matter of perspective? I know the optimism thing can get a bit ridiculous, like one of my favorite jokes. Before I share it, I must digress.

I was telling family my memorial service wishes the other day, for two months from now or twenty years later down these rambling back roads.

“I don’t want a traditional funeral, just a memorial service. Maybe there could be coffee and donuts on the back table at church, just like there used to be at the church services I loved so much. Sing lots of songs about heaven. No long sermon, just have someone talk about how to know Jesus. John, I don’t want you to feel you must do it; it might be too hard. I’d love to have our church board members oversee my memorial service. I love them, and they know and love me. Do you think they would do it?”

John hugged me. “You could ask them.”

“They can say whatever they want, and anyone else there can too. Maybe someone can tell my favorite jokes.”

“Mom! Your favorite jokes?” Kimmee looked startled.

Now I’ll stop digressing and tell you my favorite optimist joke. An optimist fell out of a nineteenth story window. As he passed the ninth-floor window, on the way to the ground, people heard him shouting, “So far, so good!”

We laugh at that joke. We laugh because it’s ridiculous, absurd, and wonderful.

Life might look like a short number for me right now, but I’m shouting, “So far, so good!”

I’m blessed with a super abundance of caring family and friends who pray me and help me through every day.

The bonfire was perfect. I sat there watching the leaping flames, loving the faces of our family, hearing the kids laughing and playing on the lighted trail in the woods, and feeling the warmth of the fire on my face. I wanted to stay forever because I knew what we should all remember; every time may be the last time, and life is too short for anything but love.

We had to say goodbye and go our separate ways, but we have the blessing of that memory to cherish forever, and we have something even more precious than that.

When John Wesley, the great circuit riding preacher was dying, he said, “Best of all, God is with us.”

Because God is with us, life is never a short number.

And Then Came Sunday

Eli Part Three

by Donna Poole

Should she call a physician? The boy refused to eat, drink, or sleep. He’d sat in that corner since Friday afternoon, over twenty-four hours now, not crying, not speaking, staring straight ahead. Sometimes he banged his head into the wall over and over until she thought he’d damage his brain, if he had any left after that terrible sight he’d seen of his king, the man he loved, beaten, tortured, and dying on a cross. It was enough to drive a grown man mad, let alone a seven-year-old boy.

The grandmother tried to comfort him by telling him what she had heard.

“Eli, his brave friends, Joseph, and Nicodemus took his body from the cross and put it in Joseph’s new tomb in a beautiful garden. They wrapped it in linen with seventy-five pounds of costly myrrh and aloes that Nicodemus bought. Seventy-five pounds, Eli! Normal burials use five pounds; only royal burials use seventy-five.  Perhaps Nicodemus agrees with you that your Jesus of Nazareth was a king.”

The boy moaned and started banging his head into the wall again.

“Eli, please, stop that and listen! They rolled a huge stone in front of the tomb so no grave robbers or wild animals could get inside!”

Eli made an animal like sound himself and banged his head more furiously.

What could she do? The grandmother felt like banging her head into a wall herself. She had tried everything, offering Eli his favorite foods, telling him stories he usually loved, singing him psalms. Nothing worked.

I don’t think the child even sees me, and I shudder to think what he is seeing.

When it came time to lie on their sleeping mats Eli did just as he had done Friday night, sat in the corner, knees up to his chin, arms wrapped around his legs, and refused to move. She and the ancient one went to their mats, but she doubted either of them would sleep any better than they had the night before.

Hours passed, and Eli did not make a sound. At least the head banging had stopped. Could he be sleeping?

She almost jumped when the ancient one recited a phrase from a psalm, “He gives his beloved sleep.”

Shocked, she heard Eli stumble toward the ancient one’s sleeping mat. She could picture him curled up next to his great-grandfather, seeking comfort. Eli said nothing, but finally the tears came, man sized sobs, terrible to hear from such a small child.

“I know, boy. I know,” the quavering voice of the ancient one said. “Let it out.”

It seemed Eli would never stop sobbing. The grandmother too had a psalm. She cried it aloud as a prayer. “Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.”

Before sunrise, the grandmother felt Eli shaking her. “It is almost morning, Bubbe. What joy? What joy is coming today?”

Now what do I say? I don’t want him going back to that corner again.

“Go back to sleep, Eli. It is not morning yet.”

“No.” His voice was stubborn. “There is something I must do, Bubbe. I am going to the garden tomb.”

“What do you intend to do there? Do you know the Roman soldiers are guarding that tomb? Will you provoke them again? You barely escaped with your life the last time!”

“No, I do not know why, but I am not angry with the soldiers anymore. But I must go to the garden tomb. You stay here with the ancient one. I will be fine. I am almost a man now, Bubbe.”

She agreed that sadly the last few days had advanced him toward manhood far quicker than she would have wished, but he was far from grown.

“We will go together. Quiet, now; do not wake the ancient one.”

The sky was getting lighter as they neared the garden. She could see Eli’s matted hair and tear- streaked face now, and she felt a physical pain in her heart.

“What is it you need to do here, Eli?”

But the boy was once again silent.

The grandmother had never in all her years seen such a garden. The sun just lifting over the hills shined through the flowers that reflected the colors of heaven. The air smelled sweeter than a dream.

Eli shrugged out of his little white coat and ran toward the tomb.

Where does he think he is going? If those soldiers see him!

But there were no soldiers.

Eli looked at her and pointed at the huge stone rolled back from the tomb’s entrance.

“Eli, do not go in there!”

“But that is why I came, Bubbe. I want to cover the feet of the king with my coat, so he won’t be cold.”

“Eli El-Bethel, Martha El-Bethel, come to me, my children.”

Stunned, the grandmother looked at the man sitting on the garden bench. He held out his arms, and she saw nail prints in his palms. How could this be? She remembered Mary’s words, “He is my son, and the son of God.”

She hesitated, but Eli ran into the man’s arms. Both the man and the boy were laughing and crying tears of joy.

“King, why did you let them nail you to that cross?”

“I died for a greater kingdom than you can imagine. I died for the sin of every person ever born or ever yet to be born. I took sin into my heart, there on the cross, accepted its punishment, and made it not to be. Do you believe me, Eli?”

“It is true, then?” the grandmother asked. “You are the son of God?”

“Yes,” Jesus smiled. “Come to set you free and make you new just as you prayed, Martha El-Bethel. Do you believe me?”

The old one and the child both became new that day.

“Go now,” Jesus said to Eli, “and be a strong soldier in my kingdom. You have a weapon so strong nothing can stand against it.”

“I do?”

Jesus smiled at him. “You have love. You will live love, and you will teach love. Your Bubbe will be your first pupil.”

Eli clung to him. “I do not want to leave you.”

“I will be with you always, but we both have our work to do now.”

Eli and Grandmother turned to leave.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Jesus held out his arm and Eli laid his little white coat across it.

Jesus touched the coat gently. “Thank you, my son.”

He looked deeply into the grandmother’s eyes.

“I will,” she promised.

“You will what, Bubbe?” Eli asked.

But she just smiled.

That night, after Eli and the ancient one were sleeping, the grandmother began making two coats, a little one for Eli, and a bigger one to help the ancient one feel warm and loved. For the first time in her life, Martha El-Bethel felt warm, loved, and not alone. She remembered the king’s words, “I will be with you always.” It was true. He was with her, in her heart, smiling with her at each loving movement she made.  

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Eli’s Nightmare Friday

Eli Part Two of Three

by Donna Poole

“Bubbe, what do you think the king is doing?” the child asked a hundred times a day.

The old one tried to be patient. She remembered the words of the man they’d met on Sunday, the one Eli insisted was king, the Messiah come to free Israel from Roman Rule. The man had leaned down from his donkey and had spoken to her about Eli:

“Martha El-Bethel, God will use this lad in His kingdom. You have loved him well, but fewer ear boxings and more hugs would please the Father.”

She had boxed Eli’s ears only once since that Sunday. Not only had she boxed Eli’s ears, but she had also cuffed the ears of the ancient one, her own father. She shuddered and covered her face with her wrinkled hands, remembering.

Eli had begged to put the ancient one at the table with them instead of at the little table where she usually sat him. His hands shook so; he spilled every other bite, and watching him eat destroyed her appetite. For years he’d eaten at his own table in silence.

What had come over Eli that he insisted the ancient one sit next to him at their table? She still didn’t know.

She gave in, tied the ancient one’s bib around his neck, and helped him to a chair. She avoided looking at him eat, but she could hear his noisy chewing with the few teeth he had left, and it was driving her mad; still, she said nothing. But when the ancient one’s trembling hands knocked the cruet of goat’s milk into the loaf of bread she had worked so hard making, something snapped. She screamed at both him and Eli, slapped Eli’s face, and ears, and then turned her rage on her own father, doing the same to him.

Even as she beat the ancient one’s face, she remembered words from the Law about honoring one’s parents, but they did not stop her. Eli’s crying, pulling her robe, and begging her to beat him instead of the ancient one did not stop her. What finally stopped her were the tears of despair running down the wrinkles in her father’s swarthy cheeks and his prayer to Jehovah.

“Let me die, merciful One,” he begged. “Let me die.”

She paused fist raised and cried out to Jehovah herself, “Let me die too, or make me a new woman. I despise this person I have become.”

She bathed both their faces with a cloth dipped into warm water as her tears dripped down over her hands. Now they both ducked when she raised a hand to fix their hair, a gesture that cut her to the heart, but one she knew she deserved.

Eli stopped sleeping on his own mat. Each night when he thought Bubbe was sleeping he crept to the ancient one’s mat and curled up close to him. Grandmother heard him talking about the king.

“He is going to free us from the Romans, I know he is! And I think he is going to do more than that. I think he is going to change people. Maybe he will make even Bubbe kind, and then your life will be better. Do not cry! Are you cold? Let me cover you with my robe. I do not need it. Little boys do not get as cold as old ones.”

Grandmother half expected Eli to refuse when she asked if he wanted to go to market with her on Friday.

“Will the ancient one be alright alone, Bubbe? He has been sleeping a lot lately.”

“He will be fine. He has happy dreams of better days when he sleeps. Perhaps he dreams of your king.”

“I will come to the market! Maybe we will see the king again! I only saw him once, Bubbe, but I love him with all my heart!”

Eli slipped his hand in his grandmother’s as they walked, and for the second time that week, she felt something she had not felt in more years than she could count. She’d felt it when the man Eli called king looked at her. It was hope.

Eli heard the faint shouting and jeers before his grandmother did.

“King! King! King!”

Eli cried, “That’s coming from Golgotha! Bubbe, I think they have crucified the king!”

He started running.

“Eli! That hill is no place for a child! You will never unsee what you see there. Return to me at once!”

But Eli ignored her, and her old legs could not keep up with those of a seven-year-old.

As they got closer, they could hear the words of the crowd.

“He said he was the king. Let him come down from the cross. We’ll believe him then.”

“Look at him! He saved others, but he cannot save himself!”

“If you really are the king of the Jews, save yourself!”

By the time the grandmother reached the top of the hill she found a cluster of sobbing women comforting her little grandson who lay in a heap on the ground.

She reached down and touched him. “Eli! Come! We must leave this terrible place!”

The stench of blood and sweat was making her sick, and the laughter from those close to the three crosses sounded like a chorus of devils.

Eli jumped to his feet. Sobbing, he pointed at the middle cross. “Look, Bubbe! Look what they did to our king!”

Unwillingly she looked at a man who no longer seemed human; his flesh was so torn and beaten. A crown of thorns had been pushed deep into his head. Huge spikes pinned his hands to the cross, and to get a single breath of air he had to push up with his feet that had also been nailed to the wood. She had never imagined such a nightmare of suffering.

“Eli, that man looks nothing like the king you saw on the donkey. Perhaps he is another man. They only crucify criminals.”

“Bubbe, look at the sign!”

She read the sign nailed over the man’s head: Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.

“Eli, surely he is someone else.”

One of the crying women who had been comforting Eli gently touched her arm. “The lad is not mistaken. They have rejected and crucified their Messiah. I know it is him; he is my son.”

“Your son?”

She looked into the woman’s eyes.

“Yes, my son, and the son of God.”

Bubbe’s head swam. She could not have heard those words.

She looked around for Eli. She heard more laughter at the foot of the cross where Roman soldiers surrounded a small lad who was shouting at them.

Heart sinking, the grandmother hobbled as quickly as she could toward the boy.

“You Roman swine! You are killing the best man who ever lived. I hate you! When I grow up, I will find you, and I will kill you!”

The soldiers shoved him back and forth between them like he was a toy, laughing and mocking.

“Oh, we tremble with fear, you small Jewish zealot. Do you want to end up like this man, your king?”

The tallest soldier picked him up and held him high over his head so he could see the face of Jesus.

The soldier threw Eli to the ground. Not going into battle, the man wore no greaves to protect his legs. Furious, Eli wrapped his arms around a leg and bit until blood filled his mouth.

“Why you little son of Neptune!”

He shook Eli loose and drew back his foot to kick him in the head with murderous force, but two things happened.

Bubbe threw herself at the soldier, holding him and begging, “Please, no; he is but a lad.”

And a voice strong and sweet came from the middle cross, “Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.”

The soldier gently disentangled the old woman and said, “Take the lad home.”

Then that soldier stepped back, stared long at the middle cross, and thumped his heart once with his fist.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

The Little White Coat

by Donna Poole

Eli tugged on the old one’s hand. “Listen, Bubbe! Do you hear all the shouting? Can we go see what is happening?”

“I will never finish at the market at this rate,” the old one grumbled. But his grandmother’s eyes looked as curious as Eli’s did. “I wonder what the commotion is. Pontius Pilate has already arrived in Jerusalem with his army of soldiers showing his strength lest we revolt during Passover.”

The old one pushed her tongue into her cheek as a sign of contempt and spat on the dirt, then looked fearfully around hoping none of the Roman governor’s men had seen her.

Eli was not afraid. “I wish we would revolt!” he shouted as only a seven-year-old can, stomping his foot. “This is God’s land and should be ruled by God’s people, the Jews, not by the Romans. I hate the Romans!”

“Hush, child! Do you learn that Zealot talk at synagogue school? I will forbid you to go if I hear any more!”

The old one cuffed his ears before he could get his hands up to protect them. She was furious because she was afraid for him, he knew. But hadn’t the holy Scriptures promised a Messiah, someone who would free them from foreign oppression? He wished he were big enough. He would fight those Romans!

The noise of the crowd was getting louder.

“Please, Bubbe, can we go see?” he begged.

“We will go. But do not get that coat dirty.”

With her rough hand she smoothed the white coat she had made for the boy. She expressed her love with blows, not hugs, but she’d burned candles many nights spinning wool for the coat for this boy she loved more than life itself.

Soon the two found themselves in a huge crowd that moved them forward. It stopped occasionally as people cut branches from the palm trees. They waved the branches in the air and shouted, “Hosanna! Save us now! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord, the king of Israel!”

Eli caught his breath. “Bubbe! Do you hear? It is the Messiah, come to set us free! Now those Roman scoundrels will run for the hills! I want to see our king!”

Eli jumped up and down, trying to see over the heads of the adults packed in around him. The old one is tall. What is she seeing?

“He is no king,” his grandmother scoffed. “He is riding on a donkey’s colt and has not even one weapon.”

“Then it surely is him, Bubbe!  We learned in school the prophet Zechariah said our king would come riding on a donkey’s colt!”

The old one frowned at him, still skeptical, but hope lit her eyes. What kind of child was this to remember words from a dry prophet who had lived hundreds of years ago?

Now people were throwing palm branches onto the road to make a carpet for the king to ride on. Some were tossing their coats and cloaks on top of the branches to honor their king, their Messiah.

Just for a brief minute the crowd parted, and the man on the donkey looked deep into Eli’s soul and smiled. For the first time the little boy knew what it was to worship, to have so much joy and wonder spill up out of your heart your hands must give what they have. Quickly he shrugged out of his white coat and darted through the crowd. Just as he was ready to throw it down for this wonderful man, this king, he felt his arm wrenched up behind his back.

“What are you doing, you ungrateful wretch of a boy?” The old one snatched his coat from him and boxed an ear. “You will take the coat I went without sleep to make you and throw it in the dirt for this stranger?”

Tears filled Eli’s eyes as he looked up at the king.

The donkey stopped. The man bent down.

“Eli El-Bethel always remember this. What you would do, if you could do, in the eyes of God you have already done. Your heavenly Father thanks you.”

Then the man looked at the old one. “Martha El-Bethel, God will use this lad in His kingdom. You have loved him well, but fewer ear boxings and more hugs would please the Father.”

The donkey moved on. Stunned, Eli and the old one stared at each other.

“Your name is Martha? I did not know that. How did that man know our names? Is he a king? Do you think he is the Messiah? I am sure he is!”

The old one said nothing. She just stared after the man with a look on her face Levi had never seen before. She raised her hand, and Eli ducked, but she merely stroked his cheek. Then she put an arm around his shoulders, and the two of them walked home in silence. Eli didn’t say anything because he couldn’t erase the face of the man from his vision or stop hearing his words, “What you would do, if you could do, in the eyes of God you have already done. Your heavenly Father thanks you.”

Bubbe did not say a word because she was doing something Eli had never seen her do before. She was crying.

Among the weeds, the torn debris

Of strife, of weeping life;

In hearts struck low

A tiny flower grows.

Its name is Hope.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Pig Please No Bloat

by Donna Poole

I was just a thought of God, four years from being born, when Bing Crosby crooned “Swinging on a Star” in 1944. I loved singing that song as a kid; I especially liked the verse about the pig. I giggled when I sang,

Or would you like to swing on a star
Carry moonbeams home in a jar
And be better off than you are
Or would you rather be a pig?

A pig is an animal with dirt on his face
His shoes are a terrible disgrace
He has no manners when he eats his food
He’s fat and lazy and extremely rude
But if you don’t care a feather or a fig
You may grow up to be a pig.

I little guessed then that when I became an old lady, I’d want to be a pig. . .a guinea pig that is.

A guinea pig isn’t really a pig; it’s a rodent. Though not often used now for scientific experiments, guinea pigs were common subjects from the seventeenth through part of the twentieth centuries. They played an important role in medical research; in 1890 scientists used them to find the antitoxin for diphtheria, and who knows how many millions of lives that spared?

Since 1920 “guinea pig” has been a metaphor for anyone involved in a scientific experiment, and now I hope to be one.

Don’t be alarmed, I’m sane, well as sane as I ever was. I’m not off my rocker yet. That’s another fascinating idiom, don’t you think? It’s been around since the late 1800’s and may have originated with the idea of an older person being so unstable that he or she fell out of the rocking chair.

So, why do I aspire to be a rodent? Doctor K, my chemotherapy oncologist at University of Michigan hospital hopes to get me accepted into a drug trial called BiTE. It’s only in its second phase so the study is far from complete, but it looks promising for people with certain cancers, including lymphoma, that stubbornly resist other treatments.

Doctor K showed me my latest PET scan. He doesn’t think radiation helped; he thinks Morticia, my stubborn lung tumor looks bigger than ever. Since I’m considered chemo and radiation resistant, treatment options are limited.

He told me about the drug trial. “If I were you, I’d go for it,” he said.

I hope they accept me into the trial. I haven’t heard yet. So once again, we wait; we pray, and we live each day God gives us. This is the God who loves each one of us as though He had only one to love, the God who calls each star by name.

I don’t know if this new drug will help me or not; if it doesn’t, maybe my participation will help someone who comes after me who also has a stubborn Morticia.

I’ve done a bit of research about BiTE, and our daughter, Kimmee, and I were discussing some of the not so pleasant side-effects.

“I hope I don’t get the bloat,” I said.

 Kimmee laughed so hard she could barely talk. “Mom! All these horrible side-effects and all you can say is you hope you don’t get the bloat?”

Yep. That’s it. I’d like to swing on a few more stars, be better off than I “are,” see some more beautiful springs, and sit around many more crackling campfires with family and friends. To do that, I’ll be a pig, guinea that is.

But I don’t want the bloat. Said tongue-in-cheek—that idiom you can look up yourself.

Thank you for walking all these backroads with me, and happy spring!

Let’s Go for a Walk

by Donna Poole

Late afternoon shadows lengthened; mama robins sang soft lullabies to babies cradled in nests, and all the world began gentling for the night. Twilight was E’s favorite time of the day. It was almost time for his evening walk.

Every evening E’s walking partner arrived. The two of them ambled along the backroads, talking over the day’s events, admiring the paintings in the sky, or sometimes walking in comfortable silence. E felt most himself on these walks, most understood, most at home. When they arrived back at E’s home and his walking partner left him and walked alone off into the distance, E always felt a pang of regret as he watched him go.

One day the two friends walked farther than they ever had before. E realized they were on an unfamiliar and strangely beautiful country road. The breeze caressing his face smelled sweet, like something from a half-forgotten dream. He’d never seen such a vibrant sunset, and when it faded the stars appeared so close E impulsively reached his hand up to touch them.

His walking partner laughed.

“We’ve walked a long way this time, and it’s getting late. We’re closer to my home than we are to yours now. Do you want to come home with me?”

E had never wanted anything more.

The Bible puts it this way, “And Enoch walked with God: and he was not; for God took him.” –Genesis 5:24

I think that’s one of the loveliest stories in the Bible. I’d love to go for a walk with God on our country road and just keep walking on to heaven, but not just yet.

I don’t know how close to heaven I am. We’d hoped to find my friend, NED, (No Evidence of Disease) in my recent PET scan, but he eluded us again. Morticia, my lymphoma lung tumor, is still active, although my radiation oncologist thinks she’s shrinking. He gives me a twenty percent chance still of living. On Thursday I’ll visit my chemotherapy oncologist and see if he thinks more chemo can possibly kill off stubborn Morticia, who has lived in my lung almost a year now, without paying a cent of rent, and has in general made a nuisance of herself.

Lest I be unfair to Morticia, she has given me some gifts too. One of them is an appreciation of every day I get to walk on this earth with God, my family, and my friends.

Despite how man has mishandled it, this earth is still incredibly lovely. We haven’t yet disfigured it beyond the point of being able to see in it the face of our Creator.

And isn’t life a breathtakingly wonderful yet fragile gift? Morticia tells me that every day. Each time I’ve done anything this last year I’ve been poignantly aware it may be the last time. That’s not a morbid way to live; it’s beautiful. It makes everything so deeply meaningful. I only wish I’d been aware of this gift years before Morticia handed it to me.

I want to leave precious memories for my loved ones, not so they remember me dying, but so they remember me living life fully and loving them unconditionally.

So, thank you, Morticia, for all that. And now that I have your gifts, you can leave. For good. I won’t miss you; I promise.

Tim McGraw sings, “Live like you were dying,” and it would be wonderful if we could only do that without a Morticia to remind us.

I want to stay here to see all my grandchildren grow up and my children grow old. I’d like to someday retire to a quiet little place with John. But when my time comes to die, I’d like to go when late afternoon shadows lengthen; mama robins sing soft lullabies to babies cradled in nests, and all the world begins gentling for the night. I’ll be waiting then for God to come walk me Home.

Eye of the Hurricane

by Donna Poole

She’s capricious; kind one day, the day next malevolent. We’re foolish to trust her, but year after year she captures us with her charms. Who can resist the reddening of bushes on the back roads, tiny leaves on lilacs, the cry of the red-wings, or evening magic of spring peepers? She gives us all these, but she sometimes slams us with ice storms or blizzards.

She’s Michigan March. She’s like the eye of a hurricane, tricking us into thinking the danger of winter storms is gone.

I have a writer friend with recurrent ovarian cancer. She calls her between-treatment times the eye of the hurricane.

I’m in the eye of the hurricane right now as I wait for the results of my fourth PET scan.

“Can’t you get it right this time?” I asked the PET scan tech. “You guys keep messing up, and I have to keep coming back for another one.”

He chuckled—once I explained I was joking.

As they fastened my head firmly between wedges and strapped me to the narrow scan table, I asked the two techs, “Can you help me find a friend I lost in here?”

I couldn’t move my head to see them, but I could feel the looks they were giving each other. Oh boy, here we go; she’s the crazy one of the day.

“Um, you lost a friend, ma’am? In here? In this room?”

“I sure did! His name is NED! Have either of you seen him?”

Long silence. I imagined their thoughts. Do we call psych before or after the scan? How well do we have her strapped down?

“You guys know NED! Lots of people have found him in this room, but I haven’t found him yet. He’s an acronym for No Evidence of Disease!

One tech laughed, relieved. “Oh! NED! I think he’s going to be my new best friend!”

“Mine too!” I said, as they slid me back into the machine.

Arms in an uncomfortable position over my head, I still managed to fall asleep. That’s my shining claim to fame, being able to sleep anywhere. Once I fell asleep on the phone talking to my daughter, Angie, and terrified her. When I didn’t answer her, she thought I’d had another stroke. I’ve fallen asleep in church. I know lots of people have done that, but how many of them are the pastor’s wife?

Not only did I fall asleep during the scan, I made a funny noise, woke up, and jumped. You aren’t supposed to move in those scans, but they said I hadn’t done any damage.

As I got ready to leave, I asked the poor tech if he’d found NED. It was unkind of me to ask; I knew they weren’t allowed to give any information to patients.

“I didn’t really see all your pictures….”

“It’s okay.” I smiled at him. “If you didn’t find NED this time, you can help me look for him next time.”

“That’s the spirit! If we didn’t find him today, we’ll help you find him next time.”

And now.

Now I wait for results. Did the cancer shrink or spread? Did they—glorious thought—did they find NED?

If NED is still winning at this hide and seek game, what comes next? So many questions, and only God knows the answers. He gives us hints in March.

I held my daughter Kimmee’s arm the other day and we walked around the yard looking for March’s signs of early spring. The lovely snow drop flowers always bloom first. We found rhubarb and tulips bravely forcing their way out of darkness into light. We saw trees full of birds singing loudly in a decibel competition. We felt the warm sunlight on our faces.

A bone-chilling blizzard might still come. An ice storm may make the birds wish they’d stayed south a bit longer, but spring, real spring will come. It always does.

The storms always return too, sometimes with a fierceness that freezes tears. What then? Which is true? Spring’s softness or her dangers? Both are true. How do we reconcile it; how do we understand?

What of life’s suffering; crushed hopes, unbearable pain, the death of kittens, and children, and young brides, and old grandparents, how do we understand that? We don’t.

We cling to God’s love and the fact that an eternal spring will win in the end.

The only thing that can thaw our frozen hearts when suffering and tragedy destroy hope is the cross. We don’t judge God’s love by how we feel or by circumstances we face; we can’t understand any of that. We evaluate God’s love by one thing only: Calvary.

I don’t know if softness or danger is coming to me, but meanwhile I’m resting in the eye of the hurricane and loving every bit of spring I find.

“God, make me brave for life: oh, braver than this.

Let me straighten after pain as a tree straightens after the rain,

Shining and lovely again.

God, make me brave for life:

much braver than this.

As the blown grass lifts, let me rise

From sorrow with quiet eyes,

Knowing Thy way is wise.

God, make me brave, life brings

Such blinding things.

Help me to keep my sight;

Help me to see aright

That out of the dark comes light.” –Author unknown

Lion and Lamb

by Donna Poole

I wish I knew what Mom was like as a kid. She didn’t talk much about her childhood, other than to say her dad beat her with a razor strap, and I was too busy being a kid myself to ask her questions. I could have asked her only sibling, Uncle Tom. He was twelve years older than she was; I’m sure he could have told us stories about her. Mom was born in March; did she arrive like a lion? I imagine her being a lion. Mom died in March, and I know she died like a lamb.

The mom of my childhood years was more lion than lamb; we didn’t often see the gentle, more affectionate side of her. I used to mutter she’d make a good drill sergeant, or prosecuting attorney, or a general. Mom never cried and was proud of that and impatient with the tears of others. She was exacting in her demands that we keep the house spotless.

Mom did love us, but her love often expressed itself in anger; anger that she couldn’t find us when we got lost on our bikes, anger that we ducked when she reached out to fix for us a stray lock of hair, anger that we dared to disobey.

Mom could wield a belt with more skill than Zorro with a sword.

They say the Pharisees of Jesus’ day had 613 rules in addition to the biblical ones; Mom had at least 6,130!

And I didn’t like any of them.

We knew where we stood with Mom. She drew her lines sharp and clear, and I usually stood on the wrong side of them.

Poor Mom. She didn’t know what to do with me. When shoutings and spankings failed to achieve her desired results, she often said the one thing that sent cold chills down my little girl spine: “I wish the worst possible thing I can think of for you. I hope when you grow up you have a little girl who acts just like you do.”

Even as a child, I knew that was a curse I didn’t want fulfilled. Please God, no, not a little girl like me. We had four wonderful children, and though they weren’t the angel my husband was growing up—according to his mom—neither were they the little devil I was! See why I believe in grace and mercy?

When Mom was in her late forties and I was twenty she had a major stroke that paralyzed her right side and left her unable to speak. She regained her speech and limited use of her right leg but none of her right arm or hand.

The most striking change was Mom’s personality. Our lion became a lamb; gentle, emotional, and loving. Life was difficult for Mom for the next five years until God allowed a second major stroke to carry her home to heaven.

I’m glad I got to know both of my Moms, the lion and the lamb. We all have a bit of each, don’t we?

When March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, I think of Mom. When March comes in like a lamb and goes out like a lion, I think of Mom.

Jesus is called both the Lamb of God and the Lion of the tribe of Judah. He came to earth the first time as a Lamb, meek, and willing to give His life as a sacrifice for our sins. When His feet touch the earth the second time He’ll come as a Lion, ready to conquer all evil and set up His glorious kingdom of joy and peace.

When March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, I think of Jesus. When March comes in like a lamb and goes out like a lion, I think of Jesus.

Evil, hatred, and cruelty may triumph now, but their tyrannical reign is crumbling. The day is coming when right here on this earth the lion will lie down with the lamb, and a little child will be safe with all God’s creatures. –Isaiah 11:6

When Mom and I meet again, I wonder if we’ll remember her curse and laugh. Her angry lion days have already ended, and my days of defiantly standing on the wrong side of the line will end when I get where Mom is now. My breaking of her 6,130 rules will be forgotten, and there will be nothing left between us but love.

Mom at our wedding August 1, 1969

The Sparrow and the Grumpy Angel

by Donna Poole

“Goodbye, honey,” I whispered, seeing the tears in John’s eyes, and blinking back my own.

We both knew I was in God’s care and the expertise of a top brain surgeon, but it was still difficult to let go of hands and be separated, one to face surgery the other hours of waiting for news.

When I let go of John’s hand, I slipped my hand into God’s hand, and the beautiful flute music my friend Vicky had played at church the day before wafted through my thoughts. “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He cares for me.”

God did care for me. Eight years ago yesterday, God brought me through the craniotomy with thirteen pieces of hardware left in my head and some artificial dura covering my brain. I had hydrocephalus, but the fluid buildup was mild. My surgeon left the choice up to me: have an additional surgery to put in a shunt, or, go home and let my body heal itself.

“Your body will absorb the fluid, but you will have horrible headaches,” Dr. Thompson warned me.

“I just want to go home.”

He chuckled. “I knew that was what you were going to say.”

Home I went. I’m allergic to pain medications, so I couldn’t take any. The headaches were horrendous, and my dreams were vivid. Every night an angel rowed up to the shore where I waited. We didn’t say anything to each other. I got into the boat, and he rowed me out onto a calm, black lake. It was wonderfully quiet on the lake in the darkness of midnight; no stars or moon ever appeared in my nightly dream. I laid on something soft in the bottom of the boat, my head on a pillow. The pain that tortured me when I was awake dared not follow me into that sacred place.

Once I trailed my hand through the water. It was warm and soothing.

“No!” The angel scolded. “Put your hand back in the boat. It’s not safe yet.”

Before daylight, the angel rowed me back to shore.

Gradually I began feeling better, but I kept dreaming the same thing every night for six weeks. The last night I dreamt it I waited on the shore, and the silent angel rowed up as usual. I hesitated, looking at the boat, then back at the land.

“Well, are you getting in or not?”

I was shocked. God’s angels were grumpy? Apparently, some were.

“No, I don’t think I’m coming tonight.”

“Fine. But I’m not coming back for seven years.”

I puzzled over that dream for a while. I’m not one who thinks every dream means something, but the same dream every night for six weeks had to say something to me.

Had the man in my dream been the death angel? I didn’t think so; why would he take me home every night before sunrise? I finally decided that the dream was reminding me that regardless of pain, the One whose eye is on the sparrow would give me rest. But what did the seven years mean? I didn’t have a clue.

Seven years came. Nothing happened. Seven years and three months passed, and I found out I had cancer. When the chemotherapy began and my old friend pain returned, so did the dream. The angel doesn’t come every night in my dreams, but he comes sometimes. I’m happy to see him; I get into the boat, lie down, and rest. I know God’s eye is on the sparrow, and I know He cares for me.

However dark the night, however searing the pain, God sees His children. He knows, and He cares. He can stop the pain, and sometimes He does. Why doesn’t He always?

Oh, we all know the pat answers, and they are true. Pain is a great teacher.

But we will never fully understand the why of some of the horrendous things that happen to God’s people, when a family is ripped apart by devastation more sudden than a tornado from a midwestern sky. Caught in a whirlwind of agony, what then? God’s children grasp for anything then to keep from being pulled into a pit of despair so deep there is no return. The blessed ones find the wild winds slamming them up against the cross.

We can’t fully understand all that took place on the cross either, but we can comprehend what we need to know. There, Jesus said, “It is finished.”

On the cross Jesus conquered pain, sin, death, and hell. The empty tomb assures us the day is coming when He will wipe away all tears from His children’s eyes and sorrow will be swallowed up in joy.

But that day isn’t here yet, is it?

Until then I need the reminder of the sparrow and my grumpy angel.

The angel isn’t any more talkative now than he was all those years ago. Is he still grumpy? I don’t know because we haven’t exchanged a word. Maybe I’ll dream that I put my hand in the water and see how he reacts. If he yells at me, I’ll let you know.  

Snow Stories

by Donna Poole

I have a fireplace, cozy throws, warm drinks, and some snow stories to tell if you’re interested. We were snowbound this morning. This is the first storm when I haven’t bundled up and walked out through deep drifts. I’m not strong enough yet for that, but I did go from window to window, as excited as a child. I love freshly fallen snow undisturbed by footprints, shovels, or plows.

Even John, home from the hospital after knee replacement surgery, used his walker to hobble to the window and exclaim over how much snow fell overnight. If our neighbor hadn’t plowed us out, we’d still be snowed in.

Spring energizes the poets, but so does snow. Think of some of the songs, idioms, and hymns inspired by snow:

  • “Let it Snow”
  • Where are the snows of yesteryear? –a nostalgic sadness for time past
  • Snow on the roof—white hair
  • Snowball into something—growing quickly larger like a snowball being rolled
  • Snowed under—overwhelmed with work
  • Pure as the driven snow—a person of high integrity
  • Get snowed—to be deceived
  • Snowbird—someone who heads south in winter months
  • “Whiter than Snow”

Here are a few idioms I didn’t understand until I looked them up. To “roast snow in a furnace” means to attempt something impossible. “Snow stuff” and “Lady Snow” mean cocaine.

John is allergic to codeine and before knee surgery he laughingly told the nurse anesthesiologist about the time he’d confused his words and had told a doctor he was allergic to cocaine.

“Some people are, you know,” the nurse replied, “and we need to know that, because we sometimes use it as an anesthetic.”

I thought he might be giving me a snow job, but he was serious, and a Mayo Clinic web search confirmed the truth of what he’d said.

We were so glad to get John home from the hospital before the snowstorm hit. When it started, I wanted to post Dean Martin’s version of “Let It Snow” on my Facebook page but I didn’t have time; I was too snowed under taking care of John. If you’re still reading this you’re either chuckling or groaning at the way these idioms are snowballing.

This storm’s snow piled up quickly and reminded me of the blizzard of 1978, but we didn’t have the winds we did then, and when you live in open farm country, it’s the winds that close roads. In 1978 the winds wouldn’t quit; they howled over the open fields, scooped up the snow, and dumped it on the roads. We were snowbound for three weeks. At first it was fun and cozy; we’d been way too busy, and it was wonderful reconnecting as a family. But, eventually we got cabin fever; we missed the outside world, church, and friends. We missed people!

We felt almost delighted when a snowmobile sunk in a huge drift in front of our house. On it was a person, a real live person! John helped him dig out his machine and invited him in for hot chocolate. We asked him what was open in the rest of the county. His reply was brief.

“Nothin.”

Another day a loud knock on the door startled us. We opened it to see a smiling, snow covered, half-frozen George Fee. He pulled off his gloves, shoved a hand in his pocket, and pulled out a wad of bills.

“Here you go, Pastor. I figured you might be needing some money. We haven’t had church in weeks, so I know you haven’t been paid.”

“But George,” John asked, “where did you get the money? And how did you get here?”

“Well, I just drove to the homes of church folks who lived on main roads and asked them, ‘You got any money for the preacher?’ And I got all this!” George grinned, proud of himself. “And how I got here was I left my car parked out on Squawfield Road and hiked in through the fields. There’s more snow on the roads than in the fields!”

We loved George, his wife Florence, Bud and Izzie, and all our wonderful early congregation. Most of them are in heaven now, having adventures we can’t imagine.

A few days after George came, we got more company. Like George, they left their car on Squawfield and walked to our house through the fields. Our good friends, Pastor Potter and Audrey, and their son came to visit. Pastor unzipped his coat and we all laughed. Their tiny poodle, Buttons, poked out his little nose.

The four of them, three humans and a dog, stayed for supper and spent the night. We stayed up late, laughing, talking, and playing games. Someone had the idea of rewriting the Luke 15:11-32 story of the Prodigal Son. We wrote it in the key of D. I can’t remember all of it, but we thought we were hysterical as we wrote, “The despicable dude departed his dad’s domain….” The later it got, the funnier we thought we were.

Where are the snows of yesteryear? Yes, I feel a nostalgic sadness as I tell you the story of the night we spent with our friends. We were young then and getting old seemed so far away. Now, those of us still alive have snow on the roof. Buttons crossed the rainbow bridge long ago, and Pastor Potter is in heaven.

That man could preach, and that man could sing! I’m sure he sang “Whiter Than Snow” many times, and preached Isaiah 1:18: “Come now, and let us reason together, saith the LORD: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.”

I miss the snows of yesteryear; so many people I love are already in heaven. The best really is yet to be, and I’m looking forward to it!

But before we go to heaven, anyone want to write the Prodigal Son in the key of C? I have a fireplace, cozy throws, and warm drinks if you want to get the party started.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Our neighbor, Chris, plowing us out. Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

By the Skin of My Teeth

by Donna Poole

The patient sits next to me working on his physical therapy exercises.

“I just might get this blog written and posted this week by the skin of my teeth,” I say to John.

He answers with a groan. Even the heavy-duty medications can’t erase the pain of his exercises today.

“Now it’s time to get back on your CPM machine.” (Controlled passive motion machine)

My kind, loving, normally cheerful Valentine glares at me. “I just got off it.”

“You still have four hours to go.”

People warned us that total knee replacement surgery wasn’t easy. John’s surgery was Monday; he came home Thursday, and he had his first home physical therapy session yesterday. He’s hurting today. But he’s glad to be home, and I’m happy he’s here. He’s home for Valentine’s Day, home by the skin of his teeth.

John had a painful, weak day near the end of his hospital stay. When it took three nurses to get him adjusted on his CPM machine, we both wondered if he should consider inpatient rehab. It wasn’t our first choice, but we weren’t sure he could handle coming home. We prayed about it, and John told me to call our local rehab center to see if they had room for him.

“I’m sorry; we don’t. We’re only taking Covid patients this week.”

We were relieved, and John felt like he’d escaped going to rehab by the skin of his teeth.

“By the skin of my teeth.”

Isn’t language fascinating? I love exploring the history of old sayings. “By the skin of my teeth” means “I managed it but only by a narrow margin.” People use the ancient phrase to express an escape or an achievement that barely happened. It’s a distance too small to measure.

The Geneva Bible of 1559 was the first to use the expression in Job 19:20 “I haue escaped with the skinne of my tethe.”

I avoided being fired once by the skin of my teeth. I sold flight insurance at the Broome County Airport in Binghamton, New York. Joy, my boss, flew in occasionally from New York City. I always heard her coming by the brisk click click of her high heels on the terminal’s tile. She was tall and lovely with perfect make up, and she made me want to throw up. Not because she was so perfect, but because I knew she was going to yell at me.

In training I learned the tricks of selling flight insurance, how to subtly play on the fear of first-time flyers, how to appeal to a senior citizen’s love of a grandchild, how to “sell up.” Our policies cost from twenty-five cents to five-hundred dollars, but Joy warned us to never sell a twenty-five-cent policy.

“What if someone asks what our cheapest policy is?” another trainee asked.

Joy said, “Start out selling high. Come down to twenty-five dollars only if you must. If a customer asks for the cheapest say, “Well, we also have ones for ten and five dollars. I will fire anyone who sells a twenty-five-cent insurance policy!”

Day after day I sold twenty-five-cent policies. Many of them. When someone asked for our cheapest, I sold our cheapest.

“Joy is going to be furious,” the long-time employees warned me.

And Joy was furious. Every time she came, she hollered at me and warned me it better never happen again, but she didn’t fire me. She often threatened to. She demanded my reasons. I explained my ethics. She looked puzzled and shook her head.

“I think you have potential to be one of my top salespeople. Try to sell a lifetime five-hundred-dollar policy before I come back. It doesn’t matter if the person will never fly again. I’ll feel good about you selling it.”

I shook my head. I wouldn’t do it, and she knew it. She sighed. “I’m going to have to fire you one of these days, Donna Piarulli. You know that don’t you?”

I loved every job I ever had except that one. I was so relieved to give my notice when John and I were going to get married and move out of state.

On my last day, Joy gave me a wedding shower. The decorations were beautiful, the food delicious, and the cake amazing. I was overwhelmed by the generous gifts, especially the lavish ones from Joy.

Joy had to leave the shower early to catch her flight to New York City. I walked her to her gate and thanked her. She bent down and hugged me.

“You do know, Donna Piarulli, that I would have had to fire you eventually, don’t you?”

“I know.”

Then we looked at each other and laughed. Joy flew off to New York City and I never saw her again. I ended up on a dirt road in Michigan happy not to be a big city boss who only escaped by the skin of her teeth having to fire someone she really liked.

 We knew a man who only made heaven by the skin of his teeth. He was dying in the hospital, and his family asked John to go see him. John asked him if he’d ever repented of his sin and accepted God’s gift of salvation.

“Jesus died on the cross to take the punishment we deserve for sin,” John explained. “We just need to believe He died in our place and accept His gift of eternal life.”

The man replied, “I did that when I was a kid.”

John looked troubled when he told me about it. “He was lying, honey; I know it.”

John was preaching Sunday when the man’s son-in-law burst into the auditorium. “Can you come quick, Pastor? Dad’s dying and asking for you.”

A deacon finished the service and John raced to the hospital. The man could barely talk. He managed only two words, his last. “I lied.”

“You lied when you told me you had asked Jesus to save you from sin and give you eternal life?”

The man nodded, looking terrified and miserable.

“Squeeze my hand if you are praying this with me. Dear Father, I know I’m a sinner and I’m sorry. I don’t deserve heaven.”

The man gripped John’s hand.

“I believe Jesus took my punishment for sin when He died on the cross. I accept what He did in my place. I thank You for the gift of eternal life.”

The man squeezed John’s hand again. John looked at his peaceful, smiling face. “Do you know where you’re going when you die?”

The man nodded and squeezed John’s hand one last time. He died peacefully a few hours later and opened his eyes in heaven. He made it by the skin of his teeth.

The Father’s Backyard

by Donna Poole

Have you been to the Father’s Backyard? Some scoff and say it’s an imaginary place, but I’ve been there myself and assure you it’s more real than anywhere else I’ve ever been.

It’s a more beautiful backyard than you can imagine in your best dreams; the sun always smiles, and the grass makes a year-around carpet for bare feet. People say there’s a house just over the hill called “The Father’s House,” but none of us have ever seen the house or the Father, just the Father’s mailbox, and his backyard, perfect for adults who haven’t forgotten how to play.

 Artists gather daily in the Father’s Backyard to play at their work. Phyllis perfects her photography. Patrick paints with oils and watercolors. Weston weaves lovely patterns from lamb’s wool. Grace grows lovely flowers and vegetables in her garden. Archie designs architectural marvels. Bella practices ballet as Orville leads an orchestra. Sarah sculpts statues that decorate the garden while Wilson writes beautiful stories. Caleb makes masterpieces with his carpentry skills. Catherine creates meals that feed body and soul.

Newest to the group and greatly loved is young Paul whose poetry captures dreams and turns them into words. He often reads them aloud, and creativity being contagious, the work of the others becomes even more beautiful.

In groups and in solitude artists use the gifts the Father has given them to enrich the lives of the rest. Every evening, as the magic hour of twilight falls, each artist stops creating and admires the work of the others. There is no envy. The one who sings like an angel doesn’t wish to be the ornithologist cataloging the beautiful birds. The writer in the wheelchair never envies the ballerina.

The artists end each day relaxing around a campfire, contented with their own work and proud of each other. They talk softly, draw warmth from the crackling flames and from friendship, and watch the first stars appear. Then they stop by the Father’s mailbox, go home to sleep, and return refreshed to the Father’s Backyard to play at their work again the next day.

I remember the day things changed.

Paul’s poems had always been a bit melancholy, but no one minded. Sorrow and tears added beauty to all our work and reminded us we were only in the Father’s Backyard, not yet at his house. But Paul’s poems began to take on an eerie darkness. It seemed he’d forgotten what Helen Keller often said when she’d played in the Father’s Backyard in her day, “Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it.”

Paul’s poems had sometimes reminded me of the beautiful face of a baby who smiles through tears on his cheeks, or of a rainbow after a storm when the sun breaks through the clouds. Now there was no smile, no sun, just tears and storm clouds.

There was no overcoming left in Paul’s poetry. When he read it aloud, the other artists’ hands and minds grew heavy.

Then Paul stopped writing. Day after day he sat with his chin in his hands and refused to talk or be comforted. Not even the warmth of the evening campfire helped.

I wasn’t the only one who caught my breath in horror when Paul came to say goodbye. His face looked like an ancient oak; he shuffled slowly, and he bent from the waist and could no longer stand upright. His entire back looked like it was covered with lumps.

“I can’t come to the Father’s Backyard anymore,” Paul said. “It’s too painful. I have nothing left to give, and your beautiful work makes me bitter.”

And then Paul pitched face forward. He was still breathing, but barely.

Our own Doctor Dan rushed to help. “I’ve seen this only once before here in the Father’s Backyard, but I think I recognize this poison.”

“Poison?” I stared at him. “Someone is poisoning Paul?”

“Not someone, something,” Doctor Dan said as he removed Paul’s shirt.

Paul’s back was covered with layers of sticky notes.

“Quickly, please help me,” Doctor Dan said to those of us standing closest to Paul as he began pulling off the sticky notes.

“What are these?” I asked as I yanked them off by the handfuls.

“Something too heavy for any artist to carry. Something the rest of us leave in the Father’s mailbox every night before we go home.”

I glanced at the notes in my hands. I recognized the words on one of them; they were my own. “Paul, your poetry captures dreams and turns them into words.”

I read a few more, all of them praise, most in prose far more eloquent than my own.

“A man is tested by his praise,” Doctor Dan muttered grimly as he kept working. “Who was responsible for this man’s orientation?”

We looked at each other. No one had told Paul about the mailbox? The poor man had been hoarding praise, keeping all those compliments for himself?

Doctor Dan pulled the last of the notes from Paul’s back. Paul stirred and began to cry. The sun shone through his tears and made a rainbow.

We drifted off to our work-play as Doctor Dan quietly told Paul about the Father’s mailbox and how each night before we went home we whispered Psalm 115:1 and put into the mailbox all the praise given to us that day.

Paul was weak, content to sit in the sun, feel the grass carpet under his bare feet, and eat the nourishing soup Catherine created for him.

That night we began a new tradition around the campfire. As the flames died down to embers, we stood, hands clasped over our hearts, and chanted together, “Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy name give glory, for thy mercy, and for thy truth’s sake.”

I was young then, and now I am old. I haven’t seen another case of praise poison and almost destroy an artist, but just in case someone else misses orientation, we still recite our fireside chant. Paul, our beautiful old poet laureate, reminds us to stop by the Father’s mailbox before we leave each night.

And that is how our souls stay young and light enough to laugh and create. Our bodies slow and sag, but we are still joyful children, playing in the Father’s Backyard. Come join us!

Photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer

The Tale of Two Trees

by Donna Poole

It was a Very Dark Year.

The round, plump Grandma who loved to laugh and talked a lot, got sick and slept a lot. Grandma had cancer.

She lost all her hair; she wasn’t so round and plump anymore, and she wore a funny little hat to keep her head warm.

“I look like a lawn ornament!” Grandma laughed. “A yard gnome.”

Grandma got quieter. On her hardest days, Grandma didn’t have enough strength to say many words.

But inside, Grandma was still the Grandma who laughed. And she talked a lot to herself and to God.

“Please, God,” she whispered, “let me have Family Christmas.”

She wanted to have Family Christmas like she always had for her four kids, her four in-law kids, and for her thirteen grandkids. Grandma was never too sick to smile when she thought of her grandchildren.

Family Christmas was going to happen, a week after Christmas Day! This would be their oldest grandchild’s twenty-second Family Christmas at Grandpa and Grandma’s, and it would be the youngest one’s first. Grandma wanted it to be the perfect Family Christmas. Just in case, it had to be the best Family Christmas ever.

When she could stay awake long enough Grandma had fun thinking of each family member and ordering gifts. Packages she’d ordered came in the mail. On her good days, Grandma couldn’t wait to open them. On her bad days, the boxes and envelopes sat neglected until she felt strong enough to look at them.

But, good days or bad days, Grandma thought about the Christmas tree. Grandma loved Christmas trees, especially ones with lots of lights. They reminded her that Jesus is the Light of the world. Grandma loved Christmas lights. On this Very Dark Year, she wanted more lights on the tree than ever before.

Grandma couldn’t wait until the day after Thanksgiving, the day they always got the tree. Youngest Daughter always picked out the tree; it was part of the tradition.

Every year Grandma told Youngest Daughter, “I love this tree. It’s the prettiest tree we’ve ever had!”

This Very Dark Year, because of Covid, Youngest Daughter couldn’t pick out the tree. Grandpa paid for a tree over the phone and a man at the Christmas tree farm chose a tree and put it in the truck when Grandpa drove up.

Grandma didn’t ride along to get the tree like she usually did; she stayed home and took a long nap. But when Grandpa brought the tree in the house, she was as excited as a little girl. That’s what Grandmas are, you know, just very old little girls.

“It’s beautiful!” she said. “I love it.”

Grandma didn’t say, “It’s the prettiest tree we’ve ever had,” because Youngest Daughter hadn’t picked it out.

As soon as Grandpa put the tall, lovely tree into the tree stand, it began to drop its needles.

“Maybe the man at the tree farm forgot to shake the tree before he put it into the truck,” Grandpa said.

“Maybe,” the family agreed.

But they doubted that was the problem. Too many needles were falling.

Grandpa put on many, many lights, perfect for the Very Dark Year. Grandma smiled and remembered Jesus is the Light of the world.

Grandpa put the lighted star on the top of the tree, but it fell to the floor and broke.

Grandma looked at the fifty-year old star as it lay in pieces. It was a rotating star that flashed colored lights on the ceiling and walls. She was sad, but she didn’t want Grandpa to feel bad. It had already been hard enough for him this Very Dark Year.

“It’s okay, honey,” Grandma said. “We can put something else on top of the tree.”

Grandpa, famous for fixing things, just smiled. “I can fix it,” he said. “I can glue it back together.”

And he did. Grandma smiled at him.

“I wish I could fix you,” he whispered in her ear.

“God can fix me if He wants to,” she whispered back.

“I know, honey.” He hugged her. And the Very Dark Year was not so Dark.

Grandpa, Youngest Daughter, Youngest Son-in-Law, and Grandma decorated the tall, beautiful tree. Grandma didn’t do as much as the rest. She got tired and watched, but it was a wonderful day.

Grandma loved looking at the tree and all the beautiful decorations Youngest Daughter had put around the house. Had any Christmas been so lovely? She didn’t think so.

But she felt uneasy when every day Youngest Daughter swept up the growing pile of needles under the tree.

“You’re sick like I am, aren’t you?” Grandma asked the tree when no one could hear her. “I feel sad for you. Can you try to stay for Family Christmas? I know we don’t need a tree, but I love your lights. You remind me that Jesus is the Light of the world. And my grandchildren are used to seeing their gifts under a tree. I want this to be the perfect family Christmas, one for them to remember, you know, Just in Case.”

Grandma didn’t have to tell the tree what she meant by “Just in Case.” He knew.

Another of the lovely branches dipped toward the floor. “I want you to have the best Family Christmas ever, and you will, if I am here or not. But I will try my best to stay. That’s all any of us can do, is try.”

Grandma heard Grandpa tell Youngest Daughter the tree was starting to be a fire hazard and they needed to throw it out.

“Not yet, please not yet,” Grandma begged. “I need him for Family Christmas. Could we just not light the tree again until then and light it one more time that day?”

Grandpa looked at her sadly. “Not unless you want to burn the house down and have no Family Christmas at all.”

One day Grandma got up from a long nap. Youngest Daughter had undecorated the tree and she and Grandpa were taking him out the door.

“I tried to stay for you,” the tree whispered to her, “but I got too old and sick. It’s okay. You don’t need me to light the Very Dark Year. You will have a wonderful Family Christmas.”

Grandma knew the tree had to leave, but her eyes filled with tears. Thank you for trying your best, beautiful tree. That’s all any of us can do, is try.

Now there would be no tree for Family Christmas.

Grandma didn’t know Youngest Daughter had a plan.

Youngest Daughter had contacted the Christmas tree farms and had explained about the cancer and the Family Christmas and how much the Grandma wanted a tree.

“Do you have any trees left for sale?” Youngest Daughter had asked.

Christmas Day had passed. “I am sorry, we don’t.”

A lady who worked at one Christmas tree farm had said, “I am done with my tree, and it is still very much alive. You can have it if you want it.”

Youngest Daughter and Grandpa went and got the tree. It was a lot shorter than the first tree. The lights that had been enough for the first tree were dazzling on the smaller one. It almost made Grandma forget the Very Dark Year.

Grandma was having one of her good days. She and Youngest Daughter decorated the second tree.

Youngest Daughter smiled at her. “I know how much it meant to you to have a tree here for the grandkids. I had to get you a tree. So, in a way, I guess you could say I picked this one out. Do you like it?”

“I love it!” Grandma said. “It’s the prettiest tree we’ve ever had!”

And it was true, even though it was short and a little crooked. Grandma laughed when she and the tree were alone.

“You’re just like me,” she said to the tree, “short and leaning to one side, like I do when I walk. You look like a gnome yard ornament too.”

The little tree smiled back at her, glowing with light.

Finally, the day Grandma had waited for all year came. It was Family Christmas. The house was full of light, love, and laughter. Grandma tried to memorize every smile. She watched each family member open a stocking or a gift. She cried happy tears when a grandson read Luke 2, the most beautiful, and the truest of all stories.

Grandma listened to the kind words her family said to her and to each other. The Very Dark Year slunk out the door; it couldn’t live in so much light.

It was the best Family Christmas ever, one to remember, Just in Case.

The little tree lived on and on. Grandma didn’t want to take it down. She sat alone in the dark living room, several nights after Family Christmas, enjoying the lights on the tree and thinking.

What an unusual year. It wasn’t all dark. We had so many blessings. We even had two Christmas trees! I bet that won’t happen next year.

Suddenly, Grandma realized she was planning next year’s Family Christmas. It would be the best one ever.

What I Flunked and Didn’t

by Donna Poole

Danny finished second grade with excellent grades in every subject, so we were surprised when he flunked his first test in third grade, then his second, and then his third. When he’d failed his first test in every subject his dad talked to him.

“Danny, you were getting really good grades when school ended a few months ago. Now you’re flunking everything. What happened?”

Our golden-haired, fun-loving boy with the charming dimples flashed his dad a smile.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think something must have happened to my brain over the summer!”

When his dad told Danny what was going to happen to him if he didn’t start studying, he failed no more tests. His brain made a sudden and remarkable recovery.

My first bright red “F” on my report card devastated me. I was in second grade and couldn’t even read the word “cat”, so I’m not sure why the F in reading surprised me, but it did. I kept looking at it, hoping it would disappear before I got home and had to show it to Mom, but no such luck.

Mom taught me to read by methods I don’t recommend, but I did quite well in school after that. I didn’t flunk anything else until high school. After breezing through Latin I with all A’s, I started Latin II with confidence.

Before long I was muttering with the rest of the students who were struggling, “Latin is a dead language, dead as it can be; first it killed Julius Caesar, and now it’s killing me.”

When Mom learned I was failing not only Latin but also chemistry, she ordered me to quit every “unnecessary” activity and class, including band.

I loved band. I played third clarinet last chair, and our band director, Mr. Pinto, often told me, “Piarulli, it’s a good thing for you I don’t need one less clarinet.”

Even though the band would be better off without me, Mr. Pinto felt bad for me when I told him I had to quit. He didn’t agree that music was “unnecessary.”

“Give me your phone number. I’ll call your mom. I never yet met a mom I couldn’t reason with.”

“That’s because you haven’t met my mom.”

Mom didn’t mention the call, and I was afraid to ask, so I showed up at band the next day at the usual time, hoping against hope.

Mr. Pinto shook his head. “I’m sorry, Piarulli. Now I’ve met a mom I can’t reason with.”

Despite Mom’s best efforts, I flunked Latin and Chemistry and had to repeat them the next year. I still graduated with a good grade point average because of high grades in the classes I liked. I hadn’t yet learned life doesn’t just give us classes we like.

I worked hard for my college education; one semester I worked sixty hours between three jobs and took nineteen credit hours at school. I couldn’t keep that pace for long, but I always worked full time and took a full load of classes. I enjoyed learning.

I started my college missions’ class with anticipation. I’m fascinated with biography and expected to learn about heroic lives. Instead, I found long lists of facts and figures to memorize: how long had this and that mission been in this and that country and how many missionaries did they have here and there?

“It’s a sin!” I complained to John. “That class should motivate people to go into missions not bore them to death!”

I dropped missions with a WF—withdraw failing. Twice.

In our last year of college John said, “You do know that missions is a required class, right? You can’t graduate without it.”

“What?!”

Back I went to missions’ class, this time expecting our first baby, but my attitude hadn’t improved. Looking back, I’m sure the problem was me, not the class. Many fine missionaries came out of that class.

I barely passed missions, but our first baby and I got our diploma two months before she was born.

Recently I flunked something else, R-chop chemotherapy. R-chop is an acronym for a combination of chemo drugs given to fight cancer. I put up with all the nasty chemo side effects, confident it would work. I’d never heard of it not working.

Sometimes chemotherapy doesn’t work, and it didn’t work on me. Morticia, the name I’ve given my lymphoma lung tumor, had the nerve to grow during those brutal treatments. Like a giant Pac-Man, she gobbled up that chemo for lunch.

Another big red F for me, I failed chemotherapy!

Next came radiation treatments, but my doctor stopped those early when they affected my esophagus. So, I flunked radiation too!

I love the crafty sign at the radiation check in desk at the University of Michigan Hospital. It says “hope.”

John and I have been quoting a college acquaintance of ours who recently died of lymphoma: “Now is the time to practice our theology.”

What theology? We believe God loves us and we can trust Him in the dark, and that gives us hope.

Darkness is a test of faith, and one I don’t want to flunk, but sometimes I do, for a minute or two.

In the middle of the night I sometimes whisper, “God, are you even here?”

The answer comes, “I will never leave you or forsake you.” –Hebrews 13:5

God is with me while I wait for the doctors to decide what to try now.

I don’t know what comes next for me; you don’t know what comes next for you. But the big test is coming for all of us, you know, the one we can’t afford to flunk because our eternity depends on it.

That test has just one question: Why should God let me into heaven?

I can never be enough or do enough to meet God’s standards, and I’m glad I don’t even have to try. As my substitute, Jesus lived the life I should have lived and died the death I deserved. Good news! That’s true for you too.

“For by grace are ye saved through faith; and not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast.” –Ephesians 2:8-9

I’ve flunked a few things in my time; reading, Latin, chemistry, missions, chemotherapy, and radiation. I passed my driver’s test only because an angel with a golden trumpet tucked under his arm swooped out of the sky and parallel parked the car for me. Don’t laugh; it’s the one and only time I ever managed that feat. If it wasn’t an angel with a golden trumpet, what was it?

I don’t know how soon I’ll knock on heaven’s gate, but if Peter or someone asks me, “Why should we let the likes of you into a place like this?” I know the answer; I’m jumping up and down like a kid because I know the answer, and I pray you do too!

Let me in because Jesus paid it all! Eternal life, joy, and happiness are mine because I repented of my sin, turned to God, and accepted His gift of salvation!

Then, that beautiful gate will swing wide, and I’ll find all the love and joy I’ve ever lost and more than I can imagine besides!

Maybe the angel with the golden trumpet will proclaim, “Here she is, the girl who flunked a few too many tests on earth, but she passed life’s final exam!”

Please, be ready to pass life’s final exam! I really want to spend eternity with all the people I love, no one missing from the joyful circle.

Sign at the radiation check in desk

Here We Go Again!

by Donna Poole

Media, especially social media, is gloomier than Michigan in January, and that’s saying a lot.

Michigan has many superlatives. For one thing we have the longest freshwater coastline in the world, 3,288 miles of it. We’re a big old peninsula surrounded by four of the five Great Lakes, and that’s wonderful, but all that water causes gloomy, cloudy days in November, December, and January.

If Michiganders aren’t careful, gloom seeps right into our bones and turns us all into Eeyores, the dismal donkey of Winnie the Pooh fame.

Media, especially social media, is gloomier than Eeyore, and that’s saying a lot.

I saw a meme—we Boomers used to call them cartoons—that made me feel like laughing and crying. A woman jumped out of a window in a burning building labeled 2020, landed on a fireman’s trampoline, and catapulted into another window in a burning building tagged 2021.

We get that; don’t we? Are we, perhaps, a bit jaded and gloomy after the year we just finished?

And yet, hope remains. It might peek out for just a minute a day, like the Michigan sunshine did on a recent morning; it might be tattered and jagged, but it’s there.

I saw bright sunshine amidst Facebook gloom today. A friend posted a Tigger minute: “Addicted to hope.”  

“Me too!” I commented. It’s poor grammar; I know I should say, “I am also,” but “me too!” seemed more cheerful and Tiggerish.

I am addicted to hope.

Hope is why we read mystery books, put together puzzles, or play Spider Solitaire. We like to see complicated, hopeless things come together in a satisfactory conclusion. We long for all the things we aren’t finding in current events or perhaps even in our own lives: peace, answers, and everything in its proper place. We’re desperate to find that one puzzle piece missing under the table.

Hope sneaks up on us when we smell a trailer load of new lumber, or open a new notebook, or turn the first page of a book. Hope and anticipation are almost inseparable. Many new things inspire hope; there’s a reason a new year is often depicted as a baby.

It’s hope that makes us try that exercise program in one more effort to rid ourselves of the SpongeBob SquarePants silhouette.

It’s hope that makes me pick up my tiny, two-pound weights. I want to regain a little of the strength cancer is stealing. And I want to do something about this skin that kind of just lies here next to me in a puddle. I’m sorry about that word picture; blame my niece, Sheri.

Years ago, when she was still in school, Sheri worked at a nursing home. “I like my patients, but their skin! It just lies there next to them.”

Now I’m one of those people; cancer caused weight loss too fast. I hope to do something about that skin. What, I don’t know, except laugh and remember Sheri!

Laughter aside, I do have serious hopes for 2021, and I’m sure you do too. I know we’re all beyond tired of the fighting and the violence. We hope for many things to change in the world and in our lives.

We could easily give into hopelessness when dreams not only shatter around us but almost crush the life out of us when they fall.

Sin and suffering are a creeping darkness enfolding our planet, but even for that, there is hope.

I looked but can’t find the George MacDonald quote where he wrote that sin and her children; sorrow and suffering, are sickly and dying, but joy and her children are strong and will live forever. That’s hope!

Faith, hope, and love entwine in a strong three-fold cord in the Christian’s heart (I Corinthians 12:13). The King James Bible uses the word “hope” 129 times!

Hope is the one thing we can’t live without.

My heart paraphrases Psalm 43:5, “Why are you sad and upset, oh my soul? Hope in God!”

Unlike politics, health, exercise programs, or dreams, hope in God is a sure thing. God never fails. For those who know Him, far, far better things are coming than we have the imagination to even begin to hope for.

So, here we go again! So far, 2021 looks as bleak or bleaker than 2020, but only if we leave God and hope out of the equation. That I don’t intend to do. I’ve had enough of cloudy, gloomy days. I’m ready to sit in the sunshine of hope. Anyone want to sit with me?

It’s a Girl! It’s a Boy! It’s a Book?

by Donna Poole

“Why couldn’t I have sent them to my family?” I worried to John after his mom called me.

“Donna, the birth announcements you sent us and our family and friends?”

“Yes?”

I waited, expecting John’s mom to praise the patriotic announcements John had chosen, red, white, and blue, with the words, “Our First Lady.” Praise wasn’t her response.

“You forgot to fill them out. They are empty. No name, no birth weight, Nothing.”

I apologized profusely. I knew I was tired, but I didn’t know I was that tired. Back then I didn’t even have the excuse of brain surgery to offer! In my exhaustion, I thought I’d completed all the announcements, but I’d only filled out half of them. My family got the half with the information; John’s family got the blank ones.

Two boys and another girl followed “Our First Lady”, and I double checked to be sure the announcements had the pertinent information before we took them to the post office!

There’s nothing like having a new baby, unless it’s having a book baby!

Having a baby and writing a book have a few things in common.

Babies and books both arrive with pain. Both keep you awake at night. Both capture your hopes and dreams. Both have minds of their own; there’s no pouring them into your mold. You send both off into the world with prayers they will help and bless others.

If the Creek Don’t Rise is my newest book baby. It’s a stand-alone read, but it’s also book two in the Corners Church series.

The characters in If the Creek Don’t Rise are fiction, but they seem real to me. They captured my heart with their brokenness because I too have been broken, body, soul, and spirit. The glorious, redeeming truth is that God delights to use broken people.

The Pharisee who pounded his chest with pride and thanked God that he was not like “this publican” doesn’t capture my heart. I cry with the broken publican who heard him and wept, “God be merciful to me, a sinner.”

The elder brother in the story of the Prodigal Son is a bit too perfect to be one of my people. I love the younger son who comes trudging up the dusty road, weary in body and spirit, only able to frame the words, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

I love the broken people in the Bible because I am broken people. Aren’t we all? How wonderful for us, how beautiful, that we have a loving Father who runs to welcome us when we repent and turn toward home!

So, here is the birth announcement for my new book baby, a story of broken people:

If the Creek Don’t Rise

Publication date: December 27, 2020

Print length: 254 pages

Readers: wanted

Available: on Amazon; paperback, and Kindle

Christmas Eve with Mary

Fireside Thoughts

by Donna Poole

He, Yahweh, the Name too sacred to speak, had given her a task.
She wasn’t sorry she’d said yes to Him. But she was tired.

She hadn’t known before people could be this tired, too tired to cry.

But she had faith, and so she endured as seeing Him Who is invisible.

On and on she plodded through the darkness with Joseph. Surely, after all these days of travel, Bethlehem must be close.
Yes! There it was, just ahead.
And then the first labor pain hit. A moan escaped her lips.

“Mary?”

She nodded mutely, and Joseph looked worried, this gentle, quiet man who trusted her and God against all reason.

Mary loved her husband, but as the second labor pain tightened she felt lonely. She wanted her mother, her cousin Elisabeth, any woman family member. Mary had never birthed a baby; she had no idea what to do. Joseph was a carpenter, not even a farmer whose knowledge of livestock birthing might have helped.

She hadn’t known before people could feel this lonely.

But she had faith, and so she endured as seeing Him Who is invisible.

A fear she could taste replaced loneliness as one after another turned Joseph away. Must she give birth in this street crowded with pushing, gawking strangers? Was this how God took care of those who said yes to Him?

She hadn’t known before people could feel this terror.

But she had faith, and so she endured as seeing Him Who is invisible.

Finally, a resting place! The stable looked crude, but at least she’d have some privacy and not a minute too soon. Now there was nothing left in the world but pain; no yesterday, no tomorrow, only this unbearable agony.

She hadn’t known before people could suffer like this.

But she had faith, and so she endured as seeing Him Who is invisible.

Then it was over. Joseph placed the baby in her arms. She gazed into His tiny face and cried with joy.

She hadn’t known before people could love like this.

How could this be? She was seeing the God-man,

the

invisible

made

visible.

She hadn’t known before people could worship like this.

“Thou shalt call his name Jesus: for he shall save his people from their sins.” —Matthew 1:21

Glory! Glory to God in the highest!

Goodbye Santa

by Donna Poole

Ellie Porter trudged home from work through the dirty city snow. The wind chill was a bitter minus twenty and her worn coat barely cut the chill, but she wasn’t about to spend money on bus fare, especially now.

“Well, Grandma,” she muttered, teeth chattering, “at least I won’t have to make this freezing walk for the next six weeks. How’s that for playing your Glad Game? But I won’t get a paycheck for six weeks either.”

Ellie’s grandma had raised her after her mom had died when Ellie had been a toddler. The paramedics who’d responded to calls from worried neighbors had found Ellie lying next to her mother, crying. They estimated she’d been there for two days. Ellie had no memory of it or her mother. Her childhood memories were of happy, carefree summer days on the farm with Grandma, of decorated cedar trees, church music, and turkey dinners at Christmas. There were always gifts under the tree from Santa, a doll, clothes, a new book.

Grandma loved books and told Ellie her mom had too.

“Your mom named you for Eleanor Porter. She was the author who wrote Pollyanna in 1913.”

“Is Pollyanna your favorite book, Grandma? Is that why you read it to me all the time?”

Grandma had smiled. “The Bible is my favorite book, but I do love Pollyanna. We’re going to have to buy a new copy soon. This one is worn out from all the times I read it to your mother and now to you.”

Whenever Ellie was sick or sad, Grandma said, “Play Pollyanna’s Glad Game. Let’s find something to be glad about.”

Ellie didn’t like the book nearly as well as Grandma did, and she strongly disliked the Glad Game, but the year she turned ten she found a beautifully illustrated copy of Pollyanna under the cedar tree. The book’s inscription said, “Never get too old for the Glad Game. Love, Santa.”

Ellie had already been suspicious about Santa and almost asked Grandma why Santa’s handwriting looked so much like hers, but she didn’t.

Grandma died suddenly before New Year’s Day, and Santa died too. Ellie spent the next eight years in foster homes. She seldom spoke of those years. Her twelve-year old daughter, Roxie, was the result of living in one of those homes, and the foster father was in jail.

Ellie adored her daughter.

If only Roxie could have a Christmas like the ones I had with Grandma, with a cedar tree, turkey dinner, and a new book.

That thought had become an obsession this year. Ellie had laughingly even voiced it to a “Santa” who had passed through her line where she worked in a booth as a parking lot attendant at the hospital.

“And what do you want for Christmas, ma’am?”

“Goodbye, Santa.” She had laughed at him. “I don’t believe in you.”

“That doesn’t matter; I believe in you.”

He was so young and looked so serious in his red Santa suit. He must have a good heart; he was volunteering his time to cheer up children in the hospital. Why make him feel bad?

“Okay, Santa. I want a cedar tree, a turkey dinner, and a new book for my daughter.”

“A cedar tree? Not one of the beautiful Fraser Firs they sell in the lots near here?”

She shook her head. “Nope. A scraggly cedar like the kind that grew on Grandma’s farm.”

The driver behind “Santa” honked his horn.

Santa chuckled an authentic ho ho ho. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Right. Goodbye, Santa.”

That had been two weeks ago. Now, two weeks before Christmas, the hospital laid off all the parking lot attendants for at least six weeks. Because of COVID 19 they decided to use the kiosk only system to help prevent the spread of the virus.  

“Wonderful timing, just great,” Ellie muttered as she continued plodding through the dirty snow. She stopped to catch her breath, pulled her collar up under her chin, and noticed a church sign and a manger scene. The three kings were close to baby Jesus, but the shepherds were outside the enclosure and had been splattered with salt and dirt from tires.

“This is all wrong,” Ellie said to the shepherds. “You’re supposed to be close to baby Jesus. Those kings didn’t even show up until sometime later when Mary, Joseph, and Jesus were in a rented house. You’re getting a raw deal. And now I’m talking to wood carved nativity figures.”

Ellie started laughing. She looked closely at the shepherds. The artist had done a beautiful job. The years of hard work and suffering lined their faces, but so did their awe and joy as they looked at the Christ Child.

Ellie looked at baby Jesus herself. She knew the story was the truest ever told, the one that offered hope in the mess of life. Ellie remembered baby Jesus had become a man who’d willingly suffered and died on a cross to take the punishment for the sin of the world.

“You never stepped out of the mess of my life, Jesus,” she whispered, “but I said goodbye to you too. Roxie doesn’t know a thing about you.”

The church sign advertised a Christmas Eve Candlelight service.

Ellie didn’t have Grandma’s cedar tree, turkey dinner, or a new book to offer Roxie, but she could share Grandma’s faith. She’d bring Roxie to this candlelight service, just like Grandma had taken her to one at a little country church.

Ellie kept walking. It was still too cold; her coat was still too thin, and her life was still a mess. But strangely, she felt stirrings of hope and joy despite everything.

As Ellie walked up the flight of stairs to her apartment, she caught a scent of cedar and laughed at herself. “First I talk to nativity figures; now I smell invisible trees.”

She pulled her key from her bag, looked up, and almost rubbed her eyes. It couldn’t be, but it was. She saw a small cedar tree with scraggly branches propped against her door. Next to it sat a box with a turkey and everything she needed to make Christmas dinner. Could there be a book too? She looked, no book. Well, it was still a Christmas miracle. She’d give Roxie the beautiful copy of Pollyanna Grandma had given her and teach her the Glad Game.

This was the real world, not a make believe one. Where exactly had these gifts come from? They couldn’t have been here long, not in this apartment building; someone would have walked off with them. Ellie looked down the hallway. Was she imagining that flash of red disappearing around the corner?

She chuckled. “Goodbye, Santa!”

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Christmas Adventures

by Donna Poole

“We’re taking Potters and going to Adrian. You guys want to come?”

“Are you crazy? In this snowstorm?”

“Well, Meijer has an awesome sale on BB guns with a coupon, one per customer, until they run out of the guns.”

“No thanks, we’ll stay here! Unless you need us?”

“No, Potters have a coupon, and we do, so we can get guns for Johnnie and Danny. We don’t need you; we just want you!”

Kathy La-Follette laughed. “We love you, but we aren’t crazy. We’ll see you when it isn’t a blizzard.”

We picked up Pastor Potter and Audrey in our old Dodge Aspen station wagon. Off we went through drifting snow on beautiful but treacherous roads, laughing all the way. We got the coveted BB guns and made it home safely, sure La-Follettes would regret not going with us when they heard how much fun we’d had. La-Follettes didn’t regret it. Like I said, they weren’t crazy.

Oh, the crazy stories that old Dodge Aspen could tell! One winter I kept complaining my feet were cold.

“I don’t understand why your feet are cold, honey. I have the heat all the way up, and I’m too warm,” John said.

Then he crawled under the car to change the oil and found the floor on my side was almost gone; there was just a wet, frozen carpet. He pop-riveted a piece of metal to make a floor on my side. The third seat of the car, where the boys sat, faced backward. There was no heat back there, and their shoes froze to the floor.

But what fun we had in that old car! It served us well for a long time. One year the boys bought a set of battery Christmas lights for our annual trip to New York to visit family. They strung them in the window and felt as festive as two of Santa’s elves, even though they had no feeling in their feet.

We took that old car to pick up many of our Christmas trees, cedar trees Bud Smith let us cut in one of his fields. Some years the trees were more brown than green, but they always smelled wonderful.

Bud always said we could cut any tree we wanted. I remember one year, walking through the field, my hands frozen inside my mittens, while John looked at every tree. Finally, he found one he liked. He cut it; it fell with a satisfying thud, and separated into two trees, both quite ugly. We laughed, chose the lesser of two evils, and took it home—home where in winter it got so cold John’s books on the end of the shelves froze to the walls.

The kids didn’t think the cedars looked much like “real” Christmas trees. They sang, “Oh, Christmas bush, oh, Christmas bush, how lovely are thy branches.”

Decked out with our homemade ornaments, the cedar trees looked perfect in the little house we lived in then. We enjoyed mostly homemade Christmases back then. We always managed a few store-bought gifts, thanks to the generosity of our church family who gave their pastor an envelope of cash every Christmas, money they could little afford to give! We filled in with handmade gifts those years.

I can still see the kids in their blanket sleepers with holes in the knees on Christmas morning, holding their hands over the kerosene heater to get warm, and looking at the tree with its few gifts with stars in their eyes.

Before we opened gifts, John always read Luke 2:1-14:

“And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.

(And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)

And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.

And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)

To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.

And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.

And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

10 And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

12 And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

14 Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

And then, even before anyone opened a gift, it was Christmas!

Danny was about eight years old the year of the BB guns; Johnnie ten, and Angie thirteen. She opened a beautiful pair of white ice skates. Kimmee wasn’t born yet.

Now we celebrate Christmas in a bigger home with a Fraser Fir tree. When the whole family can gather there are twenty-three of us. No one stands around a kerosene heater to keep warm; we get too warm with the gas fireplace.

Some things stay the same. Thirteen grandchildren look at wrapped gifts with starry eyes, and before we begin, John hands the Bible to our oldest grandson. Reece, thirteen-years old this year, reads Luke 2:1-14, and then, before anyone pulls wrapping paper from the first gift, it is already Christmas.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Blessings Then Blessings Now

by Donna Poole

John locked the church door the Wednesday night before our first Thanksgiving at our little country church. We didn’t have any outside lighting at the church yet, so we held on each other and two-year-old Angie, laughing our way in the dark, trying to get to the car without falling. Johnnie was due to arrive in less than a month and my balance was precarious at best.

Our old car didn’t have a chance to warm up on the short drive home on the dirt roads. We were still shivering when we pulled into the driveway of the little farm tenant house the church rented for us to use as a parsonage.

“Honey, look at all the cars!” I said.

“Looks like everyone who was at prayer meeting and lots of people who weren’t,” John answered.

Prayer meeting didn’t start until 8 p.m. back in those days to give the farmers a chance to finish chores. By now it was well after nine o’clock. We were puzzled by the unexpected company so late. Many of them had to be up well before dawn to begin milking.

We were even more surprised when they all followed us in the house carrying boxes and paper sacks. They piled the packages on our table and on the floor around it.

They smiled at us. “Well, aren’t you going to unpack everything?” someone asked.

Our wonderful church people watched as we unpacked more groceries than our little house had room to hold: flour, sugar, soups, pasta, potatoes, spaghetti sauce, peanut butter, jelly, coffee, home canned goods, milk, butter, eggs, apples, and bags and bags of meat; turkey, chicken, hamburger, roasts, and steaks. They hadn’t forgotten Angie either; she squealed with joy when she found treats they had packed just for her.

John and I looked at each other trying to hold back tears. How many times had we stood in the aisle at the grocery store trying to decide whether to put back the coffee or the toilet paper? We knew the coffee had to go, but oh it was hard putting it back on the shelf. Bills came first; food came last. Now we had so much food we didn’t know where to put it all. Our church people couldn’t pay us much back in those days, but we weren’t going to go hungry that winter.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” they said. They hugged us and left. Then we cried.

There were many lean years like that at our country church, years when we saw God’s hand in a visible way meeting our needs week by week. Finally, the congregation grew large enough to give John raises. I began getting regular assignments to write curriculum, and finances weren’t so lean.

Then came 2020. John lost some income. The company that had hired me on a regular basis for many years declared a one-year freeze on hiring. New bills tucked themselves into the mailbox with the old ones we were used to seeing each month.

But our faith never wavered, right? We know God far better now than those two kids who unpacked all that Thanksgiving food forty-seven years ago, right? When the fuel bills came, I never asked John how we were going to pay them, did I? When vehicles broke down again, when we had to make yet another trip to a doctor, hospital, or pharmacy, we trusted without a shadow of doubt, didn’t we?

Why do we sometimes act like orphans when we have such a loving heavenly Father?

I wish I could tell you all the wonderful, unexpected ways God has met our needs this year. If I start, I know I’ll leave someone out. But I’ll share just a few. One vehicle died, and someone gave us another one. Who does that? Twice a neighbor knocked on our door with a large gift of cash that he said came from him and “others.” We don’t know who the others are; but we thank them and God. Once he brought the gift right after someone had just asked John how we were going to pay the LP gas bill. That someone wasn’t me, was it?

In big and little ways, God has met our needs through the years. This 2020 year was a lean year, and yet, it wasn’t. We got to see God at work in a way we haven’t seen Him since we were much younger.

The Sunday before Thanksgiving John showed me two envelopes from our church people. “Happy Holidays” was written on the envelopes, and they were stuffed with cash. Most of our church family doesn’t have much to give, and we were overwhelmed when we counted the money. We also got a gift certificate to a local meat market.

John put that money right in the bank. We know another LP gas bill will come soon, and we’re sure that gift from our loving church family will more than cover it.

We were so blessed our first Thanksgiving, and we are so blessed now. We’re ending the year with all we need and then some.

We might not have the pay and retirement packages pastors of larger churches have, but we have something far better. We get to see the hand of God at work in our lives, up close and personal.

Life doesn’t get much better than that.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Over the River? Nope!

by Donna Poole

Our kids sang their Thanksgiving song for years when they were growing up, “Over the river and through the woods to Aunt Eve’s house we go!”

Those were the days, my friend. The guys borrowed tables and chairs from the church and set them up in Eve and Bruce’s basement. Women and girls crowded into the kitchen, laughing, talking, mashing potatoes, stirring gravy, and carrying a plethora of side dishes down the steep stairs to the basement where cousins played and waited for the feast to begin. Love, laughter, and gratitude filled the house. And then we quieted as Bruce prayed before we ate; God was with us, and we really thought those days would never end.

But end they did. Six years ago, Eve lost her battle with ovarian cancer and our hearts broke.

Thanksgiving moved to our home. I knew it would never be the same without Eve, and it wasn’t, but still, it was good to be together. The first year without Eve we shared some tears. There were tears too when a nephew lost his battle with cancer, but still, we found comfort, healing, and even joy in a day spent together thanking God for each other.

This year cancer came to visit me. I didn’t want to give up Thanksgiving, but I didn’t know how I could do it either. I shouldn’t have worried; our sweet daughter-in-law Mindy offered to host it. But then one family after another got sick and our beloved patriarch, Bruce, entered the hospital. For the first time in decades our family will not be going over the river and through the woods to gather anywhere to celebrate our blessings.

Our youngest daughter, Kimmee, lives with us, so she and her husband will celebrate Thanksgiving with John and me.

“Mom,” Kimmee said to me, “I’m sad. This is the first Thanksgiving of my life I won’t see Danny.”

I had a hard time holding back tears. Danny is our youngest son, and Mindy is his wife. We have four children, and they haven’t all been able to spend every Thanksgiving with us, but both Danny and Kimmee have. This is the first time since he was born that we won’t see Danny on Thanksgiving. It’s the first time since he married Mindy that we won’t see her. It’s the first time since their kids were born that we won’t see them! Megan, our oldest grandchild, has spent twenty-one Thanksgiving days with us.

Get a grip, Donna! Thanksgiving is not the time to whine and dine.

This year, the infamous 2020, forces me to dig deeper to find gratitude and joy. Since I started writing this article Bruce closed his eyes here and opened them in heaven. We cry because Bruce will never again join us at our Thanksgiving table or any table here, but we rejoice because we’ll join him where no shadow of sorrow will dim joy. Still, I’m tired of saying goodbye to people I love.

Since I started writing this our plans for Thanksgiving dinner for four evaporated. One of us has Covid-19 and pneumonia and is confined to his room, and the other three of us are in quarantine. We decided to wait for turkey and trimmings until we can sit together at a table.

Thanksgiving doesn’t look anything like I wanted it to. The year 2020 doesn’t look like anyone wanted it to!

So what now? Pity party time? Mindy sent me a great devotional today from proverbs31.org. In “Life is Too Short to Live Unhappy,” Tracie Miles wrote, “We can still make the intentional choice to be thankful for the life we have, even if it looks different than we want it to.”

I’m grateful for a loving, caring, wonderful family and church family. I’m grateful for a God who loves me and sent His Son to die for my sins, even my sin of silly ingratitude about one day that looks nothing like what I’d planned. I’m grateful for my husband of fifty-one years who has walked through fire and hasn’t lost his boyish sense of humor. I’m grateful for Kimmee who lives here and cooks and cleans and spoils me rotten. I’m grateful for the spectacular sunsets we’ve enjoyed this November. My gratitude list is endless!

And I’m grateful for you. Some of you started wandering these backroads with me from my first blog on November 3, 2019. We had no idea where those ramblings would take us, did we?  

So, for Thanksgiving 2020, let’s dig deeper. We’ll find gratitude and joy.

Thanksgiving 2021 will come. I’m planning on a full house. But for this year, I share with you something that made me laugh when I saw it on Facebook:

“As for me and my house we will stay where we at.”—1st Isolations 24:7

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Looking out the Window

by Donna Poole

It was a “Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day,” just like Alexander had in one of my favorite children’s books by Judith Viorst.

Nothing could make him happy. Our normally cheerful little grandson was still sobbing when they strapped him into his car seat. He was thinking of little boy problems doubtless as consuming to little boys as grandma problems are to grandmas. Ignoring the happy sounds of siblings, he kept crying.

Until the car slowed, and he looked out of his window.

They were in the McDonald’s drive-through! Sobs stopped, and with tears still wet on his cheeks he exclaimed, “I like people now!”

Strapped in our seats on this backroad journey Home, we may hide our sobs from others, but our troubles can consume our thoughts and emotions until we are too exhausted to even like people. We’re numb. If any Scripture verse resonates with us it’s, “Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.”

We might even mutter with the long dead Shakespeare:

“Double double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

We’re tired of the trouble, the fire, and the cauldron. Like my little grandson, head down, we ignore the happy sounds of siblings. Our focus is on our tears. Until we look out the window.

When we look out of the window our focus leaves ourselves and we find joy. We learn to say with Helen Keller who surely knew the sting of sorrow, “Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.”

Instead of sighing over “Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward,” we sing over Jesus’ words in John 16:33, “These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.”

I don’t know what the metaphorical window is that reunites you with joy, but mine is God, His Word, His creation, and His people. Sometimes a window opens when I read something breathtakingly beautiful written by one of God’s people.

This morning I read this by George MacDonald:

“The shadows of the evening that precedes a lovelier morning are drawing down around us both. But our God is in the shadow as in the shine, and all is and will be well. Have we not seen His glory in the face of Jesus? And do we not know him a little? . . . This life is a lovely school time, but I never was content with it. I look for better—oh, so far better! I think we do not yet know the joy of mere existence. To exist is to be a child of God; and to know it, to feel it, is to rejoice evermore. May the loving Father be near you and may you know it, and be perfectly at peace all the way into the home country, and to the palace home of the living one—the Life of our life.

“. . . My God, art Thou not as good as we are capable of imagining Thee? Shall we dream a better goodness than thou hast ever thought of? Be Thyself, and all is well with us.”

 My window is open a bit more now, and I see people who need my prayers. I like people. I love them. And that’s where I find joy.

Wanted: Kindness and Old Rags

by Donna Poole

What magical sounds, sights, or smells transport you back to your childhood? When I hear the words, “Once upon a time,” I’m instantly a child again. I love story; it captures elusive truth and hands it to me so I can carry it close to my heart.

Once upon a time the prophet, Jeremiah, dared to tell a terrible truth. Judah, his homeland, was at war with Babylon.

“Babylon is going to win this war,” Jeremiah proclaimed in a message from God. “Everyone who stays in Jerusalem will die, but those who leave and go over to the Babylonians will live.”

What? Defect to the enemy? Traitor! That’s how many people branded Jeremiah. His wasn’t a message any red-blooded patriot wanted to hear.

Some politicians who were members of the royal family were outraged. “Kill Jeremiah,” they said to King Zedekiah. “He’s bad for morale. He’s weakening the military and the people with his words.”

“Do what you want.” The king shrugged. “I’m not strong enough to stand against your wishes.”

The politicians wanted Jeremiah dead, but they didn’t want to murder him outright. That wouldn’t look good, and they didn’t want blood on their hands. So, they lowered him with ropes into a deep, narrow cistern where he sunk in mud. He could die a slow and painful death from exposure or starvation there, but they hadn’t exactly murdered him themselves, had they?

Shivering and miserable, stuck in mud and his own filth, unable to climb out of the pit, Jeremiah began the slow process of dying. What would claim him first, starvation or exposure? No wonder Jeremiah’s nickname was “the weeping prophet.”

What had he done to earn such terrible suffering? He’d told a hard truth God had instructed him to tell. He hadn’t liked sharing it; Jeremiah loved his country and wanted it to prosper as much as the next patriot. Now he was dying in agony, forgotten by God and man.

Or was he? God never forgets, and God always has a man.

Ebed-Melech, an Ethiopian servant, was God’s man.

Bravely, he told the king. “Those princes of yours have done a wicked thing. Jeremiah is starving to death.”

The easily influenced king said, “Take thirty men with you, and get Jeremiah out of that pit before he dies.”

It wouldn’t take thirty men to pull one emaciated prophet from a pit; the men were for protection.

Ebed-Melech grabbed some ropes and old rags and hurried to the pit.

Someone defined compassion as “your pain in my heart.” Ebed-Melech felt compassion. He must have imagined what it would feel like to be in so much pain, half starved, and then hauled up by ropes. How could he make it easier for Jeremiah?

“Put these rags under your arms so the ropes don’t cut into your skin,” he called down to Jeremiah. Then they hauled Jeremiah up to safety.

Wanted: Kindness and old rags.

It seems that kindness felt but not acted out turns to callousness. We see and hear of so much need, so much agony in the world around us. People are suffering in pits of pain, mentally, physically, emotionally. We hear it on the news; we read it on Facebook.

What would Ebed-Melech do? We might want to haul everyone out of pits; that we cannot do, but a little kindness goes a long way to someone suffering. I think old E.M., if he were alive today, would find a way to send a rag even if it were just by a card or a name breathed in prayer. And if he could do more, he would do that too.

I love story, and Paul Harvey’s “The Rest of the Story” was one of my favorites. What was the rest of the story for E.M.? Jerusalem did fall to Babylon, just as Jeremiah had said, but God spared E.M.’s life. You can read about it in Jeremiah 39:15-18.

Ebed-Melech wasn’t even his real name; those words just mean “servant of the king.”

Once upon a time, there was a nameless man, who did a great deed of kindness with a heartful of courage and a handful of old rags. I bow to you, E.M. We desperately need more of you in the hurting story our world is writing today. May your tribe increase!

Let Me Tell You

by Donna Poole

Let me tell you about our vacation last week.

We were once again on our way to the small hardware store in Nashville, Indiana.

“I’m sorry you aren’t getting the nice vacation I wanted for you, honey,” I said to John.

It started when we couldn’t get reservations at Brown County, our favorite Indiana campground. We went somewhere else the first night and arrived well after dark because of camper repairs John had to make before we could leave. As he struggled to back the camper into our site, a group of retired people sitting around a campfire across from us laughed jeeringly.

“And now the entertainment begins!” one of them said.

People can be so mean.

We arrived at the next campground while it was still light, and John had an easy time backing in.

“What is that big fenced in area right behind our camper?”

John laughed. “Airport.”

The trains we heard all night were even louder than the planes. John only slept a few hours anyway. He was up researching how to fix the wiring on a camper because we had no electricity. We discovered the next morning it wasn’t our camper; it was a faulty electric box at our site.

An exhausted John drove us on to Brown County. He’d tried to get our favorite remote site when he’d made reservations, but it was occupied. The only places available were in a crowded area, not our favorite way to camp, but at least we’d be at our beloved Brown County.

I’d prayed for sunny weather; it rained every day, sometimes non-stop. I’d asked for a restful time for my tired husband; instead, he had to fix something daily on our old truck or on ancient Bertha, our 1988 fifth wheel. I’m sure you don’t want me to bore you with the list of things he had to do, and some he spent hours on turned out to be unfixable.

I learned long ago that God is not a glorified Santa. He doesn’t give us everything we request. He gives us what we need, and when we don’t agree with Him, we better be the ones who change. I also learned that God sends blessings with every burden.

We met a few earth angels on vacation. You remember the people who laughed at John trying to back in the camper in the dark? John heard a quiet voice at his truck window. It wasn’t one of them.

“Like some help? A little more to the left. Now straighten it out. A bit more to the right. Okay, you’ve got it. Just go back about three feet.”

“Thank you so much!”

“Think nothing of it. People help me and I like to help them.”

People can be so kind.

God sent another earth angel too. John bought a part to repair the truck, and he’s pretty handy, but he’d never done this before.

Before he left for town to pick up the part I said, “Honey, see if you can find a garage to help you put it on.”

He wasn’t sure; he didn’t want to spend the money, but he agreed to try. He found a tiny garage.

“Could you put this part on for me?”

“I’d really like to help you out, but I’m swamped today. I just can’t.”

“Okay. Well thanks anyway.” John started back to the truck.

“Wait, Let’s see. What do you have there?”

John showed him the part.

“That won’t take long. I’ll do it for you.”

When he finished, John asked, “What do I owe you?”

“Oh, just give me ten bucks.”

Earth angel!

John gave him twenty.

There were more blessings. I was recovering from chemo number six and couldn’t stay awake, but I didn’t have to worry about John getting bored. He didn’t have time to do that!

The hospital called the day before we left to go camping and warned me that my numbers were low. I had to be careful of infection, avoid all public restrooms and couldn’t eat any takeout food. A tiny country store in the area makes delicious cinnamon rolls. John didn’t want to get them because he thought they would make me hungry. I assured him they wouldn’t; I was having to force myself to eat anything, and I love the backroads drive to that store. It’s an awesome drive through the Indiana hills. They call that area the Little Smokies.

We picked a morning when John wasn’t repairing something and headed for the store. John came back out laughing. “They didn’t make the rolls today. But they said they’ll have them tomorrow.”

“We’ll come back! The rolls can be your treat, and this beautiful drive can be mine!”

And we did go back, in the pouring rain yet again, and the drive was beautiful, and we were together.

I never finished what I started to say in this article. I’ll finish it now and you’ll see why I say John is the best earth angel I met on the trip.

We were once again on our way to the small hardware store in Nashville, Indiana.

“I’m sorry you aren’t getting the nice vacation I wanted for you, honey,” I said to John.

“What are you talking about? I’m having a wonderful time!”

This? This after crawling under wet things and getting cold and muddy and spending hours trying to fix things that couldn’t be fixed and being the hardware store’s best customer and getting no down time at all?

“Stop quick! Pull this truck over! Fast!”

He stepped on the brakes. “What’s wrong? Are you going to be sick?”

“I’m fine, but I’m getting out! I don’t ride in trucks with crazy people!”

I do ride with an earth angel though; he takes me to check ups and blood work and tests and chemo appointments. He took me to my last chemo yesterday. I hope I have many more years to backroads travel with him and all the many earth angels in my life.

My next PET scan is December 3 and I see the doctor for results December 7. I’m praying Morticia has exited my lungs and then I’ll hang up a NO vacancy sign so she doesn’t think of returning. I’m smiling and hopeful. God is not a glorified Santa. But whatever the news, God is good.

This cancer journey took me down a backroad I never expected to travel, but I have seen some beautiful things and met some wonderful people. Thank you for traveling it with me!

Photo Credit: John Poole
Photo Credit: John Poole

I Had a Little Chair

by Donna Poole

He was probably a perfectly nice man.

For some reason, my little sister, Mary, and I took an intense dislike to our neighbor. To show our disgust we dug worms we almost gagged to touch and threw them over the fence into his yard. He probably collected them to go fishing.

Mary and I often whispered about our neighbor as we dug worms. I wish I could remember why we didn’t like him, but it was too long ago. Neither of us were school age yet.

 I remember that day. That one day.

“Mary,” I whispered, “he is probably going to hell.

From some vague Sunday school teaching it occurred to me that if our obnoxious neighbor were going to hell someone should tell him so he wouldn’t go there. It couldn’t be me; I was only as high as his knee, and I was a strange, funny little kid, ready to dream up and execute any adventure regardless of consequences but painfully shy around anyone but family. I couldn’t possibly find courage to talk to aour neighbor.

Worm after disgusting worm, I couldn’t get rid of the thought. That horrible man is going to hell. My own sins of hatred and worm-throwing didn’t bother me in the least, but surely that terrible man had terrible sins that would send him to that terrible place.

“I’m going to tell him he’s going to hell,” I announced to Mary.

“You can’t,” she whispered. I’m imagining now how she looked, brown-black eyes huge in her beautiful little heart-shaped face.

She knew I would. We’d both heard the stories about me. We didn’t remember them happening, but they had to be true, because Mom told them.

According to Mom before I was two, I ate a pound of raw hamburger, an entire African Violet, and got into many other things the minute she turned her back. I locked her in the basement when she went down to hang the laundry and refused to turn the key to let her out. There she stayed the entire day, probably frantic about what I was doing and hoping I wasn’t feeding baby sister Mary raw hamburger and African Violets. When I was about two and a half and Mary fifteen months, I led us both on an adventure. Proudly pushing our doll carriages, we walked down the center line of one of the busiest roads in town.

If I’d done all that, I could do this. Someone had to tell our neighbor he was going to hell. I would. But how?

I had a little chair.

I walked into the house and got my little chair. Legs shaking, I carried it around the fence into our neighbor’s yard, put it down at his feet, and climbed up on it. I still remember his face. It said, isn’t that cute? That little neighbor girl brought her chair all the way over here to talk to me.

He didn’t look terrible; he looked amused and kind, and that almost stopped me, but only for a minute.

I stood on tiptoe, reached up, yanked his cigar out of his mouth, and threw it on the ground. “You are going to hell!” I yelled.

His amused, kind look turned hurt and shocked. And angry.

I jumped off my chair, picked it up, and headed for home as fast as I could go.

I remember feeling triumphant, like I’d done something brave, and good, and important. I felt sure everyone would be proud of me. But I had to keep pushing away how hurt my neighbor had looked.

Telephone calls travel faster than little girls with short chubby legs carrying chairs. Mom all but hauled me in the house. I’d had many spankings before and deserved them. But this one?

Wait! Didn’t she understand I’d done something fearless and noble that deserved praise?

There was a man in the Bible who had a little chair. He was a religious leader. He stood on his chair to pray, careful not to let his fine robe brush any part of the man on the ground next to him.

This high-ranking ruler lifted his arms toward God and shouted, “God, thank You for making me better than others. I thank you that I’m not like this sinner on the ground next to me!”

Getting off his chair, the religious ruler walked away.

The man on the ground didn’t even lift his face toward the sky. “God,” he whispered, “be merciful to me. A sinner.”

Jesus told the story; I added the chair. Jesus said which of the two men found mercy. Can you guess?

I see so many people on their little chairs shouting in each other’s faces, and I don’t think it will end when the polls close on November 3.

We find so many things to judge and criticize each other for, don’t we?

My little chair still follows me everywhere. As determined as I am never to get on it again, I sometimes do, at least in my thoughts. I’m relieved it’s not going to heaven with me!

So, do I believe in heaven and hell? With all my heart. I just don’t think screaming from a chair helps people find the right direction. A road sign shared with love might though. Here’s one.

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” –John 3:16

And my poor neighbor if you’re still alive somewhere and reading this, you doubtless wondered whatever happened to that incredibly rude child who had a little chair. She didn’t become the criminal you may have expected, she became a writer, and she asks you to forgive her. I hope that wasn’t an awfully expensive cigar.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Mosaics

by Donna Poole

“Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.”—Stanley Horowitz

Little did the poet guess when he penned those words for a 1983 edition of the Reader’s Digest how many thousands of photographers, painters, and writers he would inspire. Though many may not recognize his name, searches for Horowitz’s poem skyrocket on the internet each fall. The most current statistics I could find were from the New York Public Library in 2011: “A search of his name and the first line of the poem retrieved around 1,630,000 results.”

I can see why those lines are so loved, can’t you? The metaphor is gripping and beautiful and makes us think of the mosaic of our own lives. The artists among us do that; they grab us by the collar as we rush by, oblivious, and they whisper to us, “See.”

What do you see when you look back over the mosaic of your life? Memories grow hazy along the way and are colored by our personalities too; what we see depends on whether we look back with bitterness or a benediction.

I can’t remember all the names and faces of the people who’ve walked a mile or two with me on my backroads, but I know that they each have left a piece of themselves that is now the pattern of me. Time has smoothed many jagged pieces of glass in my mosaic, so they no longer hurt as they once did. Light shines brighter from behind some pieces reminding me of people and of why I loved them.

I bend down and run my fingers over the bright colors and smile at the memories forever preserved of our four children as babies, toddlers, teens, and young adults. I see their weddings. Among the brightest flashes of color in my mosaic are our thirteen grandchildren who refuse to stop moving, even in this still life art memory.

When I look back at the pieces in my mosaic, I remember smiles that warmed my heart, encouraging words spoken when I was exhausted from the long walk, and laughter that wove its beautiful wave of color around the darker times. I see so many prayers. I recall a line in a book here, a quote from a teacher there, a hug from a friend. Woven among all the years, laughter, and tears, I find God’s Word, because more than anything it has enriched my life.

I look ahead and wonder what colors will still add to my mosaic before the design is complete.

We add something to every life we touch. Is a look of kindness, a word of encouragement, a hug to dispel the fog of indifference too much to give? I want to give more and more as we walk each other Home. The tiny piece I add to the mosaic of someone’s life may glow for them far after I am gone.

It has been a beautiful autumn here in Michigan. I agree that “Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.”—Stanley Horowitz

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Seasons of a Marriage

by Donna Poole

“I’d like to buy a diamond ring, please.”

John was nineteen and looked much younger when he walked into Schooley’s Jewelry Store at 152 East State Street, Ithaca, New York. It was an old, well-established store and had been there since 1937.

The proprietor, Mr. Wrisley, was kind. He didn’t ask if John had any money, but he did ask how much he wanted to spend. Then he showed him several diamonds, from larger to smaller.

John’s eyes brightened when he saw the bigger diamonds. He hadn’t expected he could get anything like that for his money.

“Now I want to show you something,” Mr. Wrisley said. He gave John his eyepiece so John could see that the larger diamonds had many flaws, not visible to the naked eye, but easily seen through the eyepiece. One of the smaller diamonds looked perfect with no flaws.

Mr. Wrisley nodded. “It’s a pure diamond, perfect. It’s up to you. It depends on what you want.”

John never was all about show, but he does love perfect. He loves God’s perfection, and He loves that God makes us perfect in Him when we trust Jesus to save us from our sin. He thought the smaller diamond was a good symbol of what he wanted our marriage to be. He put down some money he’d saved from working his summer at Cornell University and promised to bring home money from his college job at Grand Union each paycheck until the ring was paid for. Mr. Wrisley agreed.

We married the summer we were twenty; it was the spring of our marriage. I wish I could tell you that like the ring it was always pure, perfect, and without flaws, but that would be a lie. We both had a lot of growing up to do. John’s mom wanted to do his laundry, and he insisted on spending every weekend at home so she could do it. I enjoyed visiting his wonderful parents, but every weekend seemed a bit excessive, especially because we were both going to college, working full time, and had little time to spend together during the week.

Like Ruth Graham said when a reporter asked her as she and Billy Graham, the famous evangelist celebrated their fiftieth anniversary, “Did you ever consider divorce?”

Her answer came quickly. “Not once.”

“Oh, come on. You must have thought of it at least once in fifty years.”

“Divorce? No! Murder? Yes!”

There wasn’t much we didn’t argue about, but the disputes were surface, silly, and passed as quickly as a spring shower. Our first year was tumultuous, but we loved each other fiercely, and had wonderful times as breathtaking as the most perfect of spring days.

Spring marriage days slid into summer, the wonderful years of raising our four children, or perhaps of them raising us.

Then came late summer. The kids married; the wonderful grandchildren began arriving, and we have thirteen of them now.

How quickly summer became fall. Everyone here in Michigan and my family in New York says they have never seen the leaves as beautiful as they have been this year, and I feel the same about the fall of our marriage. It has never been as lovely or connected as it is now.

Perhaps we are even in the winter of our marriage. Only God knows that.

John and I have walked down so many backroads together. Some roads have echoed with joy and laughter. Others have listened to our prayers and tears. But through all our journeys, our love has grown deeper, truer, purer, more like the ring John gave me fifty-two years ago.

Why is that?

John gives great advice when he does marriage counseling. He draws a triangle with three dots, one at each corner and one at the top. “The top of the triangle is God,” he tells the couple. “The dots at the sides are each of you. What happens as each of you moves up the sides of the triangle and gets closer to God?”

The answer is simple. The closer two people get to God, the closer they get to each other.

When I sit in on marriage counseling, I tell the couple a favorite quote, “Marriage is when two people become one. The trouble starts when they try to decide which one.”

John doesn’t invite me to sit in on many marriage counseling sessions. I wonder why?

God, John, and I have more backroads to travel, but we know we are getting nearer to the end of our journey. The road we’re on now isn’t easy, but we have seen some beautiful views and have been sheltered from the winds by love of God, family, and friends.

Hopefully, we’ll travel together for many more miles, God, John, and I, getting closer, the three of us, until we reach Home.

The two have become one. Which one? We can’t tell, but whatever we are, we cherish the love we share.

Photo Credit Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Follow the Road or Don’t

by Donna Poole

You wouldn’t guess it to look at him, but this almost seventy-two-year-old country preacher I’m married to has a restless streak a country-mile wide. At least it used to be a country-mile wide; maybe it’s only a half-mile wide now. It shows up in different ways. He gets a certain glint in his eyes.

Then he says, “I wonder where this road goes? You want to follow it and find out?”

He knows I do. I always do, except for that one time.

We were in Lost Nation, a game preserve area close to our home, when he asked his question.

“No, I don’t want to. That’s not even a road! Please, don’t….”

But it was too late. Hoping, as he always did, that our 1973 Pinto station wagon would magically transform itself into a Jeep or better yet a four-wheel-drive truck, John had already started down the “road” in Lost Nation that looked more like someone’s overgrown driveway. We swerved and bumped down the path that grew more overgrown and less road-like by the minute.

“I think we should turn around or back out of here,” I suggested.

“There isn’t anywhere to turn around, and I don’t want to back out of here. Besides, we don’t know where this goes yet.”

We never did find out. Finally, we could go no farther, and John had to begin backing out, considerably harder than driving in.

We were close to where we’d started when the Pinto sunk in a patch of mud.

“Help me push the car out.”

We pushed; we struggled. John remained optimistic. I’m the family Pollyanna, but those tires were half-buried in mud. Getting stuck in the mud in an isolated game preserve in the days before cell phones wasn’t fun.

John found an old fence post. “I’ll try to lift the car up with this while you push.”

I don’t remember now if either of us prayed. Let’s imagine we did. Whether we did or not, God was merciful. He let us wait long enough to realize we were in trouble. John hiked back to the road and flagged down a truck,

The truck driver hooked on a chain and pulled us out of the mud. He refused pay, smiled at John, and politely said, “Probably not the best place to try to drive a Pinto.”

I don’t remember what I said to John. Let’s imagine I was a good wife and didn’t say anything.

John’s restless streak used to show up in other ways too. He often got requests from churches looking for pastors. Would he come preach for them? He went every time and after a favorable vote asking him to come as pastor went through agony trying to decide if he should leave our church.

Finally, our church board asked to meet with John. Bud, our oldest deacon, spoke for the board. “Pastor, you’re driving us crazy! We never know if you’re going to leave or stay! Please make up your mind one way or the other.”

That time of many churches asking John to come preach and slowed and stopped. Many years passed. We didn’t get another request from a church looking for a pastor until John was seventy. It came from an adorable church with a small congregation near the shores of Lake Michigan. If you don’t live in Michigan, you may not know that many Michiganders drool at the thought of living near the lake. Including me.

John wasn’t tempted. He wrote the church a sweet note declining the request for him to come preach with the possibility of being considered as their pastor, smiled at me, and tossed the letter in the garbage. He didn’t tell anyone at our church. I confess, I got on the internet and researched the beautiful area; I’ve always hoped to someday live closer to the lake. But the beautiful road that beckoned me to the lake couldn’t compete with the heart of the people we love right here. Most important, John knew God wasn’t calling him to go down that road. I’m glad I don’t have to figure that out for him, and he doesn’t have to for me. We each must listen to that still small voice in our hearts and choose what road to take.

Still, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t God calling John to drive down that forsaken path in Lost Nation. That is one back road adventure he never tried again.

We drove back to the scene of the crime today so our daughter, Kimmee, could take pictures for my blog article.

“Dad, you drove down that? But it isn’t even a road!”

Exactly, Kimmee.

“Well, it was wider back then,” John said, sounding defensive.

Not by much it wasn’t.

“Take a picture of that sign, honey,” I said. “The one that says no vehicles.”

The sign makes me guess there must still be people with a restless streak a mile-wide looking for adventure. Too bad the sign hadn’t been there all those years ago. But then I wouldn’t be taking this backroad adventure with you.

Road in Lost Nation. Photo Credit Kimmee Kiefer.
John’s “road.” Photo credit Kimmee Kiefer.
Another view of John’s road–photo credit Kimmee Kiefer
The sign that wasn’t there when we got stuck. Photo credit Kimmee Kiefer
Lost Nation. Photo credit Kimmee Kiefer
Lost Nation. Photo credit Kimmee Kiefer
all photos by Kimmee Kiefer
Lost Nation. Photo Credit Kimmee Kiefer
Lost Nation. Photo Credit Kimmee Kiefer

The Baby Has a Name–Almost

by Donna Poole

It was a monumental moment. At exactly 8:42 a.m. on May 28, 2020, I touched the keys on my laptop and typed the words, “Corners Church Jr.”

“I’ve started the sequel to my book,” I told Kimmee. “I thought Corners Church was a standalone novel, but I woke up in the night with a sequel in mind.”

“That’s great! But you aren’t really going to title it Corners Church Jr. are you?”

No, I wasn’t, but since the book baby hadn’t announced its own name yet, I’d give it that one until it did.

Writing a book is like wandering down back country roads; you probably aren’t going to end up where you expected, and the views will surprise you. I had a destination in mind when I began writing, but my book wandered off on a journey of its own telling. After many revisions, my new book begins like this:

Chapter One

All Who Wander

What am I doing here? It wasn’t the first time he’d asked himself that. Pastor J. D. looked around the long table and sighed. Another board meeting for the books; he’d give this one the same grade he’d given the others, a C for effort.

And C for Cyrus. The minute I open my mouth that man’s ready to holler no. He hasn’t liked me since day one, and I’m not his biggest fan either.

Day one. That had been a year ago. Sometimes it felt like a decade.

J.D. had been lost in more ways than one when he’d stumbled on Corners Church. After losing both Abby and his position as lead pastor at Riverside Tabernacle and Seminary in Chicago, J.D. had fled like a wounded animal to an Airbnb cabin in Barryton, Michigan. He’d purposely looked for an off the beaten path place where he could be alone. He’d planned to stay at the Airbnb only a month but had ended up staying a year. “Not all who wander are lost.” J.D. had thought about that saying often during his year at the cabin. He’d wandered a lot trying to regain some peace.

***

New characters found their way into my book, including Cass, one of the four adorable rescue cats who belongs to Kimmee and Drew and lives with us. The book wouldn’t be the same without Cass, and neither would its author.

Today, September 28, 2020, at 12:30 p.m., four months after I started typing, and 60,320 words later, I finished my third edit of my book. Thank you, Lord, I thought. Next, I need to find a cover and send it off to my real editor.

I’m more apprehensive about this second book child than I was about the first. Like all children born into a family, it’s quite different from its sibling; you might not even recognize they are related. We took an unexpected journey, my book and I. A few days after I started it, I found out I had cancer. I’ve written the whole thing sitting in bed, between tests, doctor’s appointments, and chemotherapy treatments.

Many days I couldn’t write at all. It was too much effort to concentrate or focus. On semi-good days, a strange thing happened. When I couldn’t force my thoughts into line to read a book or watch a movie, I could still write a book. Often, when my brain and voice were too weak to carry on a decent phone conversation, my fingers still flew over the keyboard, living life with the new characters at the Corners.

So, I’m a bit apprehensive about this book. But I’m exhilarated too. I prayed my way through the writing, and if it’s incoherent, my editor will tell me. If it’s decent, I may present you my new baby before Christmas, though I’m not promising. This book journey is far from complete. Let’s just say you’ll see it sometime soon, Lord willing and if the creek doesn’t rise, or, as a main character in the book insists on saying, “Lord willin’ and if the creek don’t rise.”

And that brings me to the book’s title. It’s either, If the Creek Doesn’t Rise, so as not to offend the sensibilities of the grammar Nazis and perhaps keep them from buying the book, or, it’s If the Creek Don’t Rise, in honor of Cyrus who says it that way.

Which title do you like? I’d love your thoughts.

This is Cass, a main character in my new book. Photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer

The Last Cutting of Hay

by Donna Poole

Summer doesn’t stomp off in a fury announcing her departure like some drama queen leaving a party, high heels clicking on a hardwood floor.  Summer is a lady. In her whisper-soft ballet shoes, she glides off when no one is looking.

“Where’s Summer?” someone asks.

“I don’t know. She was here just a minute ago. Did anyone see her leave?”

“I wish I’d paid more attention to her. She was a delightful addition to the party, wasn’t she? Will someone close that window? It’s getting cold in here!”

The calendar and Kimmee, our daughter, tell us it’s the last day of summer.

We occasionally spot a rare butterfly or a hummingbird reluctant to fly south, but these sightings happen infrequently now.  No joyous bird songs greet us when we step outside. It’s so quiet I can hear the dry leaves falling from the leaves and hitting the grass. The slant of the sun is different inside the house now too. I like that; it’s lighter inside than it was.

On one of our backroad ramblings the other day we passed a field and saw the last cutting of hay. Nothing says the end of summer more clearly than that. And nothing makes me feel more nostalgic, except, perhaps, the geese practicing for their flight south, getting the V formation right, but flying in the wrong direction. When it’s time to go, they’ll know when and where. God will tell them, and they will listen.

Before they were old enough to have “real” jobs, our boys, Johnnie and Danny, hired out to farmers who needed help baling hay. They were hard workers, so they never had trouble getting jobs. When they were very young, they’d stand on the moving tractor, pull bales and stack them, or load them onto the elevator, or stand in the barn stacking the hay as it came tumbling off the elevator. When they got a little older, they learned to drive tractor and rake the hay. Haying was hot, hard, exhausting work. The boys came home covered with sweat and hay and with funny stories of equipment cobbled together that a farmer somehow stubbornly kept running, of how they had almost fallen off a wagon when a tractor had jerked, or of the amazing food they had eaten.

“Mom, we’d work for Reeds for free just to eat Mrs. Reed’s food!”

While some of their friends loved lazy, hazy summer days with nothing to do, our boys enjoyed, to quote one of their favorite radio programs, “the satisfaction of a job well done.”

The boys were about twelve when they started hiring out to hay. They were skinny kids, all legs brown and sunburned, and I desperately loved them and their determination to work like men. That’s what their dad and I heard most about them, “Your boys work like men.”

What do they think of those haying days now? Do they regret the loss of summer freedom? John Jr. says, “That tough work made me the kind of man I am today. After baling, most the jobs I’ve had felt easy.”

Danny says, “I baled hay because I love the hard work. You instilled a good work ethic in all of us kids. All these years later I still bale hay and love it (although most of the time it’s round bales). If you work hard you have a better appreciation for what you earned.”

And now when I see the last cutting of hay, I think of how fast all those growing-up summers passed by for our boys and our girls and now are for our grandchildren. Just like summer leaves us quietly, so does childhood.

Soon the “Bye Dad! Bye Mom!” isn’t because the kids are going off to hay on a hot, summer afternoon. It’s because they’ve come for an hour, or an evening, and it’s time for them to go home with their own families, with their own children whose summer of childhood will soon be gone.

It’s so quiet then we hear the dry leaves falling from trees and whispering across grass. We notice that the slant of the sunlight is different for us now than when we were younger. We hear the lonesome sound of geese honking and look up to see them in perfect V formation but flying in the wrong direction.

We laugh then, my John and I, as we wrap our arms around each other, wave goodbye to kids and grandkids, and watch the geese. They’ll get it right when the time comes. When it’s time to go, they’ll know when and where. God will tell them, and they will listen. Our kids did, and our grandkids will too. Our prayers will help them find the way.

The last cutting of hay may be nostalgic, but it brings promise too. As long as the earth endures, there will always be another first cutting of hay; there will always be another spring. Our grandchildren will grow up to be hard workers who love God, and our children’s children will too. They won’t be alone. The world will always have some good people who work hard, love God, and love each other. I hear the promise in the sound of the wild geese who are in perfect V formation and look! Now they’re flying in the right direction.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Lessons From a Lunch Pail

by Donna Poole

John was wrapping a used brown paper grocery bag around his old, dented, black lunch pail. It took a lot of tape.

“She’ll think it’s funny,” he said, convinced his daughter must have inherited at least some of his irrepressible sense of humor.

“I’m not so sure.”

Tomorrow Angie would be six years old. All she wanted for her birthday was a lunchbox she’d showed us several times. She couldn’t wait to carry it to the first day of first grade and show all the friends she’d made in kindergarten, even Wendy, her least favorite friend. When I’d asked her why she didn’t like Wendy as much as the others she’d said, “Because, Mommy, she tells the other kids what to do, and I want to tell the other kids what to do.”

Wendy might not be her favorite person, but Wendy and all the other kids would love the cute lunchbox.

I kept working on the butterfly birthday cake. Our little girl adored butterflies. I thought about her other gifts. Her Daddy got her a used bike from Fees, church friends, and hid it from her. When she was napping or sleeping that summer, he sanded it, painted it, and shined it until it looked new. Grandma and Grandpa Poole sent money for a new bike seat and streamers. We bought her training wheels. Her other gifts were a package of chenille pipe cleaners from us, crayons and a coloring book from three-year-old brother Johnnie, and magic markers and a notebook from one-year-old brother, Danny. Grandpa Piarulli sent money for material for me to make her a new dress.

Angie sat on the floor when it was time to open gifts. She opened everything but saw no lunchbox. Then her Daddy handed her the bulky, ugly wrapped package. She, opened it, and looked up at him, confused.

“It’s your new lunchbox! For first grade!”

Her bottom lip trembled. Tears spilled out of her huge brown eyes.

He hugged her. “Don’t cry! Open the lunch pail.”

Inside was a note she could read with little help: “Look on top of the refrigerator.”

John held her up so she could see the exact lunchbox she’d wanted. Tears turned to squeals of joy as she pulled it down and held it close, but Daddy’s eyes and face filled with regret as his look met mine. He feels bad about those tears to this day.

“Let’s go outside,” he said.

When Angie saw her new wheels parked next to Daddy’s car, she forgave him, but she too still remembers the not-so-funny ugly lunch pail.

Angie’s birthday was on Monday that year, Daddy’s day off, so he had time to help her learn to ride her new bike. Our good friends and neighbors, Hales, came for ice cream and butterfly cake and brought Angie a new dress. She went to bed a happy girl, thinking of her blessings, not the gift her Daddy had thought would make her laugh but instead had made her cry.

My heavenly Father has handed me a few packages wrapped in ugly paper with even uglier looking dented lunch pails inside. I know he doesn’t do it expecting me to share a sense of humor I can’t understand, but do I cry? Sometimes.

“God is too good to be unkind and He is too wise to be mistaken. And when we cannot trace His hand, we must trust His heart.” –Charles Spurgeon

I need to remember to keep looking inside the lunch pails for the notes. I don’t expect God to lift me up and show me everything I asked for waiting for me on top of the refrigerator, but I do expect the notes to teach me to trust His heart. So far, I’ve found some breathtakingly beautiful notes in my dented pails, and I hope you have too.

Jungle Juice and Awesome Aunts

by Donna Poole

“Please,” John asked, “Stop calling your chemotherapy poison.”

I knew he was right; attitude toward treatment is important, so with the help of a friend I renamed my R-chop chemotherapy “Jungle Juice.” But what’s Jungle Juice without a good Tarzan call, right? I practiced that, complete with chest pounding, until John groaned.

The time came for my third chemotherapy treatment, halfway point, time for a celebration. I had just the perfect one in mind. I’d demonstrate my Tarzan call for the nurses.

“You can’t do that at U of M,” John objected. “Do you want them to kick you out of that place?”

Hmm. Maybe. I dunno. Well, if I can’t do my Tarzan yell inside, I have a surprise for you, honey.

So, as we walked sedately arm in arm, like any dignified elderly couple, through the parking garage into U of M, I let out my Tarzan yell. Twice. John looked for a car to hide behind.

During chemotherapy I offered to demonstrate my terrific Tarzan imitation for the nurses. They chuckled but politely declined.

A voice from the other side of the closed curtain called, “Well, I want to hear it!”

I called back, “A kindred spirit!”

My kindred spirit and I had a long, interesting conversation. She’s only forty and fighting the battle of her life for the next year against a rare, aggressive cancer. We didn’t talk much about cancer though; we discussed life in general, our faith in God, her five horses, and the nieces and nephews she adores. We discussed how important it is to be an aunt, and what a great influence and comfort an aunt can be.

I’ve been thinking about my awesome aunts ever since our talk. My Italian aunts were beautiful. I loved it when great-aunt Julia came to visit Grandma’s house when we were there. Not only did she press a shiny silver dollar into our hands, but she and Grandma had some wum-dinger discussions. Just as their arguments got interesting, they switched to Italian because they could talk faster, disappointing, because we couldn’t understand Italian.

I remember seeing two of my aunts, I think it was Aunt Mary and Aunt Louise, join arms and dance the polka in Grandma’s kitchen. All my Italian aunts talked fast and at the same time, called their parents “Ma” and “Pa,” and always treated them with the greatest respect. At least they did after they were adults!

I wish I’d known my Italian aunts better, but I didn’t talk to them much. Mom always insisted children were to be seen and not heard, so my siblings and I had to sit hands folded at Grandma’s and not talk unless spoken to. That gave us more time to hear the stories. We heard how once our gentle grandpa got tired of hearing my aunts argue about whose turn it was to do dishes, so he grabbed the table cloth, wrapped up the dishes, and threw them all outside where they broke on the lawn. I guess they never argued about dishes again!

In my last blog I told you about Uncle Tom, but I didn’t say much about sweet Aunt Virginia. We kids felt comforted just sitting near her. She was soft, kind, and wore necklaces made of pop beads, large beads you could pop apart and put back together, and she let us play with them.

Aunt Virginia loved to whistle softly. She was a quiet complement to Uncle Tom’s opinionated outspokenness. The only time I ever saw him get upset with her was when they were visiting us. He came into the living room in his t-shirt, and Aunt Virginia said, “Tom, you need a bra more than I do.”

This was the 1950s. People did not say “bra” right out loud. People especially did not tell a man he needed one. It was hysterically funny to us kids, but not to Uncle Tom, and he let her know it.

Mary and I stayed with Uncle Tom and Aunt Virginia a month when Ginny was born. I remember those as days of quiet peace, except for the time I had to rescue my sister from a too bossy cousin. I loved being there; I slept in a bedroom where a fan blew white, billowy curtains behind my bed, a place made for daydreams.

After John and I were married we visited Uncle Tom in the hospital after he’d had a heart attack, and then we went to church with Aunt Virginia. I told her how much she’d meant to me all those years, and how much I’d loved hearing her whistle, and how happy it had made me.

Aunt Virginia looked at me and chuckled. “Donna, I only whistled when I was nervous.”

My aunts were awesome. My kindred spirit on the other side of the curtain in the chemo room is an awesome aunt too. She’s single, with no children of her own, and adorers her nieces and nephews. I’m glad she sent me down this backroad rambling road remembering my aunts.

You may not have had the blessing of an awesome aunt, but if you have a niece or nephew, it’s never too late to be a special aunt to them. Maybe you can even teach them the Tarzan call. Everyone should know that, right?

“Only an aunt can give hugs like a mother, keep secrets like a sister, and share love like a friend.” –unknown

Photo Credit: Sycamore Lane Photography
Having fun with Aunt Michelle!
Photo Credit: Sycamore Lane Photography

Then and Now

by Donna Poole

“Mom! You don’t have to hike every trail in this park!” our confirmed bachelor son, John Jr., said.

His much younger sister, Kimmee, looked up at him with grateful brown eyes; she was exhausted too.  

“Yes,” I answered, “I do. You kids don’t have to come, but I have to hike every trail in this park.”

“Why?”

The question was logical.

My answer wasn’t.

“Because I always hike every trail in the park.”

Huge sigh from confirmed bachelor son. Small groan from little sister.

“Okay. If you and Dad are going to hike every trail, we’re coming.”

“Why?”

My question was logical.

His answer wasn’t.

“Because.”

Times change. This camping trip we didn’t hike any trails.

Times change. One day, in his late twenties, John Jr., the confirmed bachelor son came home from church.

“Mom, have you ever noticed Katie Smith’s eyes?”

And that was the beginning of the end of the bachelor days. John Jr. and Katie now have six children. All four of our children are married now, and we have thirteen grandchildren. That’s our wonderful now.

Sometimes it seems like yesterday I was a child. Occasionally I take a walk down memory lane in my backroad ramblings. It’s fun remembering my Uncle Tom. I had two Uncle Toms, and I loved them both. My tall, Italian Uncle Tom looked startlingly like Dad, except he was a foot taller. My mother’s only sibling was also named Tom.

Mom’s Tom was the fire chief of the Philadelphia Navy Yard and that made him a hero to us kids. When we went to visit him, he introduced us to downtown Philadelphia and street vendors. Uncle Tom bought me my first soft pretzel; I can still taste it. Dad was horrified. How did we know if it was clean? I didn’t care about clean; it was delicious. Uncle Tom was fun; and life was wonderful.

Uncle Tom took us to our first amusement park and went with us to Niagara Falls. He taught me to swim in the Atlantic Ocean.

 We kids loved the yearly visits from Uncle Tom and Aunt Virginia. Uncle Tom was larger than life in more ways than one. He was a big man with a big heart, and he loved big. Best of all, he was on our side always, like a giant champion. Mom never spanked us when Uncle Tom was visiting.

Every visit, before he left, Uncle Tom bought us a present. Presents were a big deal in our family in the 1950s. You got a present for your birthday and for Christmas but never for any other reason.

One year when Uncle Tom came to visit, he didn’t seem to regard my sister Mary, and me, the way he usually had, as his little angels. Our other siblings still had his favor, but Mary and I troubled him.

We lived then near Taberg, New York, in the foothills of the Adirondacks Mountains. Our trailer park was in an isolated location and the only other children near our age in the trailer park were boys. Mary and I could outrun and outplay almost every boy at whatever sport there was. The two of us road our bikes for miles and swam in creeks. We took pails and climbed the hills searching for wild blackberries, coming home with heaping pails of them that mom made into mouth watering blackberry pies. Sometimes we roamed the foothills for hours. It was a wild, free, Tom Sawyer kind of life.

Uncle Tom did not approve. We heard him tell Mom, “Donna and Mary Lou are growing up like wild Indians. The only time I’ve seen them in a dress this whole week was to go to church. They act more like boys than girls. I’m worried about them.”

He talked to us too that week, about being more lady like. We listened politely and nodded. He was, after all, our favorite uncle, our beloved Uncle Tom.

Too soon, it was time for Aunt Virginia and Uncle Tom to head home. It was bittersweet though because we knew present time was coming.

“Donna,” Uncle Tom asked me, “what would you like for a present this time?”

“A baseball bat! I don’t have one, and I’d really love one!”

He sighed. “I’ve been talking to you all week about being too much of a tomboy. I’m not buying you a baseball bat! Mary Lou, what would you like?”

“I want a baseball to go with her bat!”

If I remember correctly, Uncle Tom told us to choose a “girls’ gifts” and we refused. We didn’t get presents that year. But we didn’t lose our love for Uncle Tom and had many more wonderful visits with him.

The Tom Sawyer days Mary and I shared only lasted a few years; for me it was fifth, sixth, and half of seventh grade, but they were my favorite childhood days. I could write a book about our adventures and the trouble we got into and out of!

Perhaps that’s why I felt like I had to hike every trail in the park. It’s something Mary and I would have done back then.

Someone said not to spend too much time looking in the rearview mirror, because we aren’t going that way. That’s true, but it’s fun to look back at the then and see how it shaped you into the person you are now.

Well, dear Uncle Tom, you knew Jesus as your Savior. I know you’re in heaven waiting for the rest of us to join you. You’ll be glad to know I acted quite ladylike this vacation, but only because my body was too tired to cooperate with my spirit. I did spot a new trail on one of our drives though.

“John, do you think we could hike that trail next time?”

“That one? No! It would kill us. That trail is two times longer than the one we hiked last year that did almost kill us. It goes down that mountain, comes up another one, and it curves around there, and . . . I’ll show you where it comes out.”

He drove quite a distance. “See? This is where that trail ends you want us to hike. Still want to try it?”

I just smiled.

Some people didn’t grow up Tom Sawyer, and it shows.

There’s Gold in Them Thar Hills

by Donna Poole

You travel a quiet backroad; it’s not your backroad, but its familiar feel says it could be. You see a group of friends laughing uproariously. One of them glances at you and sends a smile. They aren’t your friends, but you know they could be. You enter a small country church. It isn’t your church, but the warm welcome lets you know it could be. There’s healing in those brief connections, more precious than gold in the hills.

People have found gold in the hills of Brown County, Indiana. I’m sure not everyone was so quick to tell the tale, but the first recorded person to say he’d found gold was John Richards who discovered it in 1830 in Bear Creek. Commercial attempts at mining gold in 1875, 1898, 1901, and 1934 didn’t produce much, because apparently there just isn’t that much gold to be found.

There’s gold of another kind to be found in the hills though, the healing gold of connections. I wish I could remember how many years we’ve been traveling down the backroads to come home to Brown County, Indiana. We love the hills and the connections we’ve made here.

John and I grew up in the hills of New York State.

I was in fifth grade when Mom and Dad decided because we moved so much for Dad’s job as a mechanic with Mohawk Airlines, we’d just start taking our home with us. They bought a new trailer home, ten feet wide by fifty feet long, five-hundred square feet for six of us, make that seven when my sister was home on visits. Let’s just say that lack of space contributed to my early, long lasting love of being outside, especially in the hills.

I’ve always found a healing connection in what God made untouched by human hands. Even as a child I loved solitude, especially at twilight. As much as I love people, I sometimes need God’s quietness to heal.

We pulled into the campground at Brown County. The woman who handed me the map looked at my hat and smiled. It wasn’t the, “I’m so sorry” smile I often get these days. It wasn’t a quick averted “I don’t know what to say to you” glance. She looked right into my eyes. Somehow, I knew it was a “you go girl!” grin.

I told her, “On the worst of days I can’t imagine going anywhere. On my good days I keep thinking, ‘if I can just get to Brown County! I think I can heal there.’”

She laughed. “And here you are. I get it! I’m a five-year cancer survivor. I’m so glad you’re out doing this! Good for you!” She looked at John. “And good for you too! Thank you for bringing her!”

She’s not my friend, but I know she could be.

Over the years we’ve visited several small churches here in Brown County, and they’ve all felt like home. Our favorite church meets right in the park. We’ve come to love the pastor and his wife. They are friends. We couldn’t see them this time, not even at a distance, doctor’s orders.

We can’t hike our strenuous trails in these hills and laugh at each other afterward for even trying. Now John congratulates me when I go with him to carry the garbage to the bin several yards down the road.

We have a favorite little shop down in Nashville. The owner has told us snippets of stories over the years that found a home in my book. John is going to take him a signed copy of my book while I stay here at the camper. I will miss seeing him this year, but it’s okay.

I don’t mind what I can’t do. The healing human connections can wait for next time.

I’ve slept all night the last three nights, and so has John. I think the camping trip is doing more to heal my cancer than chemotherapy ever could. John and I have time here to talk about things other than cancer. We have time to live in the now.   

It’s totally still outside and in my heart as I sit in my lawn chair talking to you through my blog. The sun smiles down between tall, ancient trees. God is in His heaven, and if all is not right with the world, it will be someday.

I’ve come home to the hills.

Under the Trees

by Donna Poole

Our picnic finished, we sat in chairs under trees next to the quiet water. Lazy isn’t the word to describe how I felt; inert is better. I was simply there, merely being. Too tired to read, but somehow having a book on my lap brought be comfort.

I looked down at A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L’Engle and touched the cover. It too, had a picture of trees by the water. I knew I’d love the book if I could get energy to open it; I’d read it before. But this time, my hands refused to turn any pages. They were content to lie folded on top of the book. Maybe I could absorb it by osmosis.

On the other side of where we sat a piece of land stretched out, and then the river-like water curved around and widened into a lake where children splashed and played. They were far enough away that their laughter and shouts sounded like soft background music played in a candlelit room. It was sweet, but I couldn’t quite connect with it. I just sat. I couldn’t walk over the bridge and go to the swing where John and I love to sit looking out over the lake, but I didn’t care.

“Happy?” John asked. “Tired? Want to go home?”

“Happy, tired, don’t want to go home. I’m a tree now. Leave me here in my chair by the water and come back and get me when I have enough energy to get up and leave.”

He chuckled and opened his book. I napped on and off, and listened to the trees, their roots deep by the water. Their quietness sinking down deep into the mineral rich earth below.

It’s alright just to be sometimes; it’s okay not to have anything left to give. It’s fine to rest awhile by the still waters of God’s grace and soak it in deeply, to regain strength, and light and joy.

But the trees are always giving. They are giving me shade and peace. Their leaves are making delightful patterns on the water. They bring joy to the people who sometimes fish from these banks.

That’s because it’s their season to give. Soon, their leaves will drop like yours are now. They will stand silent and still against the cold of winter, and they will wait for spring’s renewal. You, too, must wait for renewal. But for now, just rest. Be.

The sun began to sink in the west, and John closed his book. “Ready to go now?”

“No. I really can’t go. I don’t have the energy. I’m serious. I have to stay here. I think I’m a tree.”

He laughed, pulled me to my feet, and steered me to the car.

“You’re not a tree.”

I looked at the trees one more time as we left the park. They whispered a goodbye message. You can be a tree if you want to be a tree.

I don’t want to be a tree forever, but maybe I’ll be one for a little while. If you see me, slouched down in my chair beside the water, baseball cap covering my bald head, looking too tired to move, don’t worry. I’m okay. It will get better. Just for now, I’m being a tree.

“And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season.” –Psalm 1:3

Bumps in the Road

by Donna Poole

We notice subtle differences in our backroad ramblings; the birdsongs are quieter now. The cicadas make up for the birds in volume if not in sweetness. The wildflowers deserve a standing ovation! If they had a voice, they’d be shouting a crescendo of praise, perhaps even the “Hallelujah Chorus” but their riot of color is doing that for them.

Rosinweed adds yellow sunshine to the wildflowers growing along the roadsides; it looks like a tall dandelion. White Queen Anne’s Lace is abundant. Blue Chicory, Daisy Fleabane, white with deep yellow centers, and the beautiful intruder, purple Loosestrife, combine to make fields of showy bouquets. The pink Coneflower, once a common wildflower in Michigan is now listed as threatened and according to the DNR it’s possible it no longer exists as a wildflower. We’ve planted it in our yard, and it spreads a bit every year. It’s bright pink right now in early August.

Are the wildflowers especially beautiful this year?

We’re learning to identify more wildflowers: the False or Oxeye Sunflower, the Woodland Sunflower, Ground Honeysuckle or Common Bird’s-foot Trefoil—don’t you love that name? We’ve spotted Wingstem, a terribly invasive weed with beautiful yellow flowers. I forget the names of these wildflowers as soon as I look them up, but I admire their beauty spread bountifully along the country roads for all to enjoy.

I used to love long hikes to admire the wildflowers, and I will again someday, but for now, when just a walk to the garden tires me enough that I lean on my walking stick and someone’s arm, I’ve discovered another way to enjoy them.

I hear echoes of my mother’s voice. “Take me for a ride, Dominic.”

Mom loved long rides to see the wildflowers. We’d all pile into the station wagon and Dad would drive down country roads, pointing out the wildflowers to us.

Now I sometimes ask, “Take me for a ride, John.”

He does. Early evening before the sun sets is my favorite time to ride. The world is quieting down then; the robins are chirping goodnight and perhaps missing their babies; sometimes I miss mine.

We exclaim over an especially vibrant patch of wildflowers and then see a sign. I laugh.

John looks at me. “What?”

“That sign. ‘Bump.’ It happens to all of us, doesn’t it?”

He smiles and reaches for my hand. It’s a rather sad smile. I don’t have to explain; he knows.

Just try cruising down life’s road without hitting a bump. Sooner or later we all hit one, or two, or many, and often there is no sign to warn us.

Sometimes Dad would hit a bump so hard we kids would laugh as our heads almost collided with the roof of the station wagon.

“Dominic!” We knew that yell well. So did Dad. Sometimes, maybe often, he deserved it.

Once he fell asleep when he was driving. We all did. We woke to Mom’s yell, “Dominic!”

Dad slammed on the brakes, and the car came to stop a few inches from a huge tree. As a girl I was sure all our guardian angels combined to hold that station wagon away from that tree. I pictured them, faces strained with effort, backs against the tree, arms entwined, and legs straight out against the bumper of our car. I’m still not so sure that didn’t happen.

Dad was in his late seventies or early eighties when he rolled his car. He hung upside down, dangling from his seatbelt, and couldn’t get free. Bystanders gawked as the car began to burn. One man rushed through the crowd and pulled Dad from the burning car just before his seat caught fire. God has more than one kind of angel.

When we drove from Michigan to New York to see Dad in the hospital, Kimmee was a toddler. She stared with compassion at her grandpa’s head totally wrapped in bandages. When we got home, she was looking at her books.

I heard Kimmee saying softly, “Poor, poor Grandpa.” She was looking at a picture of Humpty Dumpty with a head wrap after he fell off the wall. I didn’t let her see me laugh.

Even Humpty Dumpty faced bumps in the road.

Who knows? Perhaps Humpty Dumpty was just sitting quietly on his wall, enjoying a vibrant view of wildflowers when suddenly, crash.

In the traditional nursery rhyme, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again, but Kimmee’s book painted a gentler view. Humpty Dumpty had a head wrap, but he was recovering. And who knows? Perhaps his future views of wildflowers from the wall were all the sweeter because of his sudden, unexpected bump.

I love my backroads view of wildflowers. Jesus loved wildflowers too. He said to His friends, telling them not to worry, “Consider the lilies.” He reminded them that even King Solomon’s clothes weren’t as beautiful as wildflowers clothed by God.  

I’m amazed. God names every star in the billions of galaxies, sits beside every dying sparrow, and sees every wildflower. He counts the hairs on our heads. I’m saving Him a lot of work in that department, because of chemo I’m about bald! I can trust Him with my bumps in the road.

That’s not to say doubt never mixes with my faith. When a tsunami sweeps away thousands, when children die at the border, when innocents around the world suffer man’s inhumanity to man, when people starve, when an island is dedicated to the depravity of rich men—don’t think I don’t wonder why!

I know all the theologically correct answers. We’re born into a sin-cursed world and a better one is coming, but meanwhile, my heart cries with those who suffer.

I have bumps in my road; some have earthquakes that swallow them alive.

The sun doesn’t always shine on my backroad ramblings. And yet, as always, God points me to the light. Either I believe He is good, and will fix it all someday, or I do not. I choose to believe because I know Him too well not to trust Him.

One day, before Dad went to heaven, I was tired. Dad was near ninety. Surely, he’d have a hopeful answer.

“Dad, does it ever get any easier?”

“No, it doesn’t, honey.”

It wasn’t the answer I hoped for.

“It doesn’t get any easier, but Jesus gets sweeter.”

That was answer I could live with.

Jesus gets sweeter; the wildflowers get lovelier; and someday there will be no more bumps in the road.


Small Miracles Against All Odds

by Donna Poole

“There’s another one! See?”

No, I didn’t see, but Kimmee, lover of all God’s creatures great and small reached out for an almost invisible, tiny larva for her collection. In it came with its milkweed to join the others already in the house.

The tiny caterpillar ate voraciously for ten to fourteen days, and then one morning, Kimmee showed me it was hanging upside down in its beautiful green chrysalis. I marveled to see that during the next ten to fourteen days the chrysalis became transparent until we could clearly see the colors of the monarch butterfly inside.

Next, the chrysalis split open and the adult butterfly emerged little by little. It hung there for a while, drying its crumpled, wet wings, extending them, and resting, until it could fly. I went outside with her, and Kimmee opened her hand and released the butterfly into the big wide world.

Kimmee was probably seven or eight when she began bringing in larva, charting the progress, and releasing butterflies. She learned to identify male and female and recorded how many she had of each. Every time she held a Monarch in her hand and watched it fly away, we saw a miracle.

We knew the fragile looking Monarch might be part of the annual southward migration, flying all the way from Michigan to Mexico. One fall John, Kimmee and I camped on Edisto Island, a marvelous place, where ancient Live Oaks line the narrow road to the campground.  On their way south, hundreds of monarchs covered a single bush right behind our tent camper. Had any of them come from Michigan, perhaps even from our yard?

Monarchs are fragile. Touch their wings the wrong way, and they will never fly again; yet they can migrate from Michigan to Mexico, even from Canada to Mexico, against all odds. How?

Who couldn’t use a small miracle against all odds right now? We’ve all lost so much, and our county fair is a small but big example.

The Hillsdale County Fair is a central part of life, not just for the week of the fair, but for many weeks before. The 4-H kids begin their projects in the spring. They spend hours, days, weeks, learning to groom and show their animals for the all-important show and sell days at the fair.

Those kids without livestock still participate. How many evenings did we spend at dog 4-H while Kimmee learned to show her dog? Then there are craft, cooking, academic, and photography projects. From scrapbooks to sewing to scarecrows, kids county-wide work unbelievably hard to prepare for the fair. Kimmee’s love of monarch’s became an academic project and many photography entries at the fair.

“John!” I said one year, a week before fair when Kimmee was getting about fifty last minute projects together, “look at this mess! There isn’t a room in this house that isn’t filled with a 4-H project!” I miss those messes.

Adults enter projects too, canning, baking, quilting, sewing, and so much more.

We love the fair. We linger at exhibits, stop and talk with neighbors and friends, and never leave without Fiske Fries and Red Barn elephant ears. When Kimmee was in 4-H we served our required hours in the kitchen; now we volunteer in the quilt booth where John laughs with everyone who stops and jokingly offers to sell the beautiful quilts to the person who will give him the most money.

The fair is an important part of county social life, and it’s an economic necessity for the fair itself.

This year, for the first time since 1851, we will have no county fair. This would have been year 170; it has never cancelled before.

Lori Hull, the fair manager, says, “I have often told people who aren’t from the area that they need to understand that the world in Hillsdale County stops for the last week in September. Everyone goes (to the fair).

“The paid attendance each year is around 40,000 people. Last year, there were over 400 kids exhibiting in 4H and over 600 open class participants. There are typically over 200 vendors that exhibit their products, food, and services during the week.

“The fairgrounds has also become a popular spot for weddings and receptions. The buildings and grounds are rented many times during the year for events as well. All that changed this year with COVID-19. We have suffered the economic impact of almost every event being cancelled, and their deposits having to be refunded. If you would have told me in March, when this whole thing started, that the board would vote unanimously in June to cancel the fair…I never would have believed it. And yet that is what happened.”

This year, there will be no tractor pulls or concerts. The Ferris wheel won’t light up the sky; no loud music will play on the midway. No children will tearfully beg for just one more ride. Long lines won’t stretch in front of Fiske fries. Friends and neighbors won’t meet and greet, hug and laugh, and promise to get together more often. Vendors who make a year’s living at the fairs will struggle to survive. We mourn our fair, and we know it’s a miniature parable of what is happening to our world.

We were at the fair office the other day, talking to Lori. We noticed a small miracle. Against all odds, a petunia was growing up through the cement steps. It had self-seeded from a pot of petunias Lori had the year before.

Later, I asked Lori, “Do you water that petunia that’s growing up through the steps?”

Understand, we’ve had a hot, dry summer. We can barely keep our garden and flowers alive with daily watering.

Lori answered, “Nope, I haven’t done anything to it! I guess it’s stubborn! Kinda like the manager, lol!”

The petunia is a small miracle of hope. The fair, the county, our country, the world needs hope.

I don’t know what you’ve lost as you’ve traveled your backroad or city street, but please, don’t lose hope. Find it the next time you see a monarch. Remember the petunia growing up through the steps at our county fair office, thriving against all odds. Remember Who created the butterfly, the flower, you, and me.

I write to you today, fellow traveler, with sorrow for what we’ve all lost, but with hope for the future. And I smile when I remember that stubborn petunia—and our equally stubborn fair manager!

Photo Credit: John Poole

And the Corn Grows Tall

Donna Poole

“Donna,” my friend Gina Bradstreet asked, “did you make this cherry pie?”

“I did.”

It wasn’t an unusual question. At our country church potlucks, crowded together in our one-room schoolhouse fellowship hall, someone is always asking who made what, either to get the recipe or to remind themselves not to eat that person’s food again!

“But, umm, is it a homemade pie?”

“The crust is Mom Poole’s recipe, and she got it from Mrs. Boles. We always call it Mrs. Boles’ pie crust. Do you want the recipe?”

“Well, no. The crust is very good! But did you make the filling?”

“No. I bought the can of cherry pie filling.”

“Oh, good! If you made it yourself, I wasn’t going to tell you. I got a pit!”

We looked at each other and laughed.

How much laughter did we share through the years? There were tears when Dan, Gina, and family moved to South Carolina, and joy of family homecomings whenever they returned for visits.

So much has changed in our years at the Corners. John and I talked about it on an early evening slow drive, dirt road style, around a few blocks. We headed down the church road, corn tall in the fields, bordered with wildflowers. The slant of the sun felt nostalgic; life is passing so fast, as it has for generations.

We passed Anna May’s house. “It’s still hard to believe she’s gone.”

John nodded and looked at the house across from hers. “And they live in Missouri now.”

We took a left where two dirt roads meet and stopped to see the progress on the cement work. The new church addition is coming along nicely.

I looked over at the house across from the church. A nice couple lives there now, but I thought of Lloyd Eff whose house it was long ago. Lloyd lived a long time; he bought a new truck when he was one-hundred years old! He was a Catholic man, but left instructions when he died that he wanted “the Baptist preacher to have my funeral.”

John did officiate Lloyd’s funeral. We miss him and so many others who have gone on.

We continued down the road marveling at how fast the corn is growing.

“When did they take down Laser’s barn?”

I didn’t know the answer. Of course, no Lasers have lived there for many years, but we still call it the Laser place.

Heading home, John turned onto a paved road. “Well look at that. They took Dottie’s barn down too.”

I chuckled. “They wouldn’t have done that if she’d still been alive. I think she’d have had something to say about it.”

We smiled at each other, remembering Dottie. Remembering so many others.

We passed the memorial to the Potawatomi on Squawfield Road. They too farmed these fields in their time and now are a wisp of memory in the clouds.

And yet, the corn grows tall and sways in the evening breeze. The ears are getting full; they’d be fuller if we’d had more rain. The silks are still light. Cicadas are singing now. The old timers always said that means only six weeks until frost.

We pulled into the driveway of our farmhouse, and I looked across the road. The once open fields are dotted with homes now. Change is everywhere, and change is nowhere.

Bradstreets are up for a rare weekend visit from South Carolina. In a recent text, Gina asked how I was feeling.

“If chemo is a piece of cake, next time I’m ordering pie.”

She texted back a smiling emoji and a pie.

“Oh, is that cherry pie?”

“It’s cherry if you want it to be.”

I had a few good hours Friday afternoon, and Gina came for a yard visit. I’m not allowed any close social interaction. We looked at each other’s faces and started crying. They were tears of joy.

Gina handed John a warm cherry pie. “This is for Donna.”

We talked of Gina’s cancer survival and of fun times past. The birds sang sleepy songs, and our giant gnarled trees, old as the Potawatomi, sheltered us with deep shade. The cicadas murmured their ancient songs, and the corn grew tall.

“And now abideth faith, hope, and love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” –I Corinthians 13:13

Until We See Faces

by Donna Poole

Just because I live on a dirt road in the countryside doesn’t mean I’m not guilty of living an interstate life too often. When we’re flying down an interstate, we don’t see faces. Even the angry face of the man shaking his fist at us when he flies by blurs. But on a dirt road most of us—I’ll leave a few people unnamed to protect the guilty—drive slowly to save our cars,  bunnies, and kittens and to be able to move over for someone coming the other way. We smile and wave at neighbors. We see faces. Road rage is hard to express when you know you’re going to see those same faces again the next day when you’re not temporarily insane because of anger.

Do you, like me, think part of the problem in our world today is we don’t see faces? We see groups. It’s easy for some people to feel furious with groups; then the name calling starts, and anger quickly escalates into hatred and sometimes even into murder.

Perhaps those who overreact wouldn’t if they just looked at faces. When we really look at a face, we see into a soul, and we feel the positive emotions God has given us. We smile; we share a laugh or a tear. We feel compassion.

We felt so much compassion Friday. I went for my first chemo treatment. John and I sat in the waiting room in the large Rogel Cancer Center at the University of Michigan Hospital; we didn’t stare, but we glanced at faces.

We saw a “Marilla” from Anne of Green Gables, only this Marilla was short, chunky, and adorable. She wore a gigantic garden hat to cover her baldness, marched with purpose to a wing back chair, curled up and promptly took a nap.

Two young women came in together. It was easy to tell the patient. She had a large black patch over her eye. They were both nervous.

A smiling mom pushed her teenage daughter in a wheelchair. The two chatted cheerfully. When they took the daughter back for treatment the mom bent over, kissed her daughter’s head, and just for a second, the agony showed on her face. It said, “I wish I could do this for you.”

Oh, how we prayed for her.

We smiled a connection with the young couple across from us. He was the patient; she had to tell him twice how to find the bathroom. When they called him to go back for his chemo, he forgot his computer and another bag.

She looked at me, sighed, and rolled her eyes. I grinned. I almost told her they were the reverse of John and me. I’m the one who always gets lost and forgets my things. She called his name when he forgot his bag, but he kept going.

“I don’t think he heard you.”

She yelled his name with a mixture of love and frustration.

He meandered back. “You forgot your stuff!”

He smiled pleasantly and distractedly. “Oh, I guess I did.”

She again rolled her eyes at me, grinned, and opened a book. It’s a long day for family waiting; because of COVID they aren’t allowed back in the treatment rooms with loved ones.

“Lord,” I prayed, “please give them many more years together.”

Many others came in, most wearing scarves or hats, some just going au naturel bald. There were a few newbies like me who still had hair.

And then the room stilled. A couple came in; He was helping her walk. She reminded me so much of my sister Eve who died of cancer. She was taller than Eve, but like Eve, maintained that sense of dignity and style until the end. She was probably five feet nine inches and weighed perhaps eighty pounds. She wore a long flowing skirt and a beautiful blouse, but the lovely outfit couldn’t hide the fact that she had little left to fight with. He sat her gently in the chair; she had no strength to lower herself. He propped her up until she was sitting straight and adjusted her blouse for her.

I saw their faces, the way they looked at each other, the love and loss in their eyes, and I prayed for them.

Then I noticed the young woman with the eye patch. She was staring at the frail woman. All hope left her own face. She shook her head repeatedly and dropped her face to her knees, still shaking her head. I wanted to go to her and say, “Oh honey. It doesn’t mean we will all end up that way. Don’t lose hope. Do you know the Lord? Can I pray with you?”

I couldn’t do that; the emaciated woman would have heard me, and the COVID social distancing rules were firmly in place, but John and I sat where we were and silently prayed for her. My heart was full of tears.

Finally, it was my turn to kiss John goodbye, and the Lord and I went back for my treatment. My nurses were so kind, but one was especially tired.

“You have a hard job,” I said when she glanced my way.

“Yes.” She adjusted a bag on my IV pole. “I love it, but it’s very sad.”

“Oh, hey, I forgot to introduce you to someone else in the room with me.”

She looked alarmed. Was she dealing with one from the psych ward?

I tapped my chest. “I have lots of lymphoma masses, but my biggest is right here in my lungs. Meet Morticia. I named her that because she is going to die.”

She laughed. “Morticia!” She laughed again. She looked a bit less tired.

I couldn’t live an interstate life in the fast lane Friday; God kept me in that cancer center for twelve-and-one-half very slow-moving hours.

Do you think we wondered about anyone’s politics Friday? We did not. There were many races; all were suffering, and all lives mattered. We cared about all as people. As people! That’s how life used to be, remember?

That cancer center where we saw faces reminds us that life hangs in the balance for everyone. We don’t have forever to be kind and to remember what really matters. If we could all just slow down, stop shouting rhetoric, and look at faces; if we could see hurts and feel compassion; if we could make a tired someone smile; if we could offer a prayer for everyone we meet—that would be life at its best on the backroads. And maybe I’m just a simplistic country grandma, but I think it could change the world.

If you haven’t already, find the face of God first. Because in His eyes, we all have faces.

A Rainbow for the Road

by Donna Poole

Now what? The twenty-two in our family, plus our almost-family-photographer, Jenny Bowers from Sycamore Lane Photography, had agreed to meet at a park for family photos. Before we could even get out of our cars, clouds rolled, thunder sounded, and the winds picked up.

Jenny, sister to one of our daughters-in-law, and sister-in-law to our other daughter-in-law . . .. I see I need to stop right here and explain, or you’re going to think cousins married cousins. Here’s how our tangled family relationships work. Our son, Dan, said it best. He wrote this and read it at his brother, John’s wedding to Katie.

“Katie’s brother-in-law’s parents and John’s sister-law’s parents are my in laws, whose daughter-in-law’s brother-in-law is my brother, whose father-in-law’s son in law is john’s brother-in-law, whose sister’s mother-in-law and father-in-law are my parents, whose son’s sister-in-law’s parents are Lauren and Vicki, whose son-in-law and daughter are John and Katie???”

So, now that you clearly see no family married family, and you perfectly understand how the photographer, Jenny, is related to some but not all of us, and you sympathize with those of us who have trouble remembering who’s related to whom, I’ll continue my storm story.

As we watched the storm threaten at the park, our hearts sank. Kimmee, our daughter, felt especially bad. She’d worked so hard to co-ordinate schedules with twenty-two people, and with Jenny, who shoots many weddings with Kimmee, and feels to Kimmee like another sister. . . is she? Who knows!

“I have an idea,” Jenny said. “We could switch locations to our property. It’s beautiful outside, and we could go into the wedding barn if it rains.”

And so, our caravan took the road less traveled that included three dirt roads. It was a beautiful evening; the twelve photogenic grandchildren were perfect for the photoshoot, and the adults behaved almost as well as the kids.

My heart was full and my eyes wet as I watched each group of people I love gather for their pictures. I could never love this family any more than I did that beautiful summer July evening. My eyes kept straying to the east. God put a rainbow in the eastern sky, and it didn’t disappear quickly like most rainbows do. It stayed there the entire photoshoot.

Our family is facing some challenges, but I felt like God was giving us a sign of courage and hope.

I remembered something Amy Carmichael wrote, “Let’s give Him the satisfaction of knowing that He has some children who can trust their heavenly Father.”

Our family will trust you, Lord, we will! And when our faith falters in this race, show us again your lovely face!

I’m so glad plan A, the park, didn’t work out, and we went with plan B. We saw amazing scenery along the road. I’m going to try to remember that life lesson.

I hurt for many of God’s children who’ve recently faced devastating loss, or health news no one wants to hear, or beautiful hopes dashed beyond recognition.

Lord, please, give each one of your suffering children a rainbow of courage and hope, a quiet hope that may cry itself to sleep at night but gets up in the morning willing to try again one more day.  A hope like you gave me at a family photoshoot one beautiful summer evening in July.

If the Creek Don’t Rise-Chapter One, Anniversary Sunday

by Donna Poole

What am I even doing here? Pastor J. D. looked around the long table and sighed. Another board meeting for the books; he’d give this one the same grade he’d given the others, a C for effort.

And C for Cyrus. The minute I open my mouth that man’s ready to holler no. He hasn’t liked me since day one, and I’m not his biggest fan either.

He mentally checked off things he’d proposed but the board had voted down. The one that irked him most was their determination to continue Sunday and Wednesday evening services. Their reason? “Pastor Jim always said stopping them would signal the beginning of the end for Corners Church.”

Pastor Jim, Pastor Jim, Pastor Jim. If I hear my predecessor’s name one more time. . .. But I knew when I came it would be this way. A man can’t pastor a church for fifty years and not be loved, but I didn’t expect them to revere him as much as the Apostle Paul. I’m surprised his picture doesn’t hang behind the pulpit! At least they finally agreed to let me get a second job. I don’t know how Pastor Jim lived on that salary. Well, I sure didn’t come here for the money.

Why had J.D. come to Corners Church? The question made him uncomfortable. He’d like to say it was because God had called him, and he hoped that was true, but part of the reason was because he’d been running away. Running from everything that reminded him of Abby’s death and the hurtful way his Chicago church had treated him. Running from the responsibilities of a large church with its endless committee meetings that had kept him from Abby’s bedside and the hours with her he could never get back. Running from the bitterness that had followed him here.

The board members, seven men and three women were chatting as though the disagreement with him had never clouded the blue skies over the country church. J. D. stretched his long legs under the table and groaned as the knee pain hit.

Davey grinned at him from the other end of the table. “Work you too hard last week, Pastor J.D.?”

 “A bit.” He forced a return smile.

He wished Davey would take his side in board meetings instead of saying his constant, ‘abstain.” But he was the former pastor’s son. Davey had been on the board that had questioned him and had recommended him to the church. Davey had voted to hire him as pastor, but when J.D. preached his first sermon as pastor, Davey and family hadn’t been there. J.D. had asked Deacon Ken about it.

“Remember his dad was pastor here for fifty years, don’t you know. Davey feels like he might get in your way if he stays. Too bad, really. One of the best trustees this church has ever had, and he’s our Sunday school superintendent too. When he’s not here I have to lead the singing, and I can’t even sing. Do you….?”

Deacon Ken paused, looking hopeful

J.D. shook his head. “Can’t carry a tune.”

Ken laughed. “That makes two of us. I’ve carried many things in my time, but a tune isn’t one of them.”

“What should I do? Davey won’t get in my way. I need all the help I can get.”

Ken smiled. He’d really hoped for a young pastor with a big family, but maybe this lone widower wouldn’t be so bad.

“I’d talk to him if I were you.”

“Great! I’ll text him today.”

Ken shook his head. “Better talk face to face.”

J.D. didn’t do well with face to face. He much preferred text and email, but this country church didn’t. He’d talked to Davey, and Davey had stayed at the church.

Now Davey and the other board members were congratulating each other on getting their crops in before the expected rains. No one had mentioned his one-year anniversary at the church. Did anyone even remember? Probably not. Should I tell them I’ve been planting seed too for exactly a year today? It would be nice if someone would congratulate me.

The men were quiet now, but the women were talking about making dandelion and lilac jams. Finally, Deacon Ken said, “Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but my stomach says it’s time to go home. All in favor to dismiss, please stand.”

J.D. noticed how difficult it was for Ken to struggle to his feet. He wasn’t sure of Ken’s exact age, but he had to be near ninety. As he listened to the man close in prayer, he could almost feel the presence of God in the room. God was knocking on a cold room of his own heart, but J.D. pushed Him away.

“See you all tonight?” Deacon Ken asked.

No one answered. Finally, Cyrus said, “Lord willin’ and if the creek don’t rise.” Everyone laughed.

J.D. forced a small smile. Lord willin’ and if the creek don’t rise. I don’t know if that’s borderline sacrilegious, but it’s terrible grammar and ridiculous. I’m tired of hearing it. What does it mean, anyway? The Lord is willing for Cyrus to come tonight, but I know he won’t. And what creek?

As everyone drifted off to homes and families, Deacon Ken hesitated.

J.D. hoped his irritation didn’t show. “Ken, why does Cyrus insist on using that ridiculous phrase?”

“Oh, you mean, ‘Lord willin’ and if the creek don’t rise?’ Guess all of us say it now and then. It means we plan, but God can change things by something as simple as a creek rising so a road becomes impassable. That used to happen in these parts.”

“What creek?”

“We call it a creek, but it’s actually the St. Joe River.”

J.D. shook his head.

“Give us time, Pastor J.D. And don’t sound so impatient when you preach. I’ll tell you something my dad told Pastor Jim when he was a young, sometimes angry preacher. ‘You can say anything to us if you say it with love.’”

J.D. put his laptop in its case and walked next door to the empty parsonage. So, Ken thought he was angry? A Bible verse whispered itself, “The root of bitterness springs up and defiles many.”

Who wouldn’t be bitter? After what that church did, not just to me, but to my sweet Abby when she was dying.

Time to fix another cold sandwich and eat another Sunday dinner alone. He’d turned down so many invitations the church people had finally gotten the idea. He almost tripped over the tinfoil wrapped casserole on the porch. It was labeled, “Darlene’s Sicilian Chicken.”

He laughed. “Well, sweet Abby, I have to follow Jim’s act, but at least you don’t have to try to measure up to Darlene. They say she was quite the woman, but I bet she wasn’t half the woman you were.”

He picked up the casserole. It was still warm and smelled wonderful. He’d eat and get a nap before the evening service. Right. The exciting evening service only a handful would attend, and most of them wouldn’t even be board members.  

Photo Credit: Angela Wyse

Corners Church Backstory It Started with a Failed History Test

by Donna Poole

I knew it; I’d flunked yet another of Mr. Joseph Tedeschi’s history tests, but there’s no use crying over spilled milk, especially if you’re the one who spilled it. Oh well, those dates I couldn’t remember weren’t going to magically appear in the sky, so to fill the rest of the long class period, I flipped the test over and wrote a story on the back.

I flunked alright, and even worse, Mr. Tedeschi scrawled in red ink at the top of the test two dreaded words, “See me.” I could barely sit through the rest of the class. The Piarulli girl stomach my sisters and I are still famous for started making ominous noises.

Please, Lord, I can’t run for the bathroom now. Weren’t you ever an embarrassed girl at Maine-Endwell Senior High? No, He wasn’t, but the Bible says He understands our smallest trials, and somehow, I made it through class without having to raise my hand and beg permission to go to the girl’s room.

I sat in my chair until the other students left then slowly made my way to Mr. Tedeschi’s desk for the well-deserved lecture.

“I read what you wrote on the back of your paper.”

Was he going to scold me for writing a story instead of trying harder to remember all the impossible history dates?

He smiled at me. “You’re going to be a writer someday. Just do me a favor, okay? Don’t try to write any historical fiction.”

And then? He laughed. Not one word about the failed test, no scolding about studying harder.

I walked down the hall in a daze. Me? A writer? I’d loved books since I was a child, the feel of them in my hands, the way each one had its own scent, and the way they carried me to other worlds. Writers must be magical people, but I was just me, Donna Louise Piarulli, one of five kids in our family who lived in a trailer in Maine, New York. I wasn’t magic.

Still, I tucked those six words away in my heart, words a teacher probably forgot as soon as he said them, “You’re going to be a writer someday.”

Then I forgot all about being a writer. Fast forward several years and a variety of jobs that had paid my way through college. John had returned to college for one more degree and was working full time; I was home in a tiny apartment with our new baby and working only weekends.

I worked all day Saturdays, and John babysat. On Sundays I nursed baby Angie, went to church, nursed her again on the way to work after church, and worked until late afternoon. John picked me up and I fed Angie again on the way back to choir practice and the evening service at church. It was a long day, but I loved my job; I loved our church where many college students attended, and we all loved young Pastor and Mrs. Mohr.

With Angie finally asleep one Sunday evening John and I sat with our feet propped up and read our Sunday take home paper. I always anticipated the fiction story in the paper, but that story was disappointing. I sighed.

“I could write a better story than that.”

“Why don’t you?” And John went on a hunt for our old non-electric typewriter.

And so, it began. I sold my first short story to Regular Baptist Press in 1973 and began writing curriculum for Union Gospel Press in 1976. A Michigan Magazine, the Baptist Testimony, carried my “Rainbows and Dustmops” column from February 1978 through July 1980.

In 1980 an editor from The Baptist Bulletin asked me to write a column, and I continued that for twenty-two years. 

I’d sold about 3,000 articles and stories and helped a missionary write a book about his adventures in Venezuela, but I didn’t think about writing a fiction book until I read an article our local newspaper, The Hillsdale Daily News, carried, “The Lost Cities of Hillsdale County: Lickley’s Corners.” The author, Steven Howard, wrote, “Lickley’s Corners barely has a physical presence at the intersection it occupies in Wright Township. . . .It has fallen almost entirely off of the map. . . .”

What? We barely have a physical presence? We’ve fallen almost entirely off the map? Guess they forgot to tell those of us whose lives center around these four corners. And so, the idea of a fiction book was born. What if a young pastor and wife, let’s call them Jim and Darlene, come to a church like our church, on the corner of two dirt roads? That idea tumbled in my brain for years, and finally gave birth to a book, Corners Church.

Doesn’t Jim know the country church is dead? Straight from Bible college where his charismatic mentor, Professor Nick Machiavelli, has filled his mind with dreams of success, Jim begins his ministry as pastor of a tiny country church at the corner of two dirt roads. Nothing ever happens where two dirt roads meet, or so says Machiavelli.

But Jim and his wife, Darlene, find Corners Church is alive and well. Its unique congregation and the people who live at the Corners capture their hearts and teach them the joy of community. However, Machiavelli’s maxims still trouble Jim, especially the one that says, “Move up the ladder; bigger is always better.”

Darlene never felt called to be a pastor’s wife, but most of the time she’s too busy trying to adapt to country ways to worry about it. Despite her struggles, the wide-open fields, the sound of the old church bell, and the kindness of the people call to her. They say, “Put on your barn boots, girl. You’re home.”

Join Jim and Darlene in their hilarious and heartbreaking adventures including a homicide, wild dogs, and a slide down a coal chute. Laugh, cry, and feel right at home at Corners Church where no one is a stranger, not even the stray dog that wanders in and walks right up to the pulpit.

Like any new parent, I’m happy to introduce my book-child to the world. If you’d like a copy of the book to read while you’re meandering down your own back roads, you can find it here on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Corners-Church-Where-Dirt-Roads-ebook/dp/B08B8Z73M9

Mr. Joseph Tedeschi would be proud. The historical parts of the novel are accurate. More or less. If any of my readers know if that wonderful teacher is still alive, please contact me. I’d love to give him a copy of my book.

Go to Pipestem!

by Donna Poole

Excitement was building; it was almost time for us to go camping in Cades Cove in the Great Smoky Mountains. We had our route mapped out and couldn’t wait to get started. Maybe we’d take the sunset ranger hike again, or the sunrise hayride.

Our good friends, Dan and Gina, suggested a side-trip. “Go to Pipestem first. You’ll love it! It’s in West Virginia.” They gave some quick directions.

“But we don’t go through West Virginia on our way to Cades Cove.” John calculated a minute. “I think if we go there it will take us at least thirteen hours to get to Cades Cove instead of the nine hours it usually takes.”

“Just go. We don’t want to tell you why; it will spoil the surprise. Just trust us.”

The six of us crammed into our station wagon, and we pulled an old utility trailer behind us with our ancient, yellow Coleman tent, playpen for the baby, and half our household goods. We started down our country road and headed for Pipestem State Park, Middle-of-Nowhere West Virginia.

After many weary hours we arrived at Pipestem. We put up the net-sided play pen first and plopped baby Kimmee in it. Our teenagers, Angie, Johnnie, and Danny were experts at helping set up camp. We finished, wiped sweat from our faces, surveyed the flat, grassy site, directly in the sun, and looked at each other. No one wanted to say what we were all thinking. Talk about a hot, boring place! Why had Dan and Gina told us to come here? We wanted to be in Cades Cove, familiar, fun, fantastic views.

We didn’t complain to each other because we trusted our friends. Maybe there was something we hadn’t seen yet. Surely something would make all those long hours of travel worthwhile.

“Can we go explore the rest of the park?” one of the kids asked.

Why not? We started walking and came to a sign that said, “Scenic Overlook.” What “scenic” could there possibly be? We walked a few more feet, gasped, and couldn’t look away. We saw. . . . Never mind. I’m not going to tell you. Go to Pipestem. I don’t want to spoil the surprise. It’s worth all the backroad travel it will take you to get there.

Our backroad ramblings have taken our family some unexpected places in the month of June. We are nowhere we ever planned to be. Testing showed a lung tumor closing my bronchus, severely narrowing the right pulmonary artery and vein, and collapsing one-third of my lung. First, they told me they suspected I had small cell lung cancer. How could I have lung cancer when I’d never smoked? I hadn’t even smoked pot with my friends under the bleachers. Not to say I’d never been under the bleachers; I just hadn’t smoked the offered pot. I know, I know, we Boomers had a lot of growing up to do, and most of us did it pretty well.

The newest biopsy results, with more testing still happening, say “diffuse high grade B cell lymphoma double expressor phenotype.” You can bet that sent my fingers flying to Google! Basically, it’s an aggressive lymphoma and resistant to treatment.

So, here I am, in a place I never wanted to camp. My family helped me set up my tent in this grassy field. The sun beats down; there are no trees, and it’s not our favorite site. I’d rather be at Lake Michigan or at Brown County State Park in Indiana. We’re waiting here in the hot sun, waiting for an appointment at University of Michigan Hospital, waiting to find out what the treatment will be, waiting for their help. But we already have God’s help.

Now we set off to see the rest of the campground. We, my family, friends, and I, expect to find some amazing views, even though we know the hiking will be more strenuous than we’ve ever before experienced. Why do we anticipate awesome scenery ahead? I guess you could say we trust our Tour Guide.

I’m not claiming God will heal me, though I know He could. God always answers prayer, but “no” is an answer too. I do know that no matter how rough the backroad ramblings get I’m not walking them alone. Jesus is with me, and the love and prayers of others will help me hike this tough trail.  

This is my walking stick for the journey: “Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.” –Isaiah 41:10

This lymphoma is my Pipestem. I’m not going to say, “Why me?” I’m just going to enjoy every wildflower, every birdsong, every blessing, every token of love along the path.

 I know you, my dear readers, have Pipestems of your own. I hope you trust your Tour Guide.

Heaven in Michigan is a Sunday in June!

by Donna Poole

Heaven’s weather must be a lot like a sweet Michigan Sunday in June. Last Sunday was close to perfect. I wish you all could have been here. Our back road ramblings took us where we’ve been driving for almost forty-six years now, the place where two dirt roads meet. We joined the other cars and trucks at our country church.

Some people wandered from car to truck, exchanging greetings; others stayed a safe social distance, but smiles and waves said everything. We were family; we were together once again, and life was good.

It was a cool morning; the sky was a brilliant blue, and white clouds dashed by in the wind. The wind messed with the mic, but our church guys, who can fix anything with baling twine and a coat hanger, weren’t deterred. Someone tied a napkin around the microphone. 

John climbed on a hay wagon to begin our church service. He gave each of the younger children a Ziplock bag with a box of crayons, a picture, and a party horn.

“You kids have to help me during the service today,” he told them. They happily agreed.

We sang an old gospel hymn written in 1939 by Eugene Monroe Bartlett. The beautiful hymn goes like this:

I heard an old, old story,

            How a Savior came from glory,

            How He gave His life on Calvary

            To save a wretch like me;

            I heard about His groaning,

            Of His precious blood’s atoning.

            Then I repented of my sins

            And won the victory.

Chorus:

            O victory in Jesus,

            My Savior, forever.

            He sought me and bought me

            With His redeeming blood;

            He loved me ere I knew Him,

            And all my love is due Him,

            He plunged me to victory,

            Beneath the cleansing flood.

            I heard about His healing,

            Of His cleansing power revealing.

            How He made the lame to walk again

            And caused the blind to see;

            And then I cried, “Dear Jesus,

            Come and heal my broken spirit,”

            And somehow Jesus came and brought

            To me the victory.

Repeat Chorus:

            I heard about a mansion

            He has built for me in glory.

            And I heard about the streets of gold

            Beyond the crystal sea;

            About the angels singing,

            And the old redemption story,

            And some sweet day I’ll sing up there

            The song of victory.

Repeat Chorus:

Kimmee, like all our church kids, grew up singing hymns in church. Children repeat what they think they hear, so little Kimmee used to sing, loudly, “He punched me to victory,” instead of, “He plunged me to victory.”

I didn’t correct her; I thought it was cute, and besides, sometimes we may need a punch or two. Kimmee’s siblings did correct her, however, and teased her about that mistake for years.

I was glad we were in the car and not in the church auditorium when Kimmee made me laugh halfway through the song. When we got to that line in the chorus “He plunged me to victory,” Kimmee lightly punched my shoulder. I looked at her, and we laughed. But now I can’t laugh without coughing. I barely recovered in time to hear John preach on “The Other Side of Our Obstacles.”

God sometimes punches us to victory in strange ways, and we’re as surprised as the next guy to find ourselves on the other side of our obstacles. If I’d been one of the fighting men who went up against the great walled city of Jericho I might have said to God, “You want me to do what?”

God gave Joshua the strange battle instructions. The men of war, priests carrying the ark of the covenant, and seven priests blowing rams’ horns were to march with him around Jericho. That’s all. Just march.

Just as God said, they marched around the city once a day for six days. The soldiers probably examined the walls each time for the slightest crack, but they saw nothing. The obstacle remained as formidable as ever. Did the soldiers feel vulnerable? Did the people in the city laugh at them? Did the soldiers start to doubt God?

The obstacle looked impossible; the plan to surmount it seemed ridiculous.

John kept telling the story of Jericho on Sunday. “You still listening kids? You ready to practice blowing those horns?”

The kids were only too happy to stick their heads out of their car windows and blow their party horns.

John told us that finally day seven came, the day God said to march around the city seven times. The rams’ horns sounded, and Joshua told the people to shout!

“Blow those horns, kids!” John said. Did they ever!

I was a little disappointed John didn’t tell the rest of us to shout. I wanted to stick my head out of the car window and shout; Kimmee probably did not.

If you’re familiar with the biblical account, you know the rest of the Jericho story; the walls came tumbling down. The impossible obstacle crumbled.

The weapons weren’t the shouts and the horns; the victorious weapon was faith.

Faith will take us to the other side of our obstacles and give us courage to face whatever we find there. Unlike some, we don’t order God to remove obstacles; we don’t demand healing as our right in Christ. We hold our requests up to God and add, “Your will, please. Just your will be done.” We realize that “no” is sometimes an answer. Hey, if God healed everyone, this earth would be a bit overcrowded, wouldn’t it?

At the end of our church service our three wonderful deacons climbed up on the hay wagon and stood next to John. They prayed for me and for my family. My heart filled with love, and tears of joy rolled down my face.

I looked at those beloved men. I blessed our little country church at the corner of two dirt roads; what a privilege it has been to be part of it. I think we have the kindest, sweetest church family anywhere.

Yes, like the old song says, “Some sweet day I’ll sing up there the song of victory.” But for now, I’m just grateful for a bit of heaven on earth, found right here on a sweet Michigan Sunday in June.

Allie’s horses had to watch church too!
Allie’s all cozy at drive-in church.

“Take ‘Er Easy There, Pilgrim”

by Donna Poole

If you’re a fan of John Wayne, you know the Duke wasn’t giving a compliment when he called someone “pilgrim.” If you’ve ever read a Louis L’Amour book—please start with his Sackett series—you realize a pilgrim wasn’t smart enough not to sit with his back to the door. He was someone from the east or a novice cowhand who probably tended to get upset too fast and talk too much. He needed the Duke’s advice to “Take ‘er easy there, Pilgrim.”

We all need that advice sometimes, to just settle down, to stay in our own lane, to just breathe. To be sure, the last thing we want to hear when we’re upset is to settle down. We can measure how upset we are by how furious the advice to settle down makes us.

Sometimes we can handle the big trials of life better than the small ones; we may take a cancer diagnosis with grace and faith and get disgusted at mosquitoes or at the deer who insist on snacking on the produce in our beautifully raised garden.

I just realized I’m using the editorial “we” here, “we” as you may have guessed means me. 

When my sister and I were little girls we heard the somewhat stuffy Queen Victoria once said, referring to just herself, “We are not amused.” We didn’t know then that she probably never said it at all, and had we known, that wouldn’t have stopped our uproarious laughter.

Why would someone call herself “we”? How ostentatious. We had to try it out. We’d take turns putting our noses in the air and flounce around, trying to look regal, and announce at every possible opportunity, “We are not amused.” We thought we were hysterically funny; Mom didn’t agree.

I’m sometimes surprised at the little things that make me unamused; the latest was just what I said above, a deer snacking on my beautiful raised bed garden. The bib lettuce vanished except for one brown, dead, leaf. The beans look like sticks without a single leaf.  And good luck with that bad breath from eating my garlic, dear deer!

Our dear old neighbor, now with the Lord, used to say, “I don’t mind telling you, I have righteous in-dig-nation!” Well, I had a bit of in-dig-nation when I saw the empty lettuce spot and the beans looking more like walking sticks than the legume of the species Phaseolus vulgaris. I wouldn’t be too impressed with my botanical knowledge if I were you, I used Siri to find those five-dollar words.

Take ‘er easy there, Pilgrim. I am a pilgrim, just passing through, on my way to heaven. I often don’t know enough not to sit with my back to the door, and hasty words and actions have caused me trouble more than once. What does it matter in the overall scheme of things if the deer ate my lettuce, garlic, and every last bean? Are we going to starve this winter? I doubt it. Is my pride over my beautiful garden a bit hurt? Maybe.

How many other insignificant things have I let trouble me in my lifetime? Too many, that’s for sure. I’ve already found one blessing from my cancer diagnosis; it has given me new emotional glasses. I see better what matters and what doesn’t. And I’m beginning to understand how silly and counterproductive worry and frustration really are.  

“The Robin and the Sparrow”

Said the robin to the sparrow,

“I should really like to know,

Why these anxious human beings

Rush about and worry so.”

Said the sparrow to the robin,

“Friend, I think that it must be

That they have no heavenly Father,

Such as cares for you and me.” –Elizabeth Cheney

I don’t know where my cancer journey will take me in the months ahead, and you don’t know where your travels may take you, but worrying won’t improve our trip. Here’s a little more of the Duke’s advice for the road:

“No matter where people go…sooner or later they find God’s already been there.” John Wayne–Chisum (1970)

If God’s there, we can take ‘er easy there, pilgrims. He knows what He’s doing.

Saying Goodbye

A Story for the Young and the Young at Heart

by Donna Poole

Mommy heard Susie’s feet come down the stairs one step at a time. Susie opened the door to GG’s room and clicked on the light. Quietly, so as not to wake Daddy, Mommy slipped out of bed and went to GG’s room.

Susie stood there, sucking her thumb, and holding Teddy by one leg. Susie looked around the room. Everything looked just right. The old pictures sat on the doilies GG had crocheted. The plump blue and white checked cushions looked cheerful in the rocker near the window. The funny smelly red geraniums hung in the window. The patchwork quilt on the bed looked as warm and cozy as ever. Ginger, the fat yellow cat, slept on the colorful braided rug where he always slept.

Yes, everything looked just right, everything but the most important thing. GG wasn’t in the room. She wasn’t in the comfy rocker. She wasn’t in the cozy bed.

Susie turned and saw Mommy. “I know where my heart is.” She put one small hand on her chest. “It’s right here. A few minutes ago, upstairs, I felt it crack and break.”

Mommy heard a small sob. She picked up Susie and sat with her in great-grandmother’s rocker. She kissed Susie’s red cheeks and wiped away her tears.

“You put me down! I want GG to rock me.”

Mommy held her close. Susie stopped wiggling and buried her face in Mommy’s shoulder.

“Susie, you know GG’s funeral was yesterday. You know she’s with God now.”

“But…when is she coming back to see me? She didn’t finish reading me my book. And Teddy needs his leg sewed on again, see?”

Mommy looked at the dangling leg. Teddy did indeed need another operation. How many times had Great-Grandmother stitched Teddy’s arms and legs?

Mommy’s lips brushed Susie’s light brown curls. Lord, show me how to help Susie say goodbye.

“Poor GG’s hands,” Mommy said. “Did you see how hard it was getting for her to sew Teddy?”

Susie nodded. “GG’s fingers were bent funny. I don’t think her eyes were working good either. She was having a hard time reading to me too. And, Mommy,” Susie let out another small sob, “sometimes GG forgot my name!”

“Oh, honey, Great Grandmother’s poor old body just got too tired and sick to keep working right. Now she’s with Jesus, and she’s young and strong again.”

“Like in that picture on the dresser?” Susie slid off Mommy’s lap.

“Perhaps just like that picture.”

Susie held the picture in both hands and studied it. This was a GG she’d never known. Her eyes were bright blue and sparkling, not faded and squinting. There were no wrinkles on her soft-looking cheeks. GG’s hair was brown and curly like Susie’s, not white and thin. The GG in the picture was laughing at someone Susie couldn’t see.

“Does GG look this happy in heaven?”

“She looks even happier. Think of the happiest day of your life.”

“My happiest day was my birthday. I loved my party!”

“GG is even happier now than you were at your party! She won’t ever hurt again, or cry, or forget a name. Her fingers are straight, and her eyes can see. She can’t come back and see us, but she knows someday we’ll go to heaven. We’ll be together forever!”

“It might take me a long time to get to heaven,” Susie said. “What if GG forgets me?”

“The heart never forgets love.” Mommy started to cry.

Susie’s eyes opened wide. She crawled back on Mommy’s lap. “Do you wish GG was here to rock you too?”

“She was my grandma. I will always miss her.”

“You stay right here, Mommy. We have to do something now.”

Susie scrambled off Mommy’s lap. She took the picture of beautiful, young GG off the dresser. She hugged and kissed it. She took the picture to Mommy and climbed back on her lap.”

“Kiss GG goodbye.”

Mommy obeyed.

Susie studied the picture intently. “Who is GG smiling at?”

“Your great-grandpa took that picture of GG on their wedding day. She’s smiling at him.”

Susie shook her head. “I think GG is smiling at Jesus. She’s smiling because she knows it’s true, what she read at the end of my stories.”

Mommy looked puzzled.

“You know, the part that says, ‘And they lived happily ever after.’ That’s what GG is doing now, right? Living happily ever after?”

Mommy held her little girl tightly and rocked her to sleep. She carried Susie upstairs and tucked her into bed, putting Teddy next to her cheek.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Tomorrow you can operate on Teddy.”

Mommy sat on the edge of the bed and held Susie’s hand until her breathing was deep and even. Then she kissed her goodnight. “Thank you, Susie,” she whispered, “for helping me say goodbye.”

Prince Not So Charming

by Donna Poole

She was clueless about love, mostly because she’d grown up reading Grace Livingston Hill novels. If you’ve never heard of those books, that’s okay; I’ll explain. They are like Hallmark Movies on steroids. Not only does the knight in shining armor swoop in on a white horse and rescue the damsel in distress, the knight owns a stable full of white horses and an entire armor factory. When said damsel looks at charming knight, she almost swoons. Her world tilts and spins, and her heart knows he is her one and only, forever and ever, amen. I add the “amen” because the novels are Christian romance books.

Not only did she read and love Grace Livingston Hill novels, the clueless girl adored Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese. Her favorite was Number 43:

                How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

                I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

                My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

                For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace.

                I love thee to the level of everyday’s

                Most quiet need, by sun and candelight.

                I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

                I love thee purely; as they turn from Praise;

                I love thee with the passion put to use

                In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith;

                I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

                With my lost saints, –I love thee with the breath,

                Smiles, tears, of all my life! –and if God choose,

                I shall but love thee better after death.

She grew up to be quite independent and struggled to have compassion for anyone with damsel in distress syndrome, but still, you can’t read that many Grace Livingston Hill novels and escape unaffected. A part of her still yearned for that mysterious knight in shining armor who would swoop in on his white horse and, if she didn’t need rescuing, would at least carry her off to a place where they could make a beautiful life together.

She dreamed of a love where she’d walk, arms entwined, with Prince Charming, through an ancient apple orchard and recite to each other classic poetry.

His favorite poem was:

                Roses are red.

                Violets are blue.

                My aunt has a lawnmower.

                Can you swim?

They’d known each other and argued with each other since they’d been preschool age. She’d told him to stop chewing his crepe paper bow tie in church cherub choir. He’d ignored her and kept chewing.

When they’d learn to spell their names, she’d told him he spelled his wrong.

When they grew older, their friendship deepened, but the arguments continued. When they stopped arguing long enough for him to say, “I love you,” she was a little shocked.

Her response was not what he’d hoped for. “How does a person really know something like that for sure?”

She was pretty sure if one of them needed rescuing it would be him and she’d have to do it.

There were so many things she liked about him though, and not the least was his crazy sense of humor. Finally, she wiped away enough storybook cobwebs to realize she did love him, and she told him so.

Then began the proposals. Yes, that word is plural, proposals. He’d ask her to marry him; she look hopefully at him, and he’d laugh, pull out a ring he’d gotten from a bubble gum machine, tug on her pony tail, and walk away.

One day they stood on top of Stone Mountain, Georgia. His parents, sister, and brother-in-law were at the bottom of the mountain, but a friend stood right next to them. As they looked out over the awesome view, he said to her, “Will you marry me?”

She gave him another quick, hopeful look. Wait. Come on. Who proposes with a third person standing right here? No one, that’s who.

“Ha! I’m not going to fall for that again!”

His hurt look and stiff posture were her first clues. He’d been serious. He refused to talk to her the rest of the day, a bit awkward, since they spent the rest of the day with his family and their friend. She became a bit frustrated with her prince not-so-charming. How could she have known he’d planned that moment for months?

Later that evening as they sat alone on the couch in his sister’s living room, he said, “Do you want to marry me or not? And this is your last chance.”

She laughed. It wasn’t like any proposal she’d ever read about in her books. There was no recitation of Number 43 from Sonnets from the Portuguese. No white horse was in sight, and the spring evening in Georgia was way too hot for shining armor. But she saw his heart, and she loved what she saw. Besides, she could be quite the brat herself on occasion, and they both knew it.

She threw her arms around him. “Oh, yes, I do want to marry you. I love you.”

And now, we’ll look the other way, but suffice it to say, he was no longer mad. He didn’t have the ring yet; that would come later.

She drove home from work one night. The sun had set hours before. All she could think of was how tired she was and how she wanted to curl up in bed with a good book. She pulled in the driveway, and his car was there. Her heart sunk. She loved him; she really did, but she was just too tired for company.

“Want to go for a ride?” he asked.

“Not tonight, please. I’m too tired.”

“Donna,” her mother said, “if Johnnie wants to go for a ride, you should go for a ride.”

Can’t he see how tired I am? Won’t he change his mind and say we can go another time?

She wasn’t happy about it, but she got in the car. He wasn’t happy, because once again, a major plan was dissolving like butter in a hot pan, and that made him grumpy. Neither of them said a word until they stopped at the airport.

“Open the glove compartment,” Prince not-so-charming ordered.

“Did you break your arm?” the bratty damsel not in distress replied. “Open it yourself.”

“I said, open the glove compartment!”

They glared at each other. An onlooker would have said they looked more like two angry three-year-old’s than the nineteen-year old’s they were. Finally, she sighed. She was too tired to argue. She opened the glove compartment. There was a beautiful diamond solitaire in a gold tiffany setting.

She looked at the engagement ring feeling frustration and joy. Would there never be any poetry?

“It’s a small diamond. I could have gotten a bigger one for the same price, but the jeweler said this one didn’t have any flaws, and I wanted a perfect one. You know. Like you.” There it was. The poetry. More beautiful to her ears than Number 43.

Perfect? Like me? The me who has been arguing with you since we were preschoolers? The me who just refused to talk to you all the way to this airport?

Let’s look the other way again; suffice it to say, they didn’t sit as far apart on the way home from the airport as they did on the way there.

The date at the airport was May 24, 1968. Yesterday, they celebrated the fifty second anniversary of that date by sitting by a lake and talking about yesterday, today, and tomorrow. They’d made a beautiful life together, or rather, God had done that through them. She’d needed a lot of rescuing through the years, and he’d done it all with a cheerful smile and arms ready to comfort. He’d become quite the Prince Charming.

His favorite poem is still the same one; he laughed today when he repeated it for her so she could type it into this article. Life has all kinds of poetry, and she’s come to think that laughter is one of its best.

Horsewhips, Pistols, Editors, and Writers

by Donna Poole

I laughed when I read what William Faulkner wrote about editors: “Only Southerners have taken horsewhips and pistols to editors about the treatment or maltreatment of their manuscript. This—the actual pistols—was in the old days, of course, we no longer succumb to the impulse. But it is still there, within us.”

The thing is, if your editor is any good at all, she is going to maul your manuscript, dispassionately dispense with the most delightful parts, delete your best descriptions, subtract your similes, and tell you to quit with the alliteration already!

For you non-writers who are parents, picture the author-editor exchange like this: You show off your lovely newborn to a modeling agent for, say, Gerber baby food. He scowls at your beautiful bundle of perfection.

“No, no, won’t do at all. Legs are too scrawny. Ears are too big. Nose is off center. Hair is too thin. Eyebrows are too thick. Are you sure this is your best work? And throw that ridiculous bonnet in the garbage; it’s outdated.”

You get the idea. The better the editor, the more detailed the criticism, even if it does come cloaked in gentleness the way my editor usually dispenses advice.

I’ve known my editor a long time; I’m sure our relationship is more complicated than most author and editor’s. My editor, Kimmee, is also my daughter. I homeschooled her.

Years ago, a frustrated Kimmee grabbed back from me a paper she’d written. “Will I ever turn in a paper and get it back without any red marks?”

“I doubt it, honey. I’ve been selling my writing for many years, and it’s still far from perfect. Did I ever tell you about the editor who told me I use too many explanation points?”

But she was off to her room in a huff, determined to rewrite that paper and get nothing less than an A.

Kimmee’s competitive spirit made her want to be the best in her class, and since she was the only one in her class, that meant she had to be better than herself. She graduated from homeschool, went on to Spring Arbor University, and graduated summa cum laude with a degree in professional writing.

Together, Kimmee and I have edited fifty books for clients. Editing is not our favorite work; I’d rather be writing, and she’d rather be doing her main job of professional photographer, but we can edit, and it helps pay the bills.

Writing has helped pay some bills too. If you know me even slightly, you know I’ve been writing a book.

Kimmee is my editor. “Mom,” with only the slightest edge to her patient voice, “this is the third time you’ve had that man die. You can only have him die once.”

“Mom, you don’t need this part about friends here. You talk about them in the camping chapter.”

“But, I love what I wrote in that paragr….”

Too late. She hits the delete button. She’s like a surgeon determined to cut out cancer.

Delete, delete, delete. Rearrange the entire book.

Finally, we’re done. I read my book again with amazement. Somehow, it’s more mine now than it was when I sent it into the Kimmee Hospital for its major surgery.

I wanted to put her name on the cover with mine, because she rewrote whole sections of the book to make them fit, but she refused. She says it’s my book. I say it’s both of ours. I never could have done it without her.

I look at this woman, so talented, so determined, so brave she’ll even stand up to her mom for what she knows is right when we disagree about punctuation, and I think, where did you come from and how am I lucky enough to have you in my life?

Then I remember, luck had nothing to do with it. This talented editor, and all my children, are God’s gifts to me.

My poor editor is exhausted. I’m glad I didn’t go looking for William Faulkner’s horsewhip or pistol. I can never thank her enough.

The other day, I told Kimmee I’m thinking of writing five more books, and now I can’t find her anywhere. I think I heard her mutter something about going out to buy a horsewhip and a pistol.

Outside and Around Back

by Donna Poole

It was a warm Sunday in May 1974 when Jim first preached at Corners Church in rural Hillsdale County, Michigan. The church was looking for a pastor. Darlene was more nervous than Jim was when they pulled into the dirt parking lot next to the tiny, white frame building. They were early, and as they waited for people to arrive, they looked around. They saw open fields or farmhouses in every direction. Dust flew every time the rare truck or tractor went down the gravel road.

As Jim looked at the old church building, white paint peeling from its sides, he remembered what Professor Nick Machiavelli from Bible college had told the divinity students: “If your first church is small, don’t despise the day of small things, but don’t stay there either. Think of it as the first rung on a ladder and aim always to climb to a place of greater usefulness. Climb higher!”

Jim and the other divinity students almost worshipped Professor Machiavelli who had rugged good looks, prematurely gray hair, and an authoritative voice. A child prodigy, the professor had started college young. Though he had his doctorate, he was only a a few years older than his students. Jim felt there was something almost apostolic about him andkept an entire notebook he’d titled “Machiavelli’s Maxims.” He’d memorized most of the sayings. But, something about the “climb higher” advice made Jim feel uneasy, and he didn’t know why.

Jim mentioned his feelings to Darlene as they sat in the parking lot, but she had other worries. She was expecting their second baby and couldn’t seem to stay awake. She hoped she didn’t fall asleep in Jim’s sermon. Also, April, their daughter, wasn’t quite two, and Darlene was concerned about how she was going to act during a long day filled with strangers. She looked back at their toddler who had blessedly fallen asleep on the long drive. Maybe the nap would help her behave.

Darlene grinned, remembering a story she’d read about a pastor’s wife whose husband was preaching at a church he hoped would hire him. Unlike Darlene, this woman was a fantastic piano player, and she thought it might help her husband’s chances of being called as pastor if she volunteered to play the offertory. She felt apprehensive as she left her three-year-old in the back pew and went up to play her special number.

 “Be good until Mommy comes back,” she whispered. He looked at her and nodded, his brown eyes bright, his yellow curls making him look like the angel he wasn’t.

She was into the most impressive part of her offertory when she heard her little boy shout, “Ride ‘em, cowboy!”

Horrified, she glanced back to see him straddling the pew, pretending to ride a horse. She abruptly ended the offertory before the ushers had even half-finished collecting the offering.

She hurried back to her pew, and when her son saw her coming, he hollered, “Giddyup, Old Paint. Faster! Bad guy coming!”

Darlene wondered if their angel would behave while Jim preached. She doubted it.

First impressions matter, and Darlene worried about what the congregation would think of her as a potential pastor’s wife. With her straight hair that hung past her waist, her long skirt, and no paint or polish, she thought she looked more like an ad for a hippie clothing company than a pastor’s wife. She knew she couldn’t measure up to the previous pastor’s wife, but maybe the congregation would like her a little.

Darlene reached over and smoothed Jim’s hair back. He only sat that stiff and straight when he was nervous. She didn’t think it would boost his confidence to tell him he looked more like he was sixteen than twenty-five. His light brown hair insisted on falling on his forehead, and his serious brown eyes looked like a little boy’s expecting a scolding.

A few cars pulled into the parking lot, and Jim, Darlene, and April went into the church. The tiny building was charming with its stained-glass windows, native lumber wainscoting, and bare hardwood floors. Including the three of them, there were fifteen people in the congregation.

Darlene sat quietly, listening to Jim preach, until April whispered, “Potty, potty!”

“Can you wait?”

April shook her head vigorously. Darlene looked around. Where in this tiny building could there possibly be a bathroom?

She tapped an older woman in front of her on the shoulder. “Where’s the bathroom?” she whispered. Darlene sat back in the pew, confused by the answer. Maybe she hadn’t heard correctly.  

“You have to wait,” Darlene told April.

“No! Potty! Potty!” April was getting louder.

Darlene touched the older lady on the shoulder again. “Where did you say the bathroom was?”

This time the answer was louder, and there was no mistaking when she said, “Outside and around back.”

The heavy, wooden church door creaked as Darlene tugged it open. Outside and around back she went. She stood there a minute and laughed. The bathroom was an outhouse.

As Darlene and April exited the outhouse, she wondered how they would wash their hands. There was no running water. She felt frustrated for a minute, but as she looked out over the fields, she felt a deep peace. If Jim was sure he wanted to be a preacher, then she hoped God would call them to this church. She already loved the simplicity of this place.

Darlene loved simplicity. So many large churches complicated things and handled church more like a corporation than a ministry.

Darlene agreed with her friend Julie who said, “Churches didn’t get complicated until they got electric lights to show off their stained-glass windows.”

As they went back inside the church, Darlene considered what to do about hand washing. Then she remembered the wet washcloth she’d tucked into the diaper bag. It would have to do. She washed her hands and April’s and hoped that would be the last trip she’d ever have to make to the outhouse. It wasn’t.

Painting by Megan Poole

Me? A Pastor’s Wife?

by Donna Poole

When Jim first told Darlene he felt God had called him to be a pastor, she was horrified.

“Wait! Me? A pastor’s wife? God hasn’t said a word about it. He hasn’t called me; I know that for sure.”

Not feeling called would bother her for many years. Not only hadn’t Darlene felt the call to be a pastor’s wife; she’d thought she could do anything else better: fly a single-engine plane solo across the Atlantic, become a whaler, or open a dogsled business in Alaska.

In Darlene’s mind a pastor’s wife was sweet, angelic Mrs. Kole, who sat in the first pew and looked reverently at her husband during every word of his lengthy sermon. Darlene was certain Mrs. Kole hadn’t told or laughed at a joke in her life. Darlene loved to laugh, a laugh that sometimes dissolved into a snort that made people look strangely at her.

Mrs. Kole was a serene, lovely woman, who refused to say an unkind word about anyone, even when people gave her good reason. Her refusal to gossip was legendary. Three women in the church once hatched a plot to make her say something bad about someone.

They surrounded Mrs. Kole at the church door where she stood next to her husband, saying gracious goodbyes to the congregation.

“So, Mrs. Kole, what do you think of the devil?”

Mrs. Kole’s gentle, ever-present smile faded, and a tiny frown line appeared between her kind, blue eyes. The three women had all they could do not to jab each other in the ribs with glee. Here it came!

“Well. . ..” Mrs. Kole paused, troubled. Then her face brightened. “The devil certainly is good at what he does, isn’t he?”

The women gave up on Mrs. Kole the way the Pharisees and Sadducees did when they threw their hands in the air and stopped trying to stump Jesus with questions.

 “No wonder she’s so quiet all the time,” they grumbled to each other. “What do people talk about if they don’t talk about other people?”

When Darlene mentioned to her mother-in-law she couldn’t be as perfect as Mrs. Kole, Mom Peters assured her Mrs. Kole hadn’t always been so perfect; although, she had given her husband her undivided attention, hanging onto every word of his sermon,  oblivious to all else.

That focused attention once kept Mrs. Kole from noticing their daughter, two-year-old Judi, stand on the pew next to her and remove every piece of clothing except her ruffled white socks and her tiny black patent leather shoes. Though no one in those days giggled in church, and if someone did, a lightning bolt zapped through a stained-glass window and struck the offender where he or she sat, there was a noticeable stirring in the pews.

Pastor Kole stopped pounding the pulpit long enough to notice his daughter. He looked at his wife and jerked his head toward Judi. Mrs. Kole smiled sweetly at him. He scowled and jerked his head a few more times. Finally, she noticed Judi, standing on the pew, not at all concerned about her parents’ reputation. When you’re only two, you figure the clergy can take care of itself.

If the clergy wanted to wear clothes, let them; Judi wasn’t clergy.

Mortified, Mrs. Kole pulled Judi off the pew and dressed her.

After Mom Peters recounted this story, Darlene asked, “Did anyone say anything to Mrs. Kole about it?”

“Oh, no!” Her mother-in-law laughed. “No one mentioned it to her. It wasn’t done, you know.”

Darlene thought it may have been easier to have been a pastor’s wife in the 1930s than in the 1970s. She was sure if her two-year-old did that, someone, everyone, would say something.

Darlene didn’t think she’d ever make a good pastor’s wife. So many women were better suited to the job. Maybe Jim should have married one of them. What was God thinking?

Darlene had heard some pious testimonies given by pastors’ wives. In martyr-like tones they’d said they could withstand the battle only because God had called them to be pastors’ wives, even before they’d met their husbands. Because of this, they hadn’t considered marrying anyone but a pastor. Darlene didn’t question their testimonies, but she hadn’t felt anything like they’d described. That bothered her.

Darlene had married Jim because she loved him, and she hadn’t cared if he became a pastor, a factory worker, or a garbage man. She might have objected to mob hitman.

Well, called or not, being a pastor’s wife was about to become her job. She had definite opinions on most things, okay on everything, but hopefully God would put His hand over her mouth at the appropriate times because, unlike Mrs. Kole, she wasn’t all that quiet.

The real “Pastor Kole” who inspired this fiction story–based on fact.

Homeschooling’s Life Preserver

by Donna Poole

My little student and I looked at each other; we had just finished our first day of homeschool kindergarten, late August 1994. I smiled; I thought we’d both done rather well. Then I noticed tears filling those big brown eyes looking up at me.

In a trembling voice, Kimmee asked me, “If school’s over, will you be my mommy again now?”

“Oh honey!” I laughed and hugged her. “I will always be your mommy, even when I’m your teacher.

She shook her head and looked stubborn, a homeschool look I’d come to know well. In her mind there was a mommy me and a teacher me, and the two were never to be confused.

I’ve been remembering homeschool lately because my daughter and daughter-in-law have suddenly found themselves in dual roles of mom and teacher. I don’t know if it’s true in all states, but because of covid 19 all students in Michigan and Ohio are homeschooling. The change hasn’t affected my other daughter-in-law; she has always homeschooled.

My daughter, perhaps like some of you, feels like someone suddenly tossed her into cold Lake Michigan and told her to swim. She’s doing well, and laughter is her life preserver when she starts feeling like she’s drowning.

“What do you get when you have two fours?” she asked one of her children who was struggling with math.

“Forty-four?”

I laughed when she told me the story about the fours, and then the memories came flooding back.

A friend who homeschooled when I did read her little boy the directions on the page: “Circle half of the rabbits.”

She returned a few minutes later, and he proudly showed her his work. He’d carefully circled one-half of each rabbit.

For you moms and dads new at homeschool, laughter can be your life preserver. It was mine.

I remember well the first day of first grade. I showed Kimmee the map of the seven continents, without their names, and told her we were going to review them.

“Oh, let me do it by myself!” she exclaimed.

My heart swelled with that ancient enemy, pride. How many children, on the first day of first grade, know the names of the seven continents? Mine does.

I hadn’t planned to homeschool; it had happened by accident. I’d taught Kimmee to read using a book I highly recommend, and it’s still in print, Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons by Siegfried Englemann. From there she began reading everything on her own, Reader’s Digest articles, even her brother’s abnormal psychology college textbook until he caught her and told her to stop.

How could I send her to kindergarten? She’d be bored with kids learning their ABCs. I decided to homeschool her just until the others learned to read but homeschool continued until she graduated.

Back to the whiz kid and my pride. She studied the seven continents tapping her chin. I smiled, waiting. Oh, what a good teacher am I.

Kimmee looked up at me with her beaming smile. “Which continent is New Jersey?”

It may be that I have more fun memories than Kimmee does. I remember acting out history lessons with great enthusiasm, until she got older and suggested perhaps my acting was no longer necessary.

I recall September and October walks down to the St. Joe River on Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, where Kimmee and I turned our empty pockets inside out over the running water symbolizing our sins had been washed away.

“Isn’t this kind of dumb?” Kimmee asked. “There isn’t anything in my pockets. Why am I pretending to empty them?”

I explained the symbolism, comparing the running water to the atoning blood of Christ. She shrugged, but she turned her pockets inside out. I hope Kimmee has deep, spiritual memories of Yom Kippur, but in case she doesn’t, I’m not going to ask her.

Homeschool ingathering days were fun. We had no school those days. Instead, we brought in the last of the garden produce on the day before the forecasted hard freeze. I always stressed gratitude on ingathering days.

One year, when she was quite young, Kimmee stood next to the wheelbarrow heaped with produce.

“Can I pray?”

“Sure!”

Well, look at that. My gratitude lessons are paying off!

“Dear God, thank you for our garden this year. You gave us lots of tomatoes. Mommy likes tomatoes, but I don’t. You gave us lots of squash and green beans. Mommy likes squash and green beans, but I don’t. You gave us lots of cucumbers. I hate cucumbers! I wanted lots of pumpkins, but we didn’t get them. I love corn, but you only gave us one corn and let the coons eat all the rest of it. Amen.”

New homeschool moms and dads, don’t stress. I hope your school days have lots of love and at least a little laughter.

When you teach your children the seven continents, don’t forget to show them which one is New Jersey.

Ready to read

Thawing the Freeze

by Donna Poole

I’m wondering what spring looks like on your country road, small town lane, or city street. Here in Michigan springtime is an elusive dance that’s hard to learn, kind of a combination of a cha-cha and ballet: two steps forward, one back, one step forward, two back, and a graceful leap sideways. The most dramatic part of the dance occurs between April 15 and May 15. We don’t plant flowers or tomatoes just yet. We know another freeze is likely, but gradually, wonder of wonders, it happens. Springtime thaws the freeze and shows us her lovely, smiling face.

Spring calls to the child in us to look, listen, touch, smell, and most of all, to wonder. We shouldn’t lose our sense of wonder in the winter; the individual geometric beauty of each snowflake is breathtaking. But there’s something about all those flakes heaped together and blown by a brutal north wind that can freeze the wonder right out of us. Wool scarves up around our noses and heads down into the wind we plow our way grimly from house to car, from car to store or church, and ask each other if it will ever end. We work hard not to let every winter become the winter of our discontent.

In life, does it matter if we lose the sense of wonder, if wintery circumstances steal it and replace it with indifference or cynicism? It may matter more than we know. We can’t see nature, life, each other, or even God correctly unless we look with childlike eyes of wonder.

“The surest way to suppress our ability to understand the meaning of God and the importance of worship is to take things for granted. Indifference to the sublime wonder of living is the root of sin.”—Abraham Joshua Herschel (And thank you for that quote, Dr. Paul Patton.)

I’m afraid we sometimes let the winter of life freeze the wonder out of us.

So many things can ice-over our hearts: loss, betrayal, neglect, indifference, man’s inhumanity to man, aging, sickness, death—even our own discontentment.

Though spring is slowly creeping its way back to Michigan, there’s a chilly attitude of discontent here during this covid 19 quarantine time. Some think our governor should have opened the state back up yesterday; others say today is too soon, and the animosity and name-calling between the two groups is sad.

I’ve been inwardly grumbling too. If we have to shelter at home, we could at least have nice weather.

We had a lovely spring here in Michigan, for two whole days. I enjoyed walking around our almost two acres, ignoring the needed clean-up, and admiring everything through the eyes of the child in me; the budding lilacs and red bushes, the sprouting plants: lilies of the valley, hostas, rhubarb, tulips, and bleeding hearts. I exclaimed over everything that blossomed, first the snowdrops, followed in turn by crocuses, hyacinths, and daffodils. I admired the greening grass and buds on the trees and joined the birds in their songs of praise to our creator.

Then a wind and hailstorm all but destroyed the sprouting tulips. Rabbits, pigs that they are, stopped eating my chives and ate every last crocus for dessert. Next, it snowed, not just a little, but a half foot. Cold rainy day followed cold rainy day. Yesterday our governor announced we had to shelter at home for two more weeks.

I get it; I want to be safe, and I certainly don’t want any more people to get sick or die, but how much longer until I can see family and friends and go back to church? I miss my grandkids! I hear a crackle; it’s my heart beginning to freeze around the edges. I stop myself, or rather, God stops me. Discontentment, that instant icemaker, slips in so easily.

Aren’t those such little, selfish things to coat my heart with ice until it looks like a mud puddles frozen over in the spring? Sure, I have some problems I’m not mentioning here, but others face catastrophic crises.

Doctors and nurses, at my beloved University of Michigan hospital and around the world are exhausted, giving everything, somehow finding more to give, and then getting sick from the patients they help.

“They warned us at medical school some of us would die from diseases our patients gave us,” one of my doctors told me.

So much deep suffering. Some people are losing their businesses; others can’t get unemployment because the system is overwhelmed. Men, women, children, even babies are dying alone, and their loved ones are crying and separated from them.

People we love are hurting, and we can’t go and comfort them. When I despair over this, I forget that where my hands can’t reach God’s can; where my love can’t help His can, and where I can’t go, He is already there.

Complaining only makes things worse. It robs us of wonder, distorts trouble into monstrous proportions, and prevents us from seeing the little lights of joy we so desperately need in dark times.

Joy and wonder return when I stop complaining and thank God and others for the smallest blessings. My cold, winter heart thaws, and I can find spring in any season because I’m looking with childlike eyes of wonder.

I saw springtime on the news. A man recovered from covid 19 and left the hospital cheered on by doctors and nurses lining the halls. He arrived home, and his neighbors held a drive by parade for him, honking horns, waving, and smiling. He watched, surrounded by his family, his face wet with tears. Spring had come to his house.

Springtime is an elusive dance and hard to learn, but I’m practicing the steps. With every thank you I’m thawing the freeze.

So, now it’s finally spring, and, “Today, well past afternoon the sun still breaks through forgotten winter windows and from without the new birds sing the old songs and suddenly I see the new budding season and smell the fresh cut dreams and promises of tomorrow.” –Roger Granet

Creative Isolation

by Donna Poole

Why do we choose someone as a friend?

Friendship is a funny thing, isn’t it? It doesn’t easily dissect or diagram. I don’t really understand what draws one person to another, but I know this: if you love God and others, I admire you. If you make me smile; you’re my friend. If you make me chuckle, you’re my dear friend, and if you make me laugh out loud, I’ll love you forever and like you for always.

Not only do I love friends who make me laugh, I also have a soft spot in my heart for ones who are a bit different, quirky even. There’s nothing like a long walk down a country road and a good talk with an out-of-the-ordinary friend.

Take W. Robertson Nicoll (1851-1923) for example. He’s one of my many dead friends. I keep him on a shelf in our bedroom. No, silly, I don’t keep his ashes. He’s a book friend. His name makes me smile, chuckle, and laugh out loud. And he was definitely a bit quirky.

I would have liked nothing better than a good talk and a long walk with Nicoll, but his health wouldn’t have permitted it. He began his career as a young pastor in Scotland, but poor health forced him from the pastorate. Once out of the pulpit, he admitted he didn’t miss it. He became a great writer and editor.

This is what makes me laugh: W. Robertson Nicoll did some of his best work in bed, and not just in bed, but in a cluttered, messy one.

T. H. Darlow, Nicoll’s biographer, wrote, “It was weird to watch him as he lay there, amid a medley of newspapers and books and pipes and cigarette ashes, and to know that his brain was busy absorbing knowledge and incubating ideas all the time.”

Nicoll had weak lungs, but not only did he smoke, he kept a fire in the fireplace year around and refused to open any windows. Fresh air, he insisted, was an invention of the devil. See? Quirky. Don’t call him stupid; they didn’t know then the things about good health we know now.

From his bed that man accomplished an amazing amount of work. Nicoll read two books a day. He edited journals and several magazines, wrote over forty books, and managed to “compile, edit, or supervise the publication of over 250 more titles. . .. He was undoubtedly the most prolific and respected religious journalist in the English-speaking world from 1886 to his death in 1923” (Wiersbe, Walking with the Giants, Baker).

All from that messy bed, strewn with newspapers, book, pipes, and cigarette ashes! That makes me laugh, but if my husband did it, it wouldn’t be so funny.

I like something else about Nicoll; he loved cats and collecting books. He owned 25,000 books, and 5,000 of those were biographies. I don’t know how many cats he had; I know it was more than one, and I hope his poor wife didn’t have to dust, because I know from experience how cat hair drifts and settles on a library of books. Cat hair, dusty books, cigarettes, pipes, no fresh air; it’s a miracle that man lived as long as he did!

If I could talk with Nicoll, I wouldn’t have to ask how he accomplished so much from his bed. I know the answer; he loved his work. He was passionate about it.

If you love something, an isolated setting doesn’t stop you from pursuing it. Sometimes isolation produces creativity.

Amy Carmichael, one of my favorite authors, fell, injured her back, and spent her last twenty years in bed. Without her injury, we never would have had her beautiful writings.

John Bunyan wrote Pilgrim’s Progress from prison.

Paul the apostle penned much of the New Testament while under house arrest in Rome.

When Cambridge closed because of the plague they sent the students home to self-quarantine. Isaac Newton went home and invented calculus.

During the bubonic plague almost one-third of the people in London died. When the death toll exceeded thirty a week, they shut down the Elizabethan theaters. Sometimes the theaters were closed more than they were open. During one plague, Shakespeare wrote poetry, during another, he took advantage of the time to write more of his popular plays.

Emily Dickinson, for whatever reason, shut herself in her room at around age thirty. Some say she wouldn’t come out even for her own father’s funeral but just cracked the door open a little to listen. Would we have her writing without her self-imposed isolation?

We’re all isolated now. I’m not suggesting we write a classic or invent a sequel to calculus, but we can renew our creativity.

Dig out those old balls of yarn; put together puzzles; read like there’s no tomorrow; dust off your bike and see if you can still ride, or try a new recipe. Just challenge yourself in some way. Do something to make a friend laugh, because we need that, especially now. Pray creatively; try writing out prayers, or praying scripture, or taking a prayer walk.

What creative thing am I doing? Well, I’m writing to you, of course. Where am I writing? I’m writing from bed, I can’t think in a messy setting, and I like to breathe, so my bed doesn’t have any pipes, newspapers, or cigarette ashes. I do have cats and books, lots of books. I’m missing my live friends terribly, especially the ones who make me laugh, but some of these dead ones are pretty funny.

I’m okay, and I hope you are too.

Through My Tears

by Donna Poole

My screams wake me from the same nightmare. I hear my maids rustling, whispering; the youngest hurries to me, tears on her innocent face. I wipe her tears with the back of my hand.

“Go back to bed, little one. You cannot help me; no one can help me now.”

Who am I?

They call me Mary Magdalene, because I come from Magdala, a village on the Sea of Galilee. Some say I was a harlot, one of the many my village is famous for. Others insist I was the sinner who went to Simon’s home to wash the feet of Jesus with my tears and wipe them with my long hair. I neither confirm nor deny; what does it matter?

Who am I? I am no one. But Jesus? Who is Jesus? He is everything; He is God. Or so I thought. But can God die?I whisper it; I shout it to the heavens, but silence mocks me.

I try to forget the nightmare and sleep. My fine imported sheets feel like sackcloth. I ask, could you sleep if you were me? I am crazy with grief and have slept only in torn fragments since Wednesday. When my eyes close, my seven tormentors, those seven ancient demons Jesus commanded to leave me, hover at the edge of the nightmare and taunt me.

“Where is He now, your so-called Lord? You saw it all, and so did we! Wasn’t it delightful?”

Their hellish shrieks of laughter wake me, and I jump to my feet, drenched in sweat.

Yes, I saw it all. Like torn snapshots thrown in a jumbled pile, my memories fragment in my tortured mind. I remember shivering in the cold waiting the results of the mock trial and seeing Pilate, that spineless coward, pronounce the death sentence. I saw Jesus, barely resembling a man after the sadistic soldiers finished torturing him. I heard the devilish crowd taunt and humiliate him, and I heard the horrible, thudding sound of spikes driven into his hands and feet.

I splash cold water on my face. I was young three days ago; now I’m an old woman who doesn’t take care of herself. What does it matter?

I slip into my sandals. It’s almost dawn, time for me to meet my friend Mary, called “the other Mary.” Like me, she supported Jesus and the disciples with supplies and money.

What will I do with my money now? It means nothing to me. Perhaps I will use it to care for my youngest maid. I think of her tearful face; somehow, I know all those tears were not just for me. Have I been so busy following the Master that I’ve been only hearing his words and not doing them? How could I have missed seeing this suffering maid-child right in my own household? Why is she not with her mother? Had she been sold to pay a debt? I will try to return her to her home, and if she has no home, can I adopt her? I brush aside the thought. What have I left to give a child? I am a broken old woman. I have no hope, and those without hope have nothing to give.

I meet Mary, and we walk in silence along the dusty paths to the rich man’s tomb that holds the body of Jesus. Mary looks like I feel. I reach for her hand, and she clings to it. Some other women will meet us at the tomb with spices so we can prepare his body. Can I bear to touch the cold, dead body of my beloved Lord? I shudder; Mary knows my thoughts. She wraps her arms around me. Our tears mingle, and then we walk on.

The sun rises, but the wind that usually accompanies it is still, and no birds sing. Why is the world standing breathless on tiptoe? I am holding my breath too, and so is my friend. Then I see the gigantic stone is rolled away from the tomb. There’s a blinding flash of angels. We’re confused and frightened and run to find the disciples.

Later, I’m alone again, alone just as I was when people shunned me before Jesus found me, alone as I probably will always be. I investigate the empty tomb. Who has stolen his body? Am I to be deprived of even this? Am I not to be allowed to care for the body of my beloved Lord?

Through my tears I see nothing. Then, in a blur, I notice the gardener.

“Oh, Sir,” I cry, hope against hope. “Have you moved his body? Please tell me where he is. I will carry him away.”

How can I, a slight woman, carry the body of my Lord? But I will carry Him; somehow, I will.

Suddenly the man speaks one word. “Mary.”

I know that voice. Through my tears I see everything. He is not the gardener; He is my Lord, and my God. Jesus is alive!

I fall and clasp his feet.

In that gentle voice I love he tells me to let go of him and go give a message to the disciples. I run; I fly to obey him. I will never again be alone. Somehow, in some way, Jesus will be with me always.

As I race down the dirt paths to find the disciples, I answer my own question. Can God die? Yes! He can if He becomes a man! And can death hold that Man? Death can never hold God! Jesus, the God-Man, defeated sin and death on the cross. I don’t understand it, but I know it’s true. I know something else. He didn’t do it just for himself; he never did anything just for himself. He did it for me too, and for the world.

After I find the disciples, I will find my little maid. I have everything to give her now. I have hope.

Good Friday

by Donna Poole

I turn aside and weep. I cannot look. I sit and bury my face in my knees trying to block the sharp, metallic smell of blood. I cover my ears to mute the jeers and laughter, human cruelty at its worst. Even above the raucous crowd, delirious with blood lust, I hear the piercing, agonized, screams of the two crucified on either side of him. The crowd ignores them and hurls taunts and insults at the silent, suffering one.

I raise my head, look into his eyes, and glimpse what he’s enduring. I bend over and retch; my fellow soldiers laugh. One of them kicks me.

“Some soldier he is! Look at him vomit his breakfast!”

“Leave him be,” an older, gentler voice says. “He’s but a lad. He’ll toughen.”

When I looked into the eyes of that man on the cross, I saw something I’ll never forget. I saw pure innocence suffering guilt. I saw him feel my guilt for the first sin I can remember, when I was just a little boy and angrily pushed my baby sister and heard her arm snap before her screams started.

You think it’s impossible that I saw that in his eyes? I did though. I saw him feeling that shame and carrying the guilt for everything I’ve done since, secret things no one could have possibly known.

In a split second, I saw all the other sins that innocent man was carrying as his own, terrible, unspeakable things, things people had done even my corrupt heart had never imagined.

Let my friends laugh. I sprawl face to the ground and weep for the crushing pain that man is feeling! At night, sometimes, I wake, and I can hardly live with my own guilt. And that man has somehow taken into his own heart the sins of all mankind and is feeling the crushing, unbearable weight of guilt for them all?

Who is this man? Why is he doing this? Never mind the skin flayed to the bone, the nails pinning him to the cross in ancient, barbaric torture, the mockery of the jagged crown of thorns spilling blood into his eyes-the guilt, the guilt, the guilt! How can he bear it?

After six hours that seem like sixty years, I hear his strong, triumphant shout, “It is finished!”

A fellow soldier says, “Truly, this man was the Son of God.”

I believe! For the first time in my life I feel no guilt. That man somehow took my sin and guilt into his heart and undid it all. He didn’t just cover it up; he made it not to be. I have no idea how he did it, but my sins are gone! Why did he do it? As crazy as it sounds, he did it for love.

With different tears, forgiven tears, I raise my face and arms to heaven and shout, “Praise God!”

A strong hand grabs my neck, and a rough voice says, “Let’s get him out of here. He’s a disgrace!”

The older, gentler voice says, “Leave him be. It’s his first crucifixion. Can’t you see he’s but a lad?”

The strong hand violently shakes me; I hear a stream of curses and feel more kicks. I don’t care. I’m staring at the man. The Son of God.

A soldier pierces his side and says, “He’s dead.”

I don’t know what it means, but a phrase comes to mind, “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming.”

Some man, they call him Joseph, is taking him away now. I must follow and see where they bury him.

I think of something Mama often said, “Sometimes, things that look like the end are just The Beginning.”

Photo credit: Kimberlee Kiefer

Icebound Easter Not So Bad

by Donna Poole

When Easter Sunday comes, will we all still be under orders to stay home and stay safe? Perhaps we will be. Thinking of that reminded me of an article I wrote about an Easter we spent at home in 1978. I sent it to our local paper, The Hillsdale Daily News and was overjoyed when they published it on the front page on March 27, 1978. I laughed when I noticed the typesetter had changed “friends” to “fiends.” I’ve made my own share of fiendish writing errors!

9:30 p.m., Saturday, March 25, 1978—Freezing rain pounded at the windows, and the lights flickered a warning.

“Just let me read this to you before you fix supper, okay?” John asked.

We’d fed the three small ones earlier and planned a late evening supper alone, an occasional event in our home, almost like a date night without having to leave home. But John decided he needed to practice Sunday’s Easter sermon out loud, and I was the only available audience, since his guppies refused to look interested. So, I listened, and supper waited.

10 p.m.—John snapped his Bible shut. “What do you think?”

The lights flickered and went out. “I think I don’t like cold tomato soup.”

11:30 p.m.—The inside temperature dropped to 62 degrees, not uncomfortable. Did we usually keep the house too warm? Surely, we weren’t one of those energy hogs we condemned, were we? On that thought, we oink-oinked our way to bed.

Midnight to 7 a.m.—The inside temperature dipped to 58 degrees overnight but Sleeping bags for the three small ones and two extra blankets for us kept us almost too warm. How quiet it was! No motors running, no FM radio—perfect for sleeping. We couldn’t sleep. It was too quiet.

7:30 a.m.—John ice-skated on four wheels up to our country church. There was no electricity there so no heat. The church was cold, and branches littered the road. He and the board decided to cancel the Easter service.

“It’s too bad I was the only one who heard your Easter sermon,” I said.

“Oh well,” came the cheerful reply. “Maybe you were the only one who needed to hear it.”

8 a.m.—Cold breakfast: juice, milk, peanut butter, un-toast, and cold cereal. The house temperature was 56 degrees. We put on jackets.

8:30 a.m.—We settled in the living room for our Easter service. Our four-voice choir plus one coo did feeble justice to the hymn, “Christ Arose!” We read the resurrection story and talked about the promise of eternal life we can have because Jesus died for our sins and rose again. Suddenly, it felt like Easter.

Easter morning—We took a walk outside. No crocus, daffodil, or green grass welcomed us, but the ice-encased branches had their own beauty. Flowers are nice, but they aren’t the only proclamation of a risen Lord. We heard a whispered announcement from God’s handmade crystal, breathtakingly lovely, and sparkling in the sunshine.

Noon—Friends from church knocked on the back door. They had a gas stove at their house. “We knew you couldn’t cook on your electric stove,” they said. They gave us smiles, hugs, jugs of water, ham, homemade rolls, home-canned jelly, a relish plate, and hot stew. With the Lord’s provision and the love of friends, who needs Easter lilies?

Afternoon—That afternoon we asked ourselves questions. Why do we normally use so much water? With the limited amount we had—pumps need electricity so country people don’t have water without it—we discovered how much work a little bit of water can do.

We remembered our camp stove and lantern and hauled them out of the attic. Why didn’t we use the lantern more often? And it doesn’t have to be summer to set up a camp stove and use it outside. The house temperature dropped to 54 degrees but with extra sweaters no one felt too cold. Why didn’t we grab sweaters before we reached for the thermostat?

“We’re having an adventure,” we told the kids. “Let’s pretend we’re camping in the state forest up north like we do in August.”

“Oh, fun!” they said. And fun it was.

6:30—7:00 p.m.—We lit the lantern and stayed in the same room after supper. No one wanted to sit in the dark alone. The baby nodded and smiled in his highchair. The other two small ones played on the cold kitchen floor.  John and I did dishes, using sparing amounts of water. What should we do with the dirty dishwater? We didn’t want to waste it by just pouring it down the drain; it wasn’t like we could turn on the faucet for more. Our noses told us where it was needed most, and the dishwater became very useful in the bathroom.

7—8 p.m.—We curled up with blankets in the living room and read to the kids from one of the Little House on the Prairie books. It seemed appropriate.

“Hey!” A little one interrupted. “They had lanterns. Just like us!”

8:30 p.m.—Prayers were said and sleeping bags zipped. Three little bodies stilled, and three cheerful voices quieted. John and I huddled together and talked about what a wonderful Easter it had been. We discussed what amazing conveniences we enjoy and how we often take them for granted.

10 p.m.—It was time for the last talk of the day with the Lord. We thanked Him for the big thing: Our risen Savior, the bridge between man’s sin and God’s holiness. We thanked Him for the day’s many blessings, our surprise Easter meal, the beauty of the ice, the sweetness of our family, and the many concerned phone calls and offers of warm places to stay. We thanked God for the many things we’d taken for granted: light at the flick of a switch, heat at the turn of a dial, water at the twist of a faucet, and a toilet that flushed all by itself without dishwater.

5:30 a.m.—We heard the welcome sounds of noise pollution, motors and pumps. John yawned his way downstairs and came back.

“The furnace is running now, but it’s only 50 degrees in here.”

Under ample blankets and with hearts warmed with gratitude, no one had noticed the chill. No one at all.

Photo credit: Mary Post

Ya Know? Ya Never Really Know

by Donna Poole

Back in 1966, those three young divinity students looked more like they belonged in junior high than in college. Good friends, they sang in a music group and did almost everything together. They said things they thought were hilarious like, “Ya know? Ya never really know.”

I’d never tell about the time one of them was on a date and the other two pushed his car half a block away so he couldn’t find it. I’d never write about the double date we went on with one of them when. . . .

They were great guys though. One became a missionary to Italy, one the head of the music department at a college, and the third the pastor of a country church. I married the third one.

They were right though. Ya know? Ya never really know.

Who would have thought that the first day of spring 2020 would arrive to find the world in chaos? A friend asked, “Am I the only one who feels like I went to sleep and woke up in an episode of the Twilight Zone?” 

Well, hello coronavirus, COVID-19!

What positive things do I have to say from up here in my Pollyanna tree? Please, don’t shoot me out of my tree just yet; I don’t really like this any better than you do. Positive things. Hmmm. Well, we’re learning new vocabulary words! Until recently, I thought “flatten the curve” was wishful thinking when you flunked a high school chem test. And I thought “social distancing” was something only hermits practiced.

Long ago, I wanted to be a semi-hermit. I wistfully imagined living in an isolated cabin with just my family and a very few hand-picked close friends nearby. I supposed that with just those few people, and my books, I’d be perfectly content. But are selfish people ever really content?

I just didn’t know myself. I care too much about people to be a happy hermit. How could a hermit love this saying, “They might not need me; but they might. I’ll let my head be just in sight; a smile as small as mine might be precisely their necessity.”

But wait. Wasn’t Emily Dickinson, who wrote those words, a model for social distancing? Never mind. I’m distracting myself.

I’d ask you to link arms with me, walk my country road, and talk about the crisis of coronavirus, but just for now, you stay over there on your side of the road, six feet away, but let’s talk. What’s that you say? My road isn’t six feet wide? Okay, I’ll walk off the road in the grass.

Community, friendship, love, these are beautiful words, richer than we realized. No perhaps about it, we’ve taken so many precious gifts for granted. And now we’re missing our normal lives.

Last week our little country church announced a potluck. We love our potlucks. A friend posted on my Facebook wall that to be Baptist you had to believe in Jesus and own a casserole dish. I told her that was theologically incorrect. You also had to own a crockpot.

For almost forty-six years we’ve been crowding into our fellowship hall, an old, one-room country schoolhouse for potlucks. You should see our long table, groaning under its beautiful load of crockpots.

The schoolhouse has no running water, no indoor bathroom, and it’s not big enough for all of us. But, oh the love and laughter we’ve shared there. We’ve shared sobs and hugs too, at funeral dinners. I fiercely love that old building, but I’m as anxious as anyone to see our new addition completed. We’re going to have a fellowship hall with running water and bathrooms, but we’ll still be the country church on the corner of two dirt roads because that’s who we are.

We won’t be having a potluck this week. There’s no way to practice social distancing in that old schoolhouse; it wasn’t built for that. And you know what? Neither were we. None of us were built for social distancing. We need each other. We need to give and receive love, friendship, help, hugs, and comfort.

We won’t even be meeting for church; we’re doing our part to flatten the curve. Sure, I’ll miss the big reason meet, to worship God together and to learn from His Word, but I’ll miss the little things too. The coffee and donuts on the back table. The smiles, handshakes, love. The shared sorrows. The sound of the bell ringing out over the fields. The little kids running out of children’s church anxious to show their handwork to anyone who will look, and we’ll all look. The jokes. The laughter. The young people helping the older ones to their cars. The contented silence of the church after the last person has left, waiting for John while he locks the door, and walking arm in arm with him to our car.

Soon, this social isolation end. Let’s not take each other for granted ever again. Because, how long will we have each other? Ya know? Ya never really know.

People, we need people!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tF6CFQ06w-g

The Magic Belt

by Donna Poole

Jo trudged through deep snow the half-mile home, tears freezing to her eyelashes, head lowered against the bitter wind. The foothills of the Adirondacks Mountains laughed at the calendar. They didn’t care if it was almost Easter; snowbanks still piled almost as high as the telephone poles lining the rural road.

Jo and Peggy, her younger sister, giggled whenever they heard the song:

“In your Easter bonnet
With all the frills upon it
You’ll be the grandest lady
In the Easter parade.”

Hadn’t Irving Berlin, who’d published the song in 1933, known people still wore winter hats and snowsuits at Easter? Liberace made “Easter Parade” popular again in 1954, and he’d been born in Wisconsin. Surely, he’d known not everyone wore Easter bonnets. Some people still shivered in snow boots in late March and April.

Jo’s one freezing cold bare hand reminded her of why she was crying, and she stubbornly forced herself to stop. She wouldn’t cry at home; she never had, and she never would.

“I’ll give you something to cry about,” she muttered sarcastically to herself. “I didn’t cry at my own mother’s funeral.” That’s what Mom always said if one of Jo’s siblings cried. Jo didn’t cry. It was her only claim to fame.

Mom was going to be so mad about that lost glove. The minute the bus drove off, Jo realized her glove was missing. She stared after the departing bus, sighed, and began the long walk home. Maybe she’d find the glove on the bus tomorrow, but tomorrow would be too late to stop the magic belt.

To take her mind off what was coming Jo did what she often did; she slipped effortlessly into the lives of the characters in her favorite books where parents cuddled their children and little girls put their heads on their mother’s laps. Jo had never done that. Sometimes she hugged Mom’s apron, though, when she took it off the clothesline, and it smelled like sunshine and outdoors. She’d pretend Mom was in it, hugging her back.

Once, after a really bad time with the magic belt, Dad had snuck into their room. “Jo, Peggy, are you alright?”

Peggy had just cried quietly.

“No, we are not alright,” Jo had said angrily. “One of these days she’s going to kill us. Why don’t you stop her?”

Jo knew she was being melodramatic. Mom wasn’t going to kill her. Probably not.

Dad had sighed. “If I say anything, it will just make it worse.”

Dad had gone back to the paper he’d always hid behind, but Jo a had loved him anyway. She’d loved Mom too. Even as a little girl she’d intuitively known something, Mom loved her children.

Jo knew something else too; she wasn’t afraid of Mom. She was afraid of something, but it wasn’t Mom. And it wasn’t the magic belt.

Jo kept switching the glove from hand to hand trying to keep from frostbite. Finally, she opened the door to the warmth of home. Maybe at least supper will be good; Mom’s a great cook.

Jo didn’t smell Mom’s mouth-watering homemade spaghetti sauce or the wonderful garlicy scent of pastavazoola. She almost gagged at what she did smell. Just her luck. Lentil soup.

Too bad Mom wouldn’t send her kids to bed with no supper, but she never did that. She couldn’t bear to have her kids hungry.

Might as well get this over with.

Jo put on her most defiant face, the one Peggy always warned her not to wear, and marched up to Mom. “I lost my glove again.”

“How many times have I told you…?” The yelling went on until suddenly it appeared out of nowhere, the way it always did. Mom didn’t go get the belt, or take it off her clothing, or remove it from a hook. Suddenly, like magic, the belt appeared in her hand. Mom always said a belt was nothing compared to the razor strap she’d been beaten with as a child.

Jo took it stoically, staring at Mom unflinchingly until Mom’s arm got tired. Jo ate the cursed lentil soup. It tasted worse than it ever had. Finally, it was bedtime, 7:30 p.m. and time for the Great Escape.

Jo squeezed her eyes shut to close out the world. They stung as a salty tear escaped. When even breathing let her know her sisters were asleep, Jo scooted over in her bed and patted the edge to make room for Jesus. She knew He wasn’t physically there, but He was there. She wished she could put her head in His lap.

“Do you know what it feels like? The magic belt?”

He pointed into the distance. She saw Him there on the cross. She’d forgotten that part of the story, the part where the soldiers had beaten Him, probably with thirty-nine lashes. Jo shuddered when she saw the whip, a horrible thing with pieces of bone and metal attached to leather strands.

Jo whispered. “Was it magic?” she whispered. “Was your whip magic too?”

Jesus threw His head back and laughed so loudly she thought He’d wake her sisters. “There’s nothing magic about belts, or whips, or tears, or sorrow, or suffering. Only love and joy are magic. They are the only things that get to live forever. Look! Look where my whip is.”

Jo squinted through her tears. The whip was nailed securely to the cross, but Jesus wasn’t there. Of course, He wasn’t there. He’d risen again, and He was right here with her, and with all who loved Him.

She was getting sleepy. She heard Jesus murmur, “Why don’t you tell me what you’re really afraid of?”

Jo opened her eyes, startled. He knew that too? Her secret fear?

She whispered, “I’m afraid of me. I’m just like Mom, stubborn and angry. I don’t want to scream at my children someday. I don’t want to hurt them with the magic belt.”

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“You won’t because you don’t want to. And I will help you. Now go to sleep, and dream of the real magic. Love.”

And she did. It was warm and sunny in that land of love. She didn’t need gloves; she wore a beautiful Easter bonnet, and Mom hugged her. She’d always known Mom had those hugs in her. They’d just needed to find a way out, and someday they would.  

Photo credit: Mary Post
Photo credit: Beth Ann Barnes
Photo credit: Linda Ellington Stevens
Photo credit: Mary DeSalvo
Photo submitted by” Marie Blackburn
This is how Jo and Peggy would have looked if they’d worn Easter bonnets. Thanks for submitting this photo, Linda Barvinchak Hackley

Oh My Fur and Whiskers

by Donna Poole

Who are all these people? And why do their titles all end in “ologist”? John and I never expected so many ologists to become part of our lives when we said “I do” fifty-plus years ago, but here they all are. The Cambridge English Dictionary defines ologist as “an expert in a particular area of scientific study.”

 Let me introduce you to our ologists. We know a few self-proclaimed gemologists. If the next pandemic happens, they will darkly say, “Don’t say we didn’t warn you.” We can’t really get rid of them; a few of them are family members!

We have a favorite meteorologist; you can find him on Facebook if you’re interested, Meteorologist Ross Ellet. We don’t mind sharing life with him; we voluntarily check his page almost daily. We think it would be fun to know a zoologist, but most of our ologists aren’t the fun variety, and we don’t visit them voluntarily.

Between us, John and I have seen dermatologists, several cardiologists, a nephrologist, four neurologists, a neuropsychologist, a hematologist, a pulmonologist, a gastroenterologist and two ophthalmologists. Throw in a few surgeons, orthopedic and neuro, sprinkle with a few anesthesiologists, radiologists, physical therapists, phlebotomists, and nurses who administer infusions, and you about have the story of our social lives.

Our favorite doctors are our family doctors. We used to call them family doctors; now all our specialists ask, “Who is your primary care physician?” So, I guess the correct term now is PCP.

Whatever you call them, John and I love our at-home doctors and wish we could see just them and not our plethora of ologists, but as one nurse candidly remarked when I said that, “Well, then you would be dead.” So, there is that.

Our primary care physician’s job is to diagnose us and hand us off to the ologists; we understand that, but what happened to the good old days of Marcus Welby, MD?

Marcus Welby, AKA Robert Young, was a family doctor. He knew his patients by name and made house calls. Just his smile and voice were enough to calm fears. That television show was a favorite of many from 1969-1976 when days were simpler. True, in 1976 the average man lived only 69.1 years and the average woman 76.8 years. Now, according to stastita.com, the average male in North America lives 76 years and the average female 81 years, so I guess we’ve made progress with all our ologists.

Still, Marcus Welby would die of a coughing fit if he saw the complicated ICD-10-CM system doctors must now use to report to insurance companies. The old ICD-9-CM system had 13,000 codes; the new ICD-10 expanded to 68,000 codes. John’s cardiologist says it’s a pain in the place where you sit down; only those aren’t his exact words. I understand that the 68,000 codes have their place; the ICD-10 reportedly has fewer rejected insurance claims. But they sure aren’t back country simple; they are like Carmel, Indiana with its 125 roundabouts, more than any other city in the world. Carmel says it has reduced injury accidents by 80 percent. Our country dirt road couldn’t handle the traffic load of Carmel, or Chicago, or New York City.

Some things just can’t be simplified; we need all our ologists if we want to live and thrive until ninety-five. And so, when we must, John and I regretfully drive down our dirt road, leave the sanity and solitude of countryside behind, and head to the insanity of Ann Arbor or Lansing. We see more traffic on one of those doctor or hospital visits than we probably do in a year at home.

When we get stuck in the inevitable traffic, one of us always says to the other, “How do people live like this?”

And yet, we’re grateful they do. Those ologists have saved our lives more than once, or rather, God has used them to do that.

We submit to the unavoidable; we sometimes must go to big city doctors and hospitals, and if ever we visit Carmel, Indiana, we’ll have to take a roundabout, though just thinking about that gives me nightmares. I’m not putting a visit to Carmel on my bucket list.

I’m no a city girl. When we leave cities, roundabouts, and interstates behind and see open fields, I feel my shoulders relax. I can breathe again.

There will be interstate days for all of us when there’s barely time to breathe, when life seems nothing but driving from one ologist to the next, from one roundabout to the next, from one obligation to the next. But do you ever wonder if we’re getting hooked on our own adrenaline? Do we sometimes drive life’s interstate even when we could take a backcountry road?

Long ago I determined to leave a margin around the pages of my days, a little room to breathe. John and I promised each other to do that, but life’s demands grew, and we can’t do things as quickly as we used to. We find ourselves working early, late, and in between, and seldom taking a day off.

I see many others in the same situation. Like the frazzled White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, too many of us drive frantically from one roundabout to the next muttering, “Oh, my fur and whiskers! I’m late. I’m late!”

What good does it do to live on a backcountry road and live an interstate life?

So, here I am, the ripe young age of seventy-one, just now figuring out if I’m going to get off the interstate and live a country road life, I’m going to have to leave some things undone. You too?

It’s not our location that determines our lifestyle. We can enjoy a country road life if we live in a high rise in the city; we can endure an interstate life if we live on three-hundred isolated acres in Wyoming.

We don’t want to mess life up because we only get one shot. I’m not encouraging laziness. Life is short; we want to finish well, but even Jesus told His disciples to come apart and rest awhile. It might be tricky figuring out a balance between hard work and rest, but we can at least try.

We can start with this ancient prayer: “Oh Lord, may I be directed what to do and what to leave undone.” – Elizabeth Fry (1780-1845)

I don’t suppose we can fire any of our ologists, but maybe we can take time for a picnic on the way home? Oh, my fur and whiskers, a picnic sounds just lovely. I think I’ll pack a book.

University of Michigan Frankel Cardiovascular Center

Hope

by Donna Poole

As I write, the winter wind’s howling outside my window, and school is cancelled for the third day three in a row. Our back roads are a mess of frozen mud and drifted snow, but we’ve seen hopeful signs of spring here in Michigan.

Snowdrops are the first flowers to poke their brave heads above ground, defying winter winds with their fragile strength. A few days after they appeared a half-foot of snow covered them and said, “Take that!” The resilient flowers took it and will be just as lovely when the snow melts, perhaps even lovelier. They are flowers that never disappoint hope.

The red-winged blackbirds are back, and some people have even seen robins, not just the few that somehow over-winter here, but trees full of them. It’s a bit early for robins; I start looking for them around Mom’s birthday, March 13. Mom left us for heaven when I was twenty-five, so I don’t think of her everyday anymore, but I think of her when I see my first robin and hear the spring birds sing. Mom’s favorite song was, “God Will Take Care of You.”

The spring peepers will sing before the birds, and that could happen any day now. When I get out of the car on a March evening I pause and listen for them; in the distance they sound like sleigh bells. My heart dances when I hear the peepers!

The days are getting longer, and I exclaim about that often enough to drive the people who live with me crazy, but I can’t help it. It’s an undeniable sign of hope fulfilled. I’ve lived through another winter, and through enough winters that I no longer take a single thing about spring for granted. Nothing is lovelier than renewed hope in the spring.

Spring is coming, so even when the wind chill approaches zero like it is today, I’m ready to sing.

We’ve had so many blessings this past week that our hearts are singing with gratitude. We’ve had burdens too, but I don’t really feel like talking about them. I’d rather tell you about the blessings.

I guess I’ll have to share some burdens though, or you won’t understand the blessings. We don’t tell people everything. John has been pastor of our country church here at the corner of two-dirt roads for forty-five years now, and we know these people. They are not be trusted. If they know we need something, they’ll dig deep into their own too empty pockets and do something about it. So, we tell God, but we don’t tell them.

Sunday, we had to tell. Our old van broke down in the church parking lot after everyone left Sunday morning. John tried to move it out of the way with our even older truck, but the van was in park, and the key refused to turn, so the truck struggled to help but only made things worse. There the van stubbornly sat, sideways, in the way, and obviously in need of repair.

“Sorry the van’s in the way,” John apologized to the congregation Sunday night. “I’ll get a wrecker up here tomorrow and get it home or to the mechanic.”

That afternoon John and I had wondered if we should even repair the van; she with all her old-lady ailments, and her sister, our other old van, about keep Glory to God in business. Yes, that’s actually the name of the place that fixes our vehicles. I think they say, “Glory to God!” every time we call them, and we groan something else every time see the bill. They’re good to us though, and keep expenses to a minimum, and give us a discount.

Two days earlier we’d brought the other old van home from Glory to God; I, perhaps irreverently, shorten it to G 2 G. That repair hadn’t been cheap.

The month had surprised us with several unexpected expenses. A lifetime of living with John at these country corners has given me an education in faith. When I flunk the class and start to worry, John says, “Go ahead and worry, Donna. I would, if I were you. After all, God has let us down so many times before.”

John preached a good sermon that Sunday evening, and I tried not to worry about the van. Afterward, a couple who attends only on Sunday evenings because they go to their own church on Sunday mornings, gave us a car. You read that correctly, gave us a car! We were so shocked we could hardly speak. Talk about seeing someone be the hands, feet, and heart of Jesus!

Monday came and with it bill-paying time. Money usually available for bills wasn’t there this time.

“Okay, John, what are we going to do?”

John smiled; I knew he’d prayed, but he even he looked a little worried. He walked out to the mailbox later.

“Bill, bill, advertisement, hey—I don’t know what this is. You got a card or something.”

He tossed an envelope into my lap. I opened it and read a sweet, encouraging card from people we’d known long ago. “God has put you on our hearts lately….” 

“What’s this?” our daughter, Kimmee, asked. She picked up something that had fallen out of the card. I hadn’t noticed it.

It was a check for more than enough to cover the bills waiting to be paid.

And a few days later our daughter and son-in-law bought us a new mattress for our bed.

A car? A check? A mattress? All in one week?

I don’t want you to get the idea I think material blessings are a sign of God’s favor and lack of them is a sign of His displeasure. I don’t buy into that health-wealth-materialism gospel. It didn’t seem to work out too well for Jesus or the apostles.

God always takes care of His children, but it may not look like it to us at the time.

Remember I told you Mom liked the song, “God Will Take Care of You”? God took care of Mom when she had excellent health and worked circles around the energizer bunny. God took care of her when she had her first stroke in her forties and lost the use of her right arm and partial use of her right leg. And God took care of Mom when a brutal second stroke took her from us before she reached her mid-fifties.

God took great care of us this week with a car, a huge check, and a new mattress. God was taking just as good care of us long ago when we stood in the grocery store aisle discussing whether to put back the coffee or the toilet paper because there wasn’t money for both. No money fell from the sky; we put back the coffee. And God will still be taking care of us if we stand in the grocery store aisle again regretfully putting back the coffee so we can buy the toilet paper.

When John Wesley was dying, he said, “The best of all is God is with us.”

Having God, we have everything. We have hope. Hope is the only thing we can’t live without.

When storms of any kind come, physical, financial, emotional, or spiritual, God sometimes rescues His children. More often He rides the storm out with them. He helps them find beauty for ashes, joy for mourning, and hope when all seems lost.

The days are longer; the snowdrops will survive this storm; the red winged blackbirds have come back to Michigan.

And we are pilgrims, singing our way Home, thanking God for our county roads, and saying with Emily Dickinson,

“Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all.”

Photo credit: Kara Gavin
One of our country backroads

What in Case?

by Donna Poole

School uniforms on, faces scrubbed, smiles bright, Angie, Johnnie, and Danny grabbed the lunches I had ready for them and kissed me.

“Bye, Mom!”

“Bye, Mom!”

Make that two kids grabbed their lunches and kissed me. One usually walked right by, thinking of other things and headed out the door.

“Murphy!” his dad said. “Get your lunch. And don’t forget to kiss your mother.”

Johnnie earned the nickname Murphy from a radio commercial about little boys delivering newspapers. A voice barked out commands. “Get up! Brush your teeth! Eat your breakfast! Kiss your mother! Pick up your papers!” It continued with instructions. At the end the voice shouted, “Murphy, go back and start over! You forgot to kiss your mother!”

That was our Murphy. He loved me. He just had many things on his mind, and unless reminded, he forgot his lunch and forgot to kiss his mother.

Once on the road with Dad driving them to school, all three kids had a lot on their minds. Many of their sentences started with, “Daddy, what in case. . .?”

The curvy backroad to school took them through Lost Nations, a game preserve with few homes. One house had chickens that liked the road better than the yard.

“Daddy, what in case we hit one of those chickens?” And one day they did just that.

Sometimes the kids laughingly tried to think up outrageous questions. “Daddy, what in case a plane falls out of the sky and lands on our car?”

Sometimes their questions were serious. “Daddy, what in case you and Mommy die?”

John reassured them that we had no plans to die anytime soon, but if we died, God would take care of them. We probably failed to teach our kids many important lessons, but I hope we taught one important thing, that whatever they face in life, God will be with them.

“Daddy, what in case we’re late to school?” The kids asked that almost every day.

It was a legitimate worry. We lived only seven miles from school, but their Dad usually pulled into the driveway of Freedom Farm Christian school at the last minute.

The kids didn’t want to earn the late demerit; three demerits equaled one detention, and they had a remarkable ability to earn demerits without trying.

“Bye, Daddy!” they’d yell, flying out of the car and into the school, about knocking over anyone in the way.

One day that anyone happened to be a favorite teacher of theirs and a friend of ours, Al Neinas. He sauntered out to the car. “You know, Pastor Poole, there isn’t an award for this.”

John smiled. “An award for what?”

“An award for consistently being the last parent to get his kids here the final second before the late bell rings.”

When John picked the kids up in the afternoon, they didn’t have as many “what in case” questions; they were too busy talking about their day. I sometimes had a few “what in case” questions of my own. It wasn’t unusual for John to call me from school.

“Hey, I’m bringing two extra people home for supper, okay?”

Ten minutes later he’d call again. “Hey, make that six extra people coming home for supper; is that okay?”

What in case I can’t think of what to feed them? I was pretty sure I could though. My friend Kathy said I was the only person she knew who could feed a dozen people with a cup of hamburger.

I thank God for the invention of the casserole! When Danny came home from school and saw a casserole cooking, he always looked at it suspiciously.

“Did you get that out of a cookbook, or did you make it up?”

If I said I’d found the recipe in a cookbook, he relaxed. If I said I’d created it from my imagination, he almost cried. Danny is forty-three now and still suspicious of casseroles. Whenever he looks at a casserole at one of our church potlucks his face says, “What in case I eat that and die?”

Those what in case years passed quickly. When we were forty and our other three teens or almost teens Kimmee joined our family. I don’t think she ever said, “what in case”; she hung around her older siblings enough to know the proper words were “what if.”

Now the four kids are grown; the “baby” just turned thirty-one. They, their spouses, and Megan, our oldest grandchild, face serious “what if?” questions every day, and we do too.

I try not to let any “what in case” questions keep me awake at night. Whatever my family faces, and I know they don’t tell me all of it, I only hope they remember what we taught them, that no matter how hard things get, God will be with them. I hope I remember it too.

Yesterday is gone, why worry? And tomorrow? Well, like Elisabeth Elliot said, “Tomorrow is none of my business.” That just leaves today..

What in case today I remember I am God’s child and just enjoy life in the beautiful backyard of my heavenly Father? What in case you do too!

The road through Lost Nations

Take the Inside Road

by Donna Poole

When winter backroads ooze with mud or wear a coating of ice, I take an inside road. Books take me anywhere I want to go. February is a good month to read; it’s National Library Lovers Month. The second week of February is also Freelance Writers Appreciation Month. Okay, you can sit down now; that’s long enough for the standing ovation.

I wasn’t one of those early, natural readers. In the 1950’s we didn’t use the term “learning disability.” Kids were either smart or dumb; nice adults never said which, but we kids quickly put ourselves into one group or another.

I knew what group I was in. We had four reading groups in school; I’m sure the first group wasn’t the bluebirds and the last group the crows, but that’s how I remember it. There really needed to be a fifth group just for me, the dead-road-kill-crows. I rode home on the yellow school bus, my report card in my hand. With every bounce of the seat my brain said, “dumb, dumb, dumb,” and panic kicked in. Mom didn’t suffer fools gladly, and I knew exactly what she was going to do about the Big Red U in reading. I was half-way through second grade and couldn’t read one word, not even “dog” or “cat”.

I don’t remember the spanking. I do know Mom sniffed with disapproval when she discovered the school was teaching reading by the “see-say” method: look at the picture, memorize the word, recognize the word without the picture. She got phonics materials, and in the evenings, when my siblings went to bed, she sat up with me and tried to drill phonics sounds into my brain. Mom was not patient, but she was persistent. I was going to read, or one of us was going to die in the process.

I thought I was going to die. I prayed I would die. I begged to go to bed. I just could not get it.   

Until that night. Suddenly, a light switched on in my brain. Phonics made sense. I could sound out words; I could read! I fast-tracked from the crows to the bluebirds and got into trouble for reading ahead in the book because I didn’t want to wait for the others who couldn’t keep up with me.

I can’t imagine what my life would have been like without Mom. If you can’t read at school, you can’t do much else either. Looking back, trying to self-diagnose my learning disability, I’m guessing it was a combination of visual perception problems and dyslexia.

Thanks to Mom, I’ve meandered many backroads in my reading.

When I was a kid, I devoured books. I didn’t just read them; I lived in them. I found wonderful families, friends, and adventures, and I joined them in my imagination. I loved Charlotte’s Web, The Five Little Peppers, Little Women, Little Men, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, Pollyanna, and so many more.

Mom and Dad had a collection of children’s books. Each volume was a different color; the book of fairy stories was red. I wore that book out. I enjoyed the book of mythology too. I even read some of the dictionary.

I loved Bible stories, especially ones about Jesus. If I felt lonely at night, I scooted over to make room, patted the edge of the bed, and invited Jesus to sit. I fell asleep, sure He was there, smiling at me, keeping me safe.

As I got older, I read book series: Cherry Ames, Hardy Boys, and my favorite, Nancy Drew.

Life wasn’t always easy when I was a little girl. I was a stubborn child and refused to cry about anything in my life, but I cried about what happened to the characters in my books.

Dad walked by one day when I was reading and crying. “You know you’re crying about more than that book, don’t you?” he asked.

I looked up at him, shocked. I think that was probably the most astute thing my dad ever said to me.

Reading both kept me out of trouble and got me into trouble, like it did when we were getting ready for a rare family trip to town.

 “How in the world can you have no clean clothes?” Mom scolded. She looked through my sister Mary’s clothes. Mary didn’t have any clean clothes either, but she had something new.

New clothes were even rarer than a trip to town. I don’t remember where Mary got the skort, a short, white pleated skirt attached to white shorts.

Mom bit the tags off and handed me the skort as Mary watched sadly. “Put this on, and don’t you dare get dirty before we leave.”

What could I do and not get dirty? My books! It was a beautiful day, so Nancy Drew and I carefully climbed a tree with low branches, sat there, and I started to read. All went well until I forgot I wasn’t inside on the couch and leaned back. When I fell out of the tree, I landed on a barbed wire fence. I didn’t get a scratch, but Mary’s beautiful new skort wasn’t as lucky. That barbed wire neatly ripped that skirt right off those shorts. You don’t want to know the rest of the story.

I kept reading voraciously as an adult until I had brain surgery. After that, reading was almost impossible for a while. I never lost the ability to read words, but by the time I got to the second paragraph on a page, I couldn’t remember what I’d read in the first. Reading wasn’t fun; it was frustratingly hard work. Years passed before I could really enjoy a book, and even now I read much slower than I did. That’s okay though, I thank God I can still read!

I love my books; I have some good friends between dusty, old, hard covers. My books, and especially my Bible, have made me who I am today.

So, who am I today? Well, if you psychoanalyze me by the books on my bedside table, I’m one strange lady! I have fiction books, two great devotionals, a dictionary cataloging death by poison, shooting, suffocation, drowning, and strangling from 1900—1950 in London, a book of Puritan prayers, a mystery about a murder in Mackinac, and a writer’s market guide.

I’m too old to worry about who I am; I’ll leave that to my progeny. I have more important things to worry about, like how am I going to live long enough to meander down all the backroads in these books? And that reminds me. Family, when I die, don’t donate my books before you let the readers among you choose any they want. I’m pretty sure someone will want my dictionary of murder. And should my death seem at all suspicious, dust that book for fingerprints. Just in case.

My First Valentine

by Donna Poole

I looked with a critical eye at My First Valentine. He seemed to have no sense of propriety. Did he not know that one simply did not appear in public with a red or black upper lip and chin, depending on which color crepe paper bow one had chewed that Sunday morning? And had he not heard the choir director tell us kids in cherub choir to fasten the snaps at the wrists of our little white angel robes?

What kind of mother does this kid have? Had I appeared on the platform week after week with red or black dye all over my face, and with my angel robe flapping at the wrists, my mother would have had plenty to say!

Come to think of it, why didn’t the cherub choir leader tell this little Johnnie Poole to stop chewing his crepe paper bow and fasten his snaps? Must be God wanted me to do the job. I was a strange little girl, painfully shy, but if I thought someone was doing something wrong, shyness aside, I was on a righteous crusade!

I edged closer. “Johnnie Poole,” I said, in my most authoritative preschool voice, “stop chewing that bow this minute and fasten your snaps.”

That Johnnie Poole gave me a look I was to learn only too well. With inscrutable, deep brown eyes he calmly stared directly at me, then looked away and kept right on chewing. Oh, but this little boy was about to learn I didn’t give up easily. Every week I gave him the same lecture. Every week he gave me the same look and kept doing what he wanted to do. It was infuriating.

I remember our first real argument, several years later. Our dads were counting the offering after church.

“I can spell my name. Want to see?”

He wrote on a blackboard, “John.”

“That is totally wrong. Listen to me.” I pronounced his name over and over. “Do you hear any ‘h’? I didn’t think so. Your name is spelled J-O-N.”

He looked at me calmly, erased his name, and said, “I guess I know how to spell my own name.” And he walked away.

See? Infuriating.

At some point we must have decided we liked each other, but I don’t remember any conversation about it. I do remember we held hands behind the pole in children’s church until Johnnie Poole decided it wasn’t the right thing to do; his standards always were higher than mine. Except when it came to chewing crepe paper.

A boy whose dad also counted money offered to marry us. He said he knew how to do it because his older sister had just gotten married. We were bored; the money-counting took a long time, so we agreed.

The boy finished the ceremony and said, “You may now kiss your bride.”

“I’m not kissing no girl!”

“I’m not letting him kiss me!”

Our officiant was distressed. “But, then you can’t be married.”

“Okay!”

Our divorce or annulment was quite painless. We paid our officiant nothing, and without even thanking him, we ran off to play with our friends.

After fourth grade our family moved and left that church. I don’t remember saying goodbye to Johnnie Poole.

Dad’s job transferred him back to the area the summer before eighth grade.

One Sunday a boy I knew said, “Someone wants to sit with you in church. He’s really handsome and nice, but he’s too shy to ask you himself, so he sent me.”

“Who is it?” I wasn’t interested in any boys. Still, I was curious about this handsome, shy stranger.

“Well, it’s Johnnie Poole.”

“Johnnie Poole!” I laughed. “I’ve known him all my life. You tell him if he ever wants to sit with me in church, he better ask me himself!”

Moving time came all too soon, and my parents were distressed. Moving was expensive and emotionally draining on the whole family.

“I can’t understand why God would move us back here just for three months,” Dad said.

None of us could, but looking back, I can see why.

It was our last Sunday at church.

“Goodbye,” Johnnie said.

He left, circled around, and returned. “Well, I guess this is goodbye.”

He repeated that several times. Finally, he asked, “Is it okay if I write to you?”

“Sure!”

And that began a weekly correspondence of half-page letters. His always started with, “How are you? I am fine,” They ended with, “Your friend, Johnnie Poole.”

I grew older and began dating the way most girls did in the 1960’s, but the weekly letters continued. I never thought of Johnnie Poole as anything more than a friend and had no reason to think he felt any thing but friendship for me. True, he did send Valentines, starting in 1963, the “Thinking of You” kind, signed “Yours truly,” or, “Your friend.”

When I got my senior pictures, I enclosed a small one in a letter to him, and he did the same for me. I gave my large picture to my boyfriend at the time.

During my senior year, the choir from John’s Ithaca High School went on tour, and one of their stops was my high school, Maine-Endwell. Each choir member from my high school signed up to house a student from Ithaca.

“I got some kid named John Poole,” my boyfriend told me.

“Oh, you’ll like him. He’s nice. I’ve known him for as long as I can remember.”

After the Ithaca choir left for their next stop, two things happened. First, my boyfriend told me, “That John Poole looked at me real funny when he saw your picture by my bed. He sounded kind of mad and asked, ‘Where’d you get that picture?’ I told him you were my girlfriend.”

The second thing was a very upset letter written on hotel stationary where the Ithaca choir was staying next. I was shocked to find out that for all those years Johnnie had considered me his girlfriend and felt betrayed when he discovered I was dating someone else.

In my return letter I tried to reason with Johnnie and explain I had no idea he thought of me as a girlfriend, and he couldn’t assume a girl knew how a guy felt if he’d never told her. That went about as well as our argument when I’d tried to tell him how to spell his name.

It was inevitable. Johnnie and I started dating in college in 1966 and married in 1969.

It hasn’t all been hearts and flowers, moonlight and roses for us. The first time he said, “I love you,” I responded, “But how does a person really know something like that for sure?”

In our fifty years of marriage we’ve faced physical, spiritual, emotional, and financial challenges. Sometimes we’ve been so busy we’ve almost lost each other in life’s shuffle. The wisdom that came with age taught us not to be so busy reaching out with both hands to help others that we forgot each other. Now we try to hold hands and reach out to a needy world with one free hand each. Still, we can get so busy we feel like we should introduce ourselves at the end of the day before we kiss goodnight.  

God has been good to give me all these years with My First Valentine. When I tell John what to do, he still looks at me calmly with those inscrutable brown eyes and does exactly what he wants, but I haven’t given up trying. I’ll probably be bossy to my last breath. I hope he’s with me when I take it, and I hope he knows how grateful I am for all his years of faithful love, even if he still doesn’t know how to spell his name.

I mean, say it out loud and listen to yourself. John. John. Do you hear an “h”? I didn’t think so.

Valentines from John from 1963-1970

When I Sinned Against Love

by Donna Poole

It was getting old, this standing, red-faced, in a new classroom in the middle of a school year, trying to help a teacher pronounce and spell my name. Why couldn’t I be Donna Smith instead of Donna Piarulli?

We moved often because Dad worked for an airline. I was in eighth grade now, and I really hoped this would be our last move. I looked with a critical eye at the little town of Maine, New York, population around 5,000, and sighed. I’d loved the few years we’d lived near Taberg, New York, in the foothills of the Adirondacks. If my parents asked me—they didn’t—this town had about 4,950 too many people. I wanted my wild, isolated country back.

Once again, a truck backed our ten-foot by fifty-foot house trailer into yet another spot in yet another trailer park.

I felt a little better about the move when I discovered the nearby Nanticoke Creek. At least my sisters, Mary, Ginny, and I had somewhere close to wade, swim, and ice skate.  And we had our bikes. Who knew what adventures awaited?

I didn’t relish the adventure of finding a church, but I knew we had to do it. That’s one of the first things Mom and Dad did whenever we moved. A new church was as bad as a new school, especially a church where all the kids had known each other since they were born. When my parents chose First Baptist, I had a feeling no one would even talk to us.

I was wrong. First Baptist, Maine, New York was easy to love. The church orchestra forgave Mary and me when we played our clarinets off key. They patiently explained we didn’t have to try so unsuccessfully to transpose our music because it was already written for B-flat instruments. They didn’t even laugh, at least not in front of us.

We were welcome in the Bunts’ home anytime. They had fifty-seven children, or maybe it was only eleven. No one there cared if everything was perfectly neat. They just shoved things aside and made room for us in their hearts and home. I loved Mrs. Bunts, always smiling, never ruffled, never saying her kids were going to give her a nervous breakdown. Not only that, but Mr. Bunts worked for a dairy, and we could drink all the milk we wanted.

Bonnie Ward was only a year or so older than I was, but she was a serene, comforting mother hen. I still remember her tiny bedroom with its lavender flowered wallpaper. It was beautiful, just like she was.

I had so much fun at Jim and Judy Cole’s house. They taught me to play pinochle. I didn’t tell my parents. Playing cards was on their rather long list of sins.

Half the girls in the church had a crush on one of the older boys, Donnie and Jack Olson and Rodney Post. Many years later, my sister, Mary, married Rodney’s younger brother, Steve.

And then there was Ronnie Lewis.  I thought he was cute; he never knew I existed.  I remember getting an awesome fleece hat with a long tail and a big pom-pom. I wore it when we church kids went Christmas caroling. Maybe, I thought, Ronnie will notice my hat and say he likes it. He didn’t.

Time passed with youth group parties and outings, water skiing, bowling, and roller skating. We had struggles at home about many of the church activities. Water skiing happened on Sunday afternoons; that was the Lord’s Day. Bowling was another issue because they sold beer in the basement of the bowling alley. And roller skating? That was an awful lot like dancing. Mom and Dad finally did let us do most activities with the other church kids. One thing they refused to budge on was letting us dance in gym class. The Piarulli girls sat on the bleachers and watched while some of the other church kids had fun learning dance steps. I wondered if anyone from church who did let their kids dance wanted to adopt me.

Some kids dread going to church, but I loved it. Looking back, I don’t remember a single sermon. I just remember how the pastor and people made me feel: warm, wanted, and loved. If more churches made kids feel that way today, they might lose fewer of them.

By the time we were high schoolers our church youth group had our own room for prayer meeting. We met upstairs with no adult supervision. Pastor Barackman said he knew he could trust us. We had wonderful times in that room. We talked, laughed, prayed, and mostly behaved. Until that Halloween night.

Someone said, “Hey, where’s Ronnie?”

“I don’t know. I think the Lewis’s had to go out of town.”

“Really?”

The pastor’s son just happened to have a dozen or so bars of tiny soap, the kind you get at motels. Someone suggested we go soap Ronnie’s window. I don’t know if anyone objected; I’m pretty sure we all went.

We had all heard the warning. Soaping windows was strictly prohibited. If anyone was caught, the offender would get arrested and must wash all the soaped windows in the town of Maine. But we didn’t intend to get caught.

We snuck down the creaky stairs and passed the open doors of the auditorium where the adults were praying. Had anyone heard us? Nope.

Giggling with relief we hurried the few blocks to Ronnie’s house, getting more nervous the closer we got. It was a dark night, and we had no flashlights; it felt spooky. We didn’t see anyone else.

When we got to the house, the conversation started. “I don’t think we should do this. I’m scared we’ll get caught.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Well, someone should do it. The rest of us could keep look out.”

“I’ll do it,” I said.  “Which window is Ronnie’s?”

I was terrified, but I wasn’t going to admit it. Through the dark, shadowy yard I crept, finally arriving at the window. I gave it a good soaping. Then, feeling as triumphant as Caesar on a victory march home, I ran back toward my friends, laughing. I was high on adrenaline; nothing had ever been this much fun, not even the amusement park at Harvey’s Lake.

“You guys! I did it! I. . . .”

That’s when I noticed my friends were strangely quiet. No one said anything. Not only that, but two tall men were standing with them. I squinted into the darkness. It couldn’t be…but it was. Cops. Two of them. They turned on a flashlight and shined it in my face.

“What were you doing?” One policeman demanded.

“Ummm, I was soaping our friend’s window,” I said.

“Whadda ya know,” he said, sarcastically, looking at his partner. “We got an honest one. The rest of you who told us you were just out for a walk? Do you think we’re idiots?”

Fortunately, none of the kids answered that question.

The policeman pointed his flashlight at the ground. There was a big pile of soap the kids had ditched when they had seen the men coming.

Those policemen scolded us until our stomachs churned. Then they marched us back to church and into the auditorium where the adults were still praying, heads bowed reverently, murmuring in hushed tones.

“Who’s in charge here?” One of the policemen shouted.

Prayer stopped. Parents looked at us in horrified disbelief. Pastor Barackman looked at us, hurt on his gentle face. “I guess you could say I am,” he said.

Then the policeman scolded our pastor. “If you can’t be responsible enough to keep your church kids under control. . ..” he said. I can’t remember the rest of it. I just remember how betrayed Pastor looked when he glanced at us.

I don’t remember what Mom and Dad did to us; I’m sure it wasn’t fun. I do remember that was the end of our youth group having our own prayer room. The adults said we couldn’t be trusted.

I can still see our pastor standing there, taking that tongue lashing from the policeman, and it was our fault. It was my fault. The adrenaline rush long gone, all I felt was regret, not for what might happen to me, but for what was happening to him. And there was nothing I could do about it.

That was the day I learned it doesn’t pay to sin against love.

Isn’t that what every infraction does though, sins against love? Inexplicable love sent Jesus to the cross to take the sins of the world into his heart, to suffer the guilt, to feel the shame, to pay the price so that we lost sinners, every last one of us, could be offered His gift of eternal life.

Well, so many of those people who looked at us in shocked disbelief that night are in heaven now, Mom and Dad, Pastor Barackman, and even Ronnie Lewis. With their glorified sense of humor, perhaps they will forgive me if I still get a trace of a grin when I remember flying through the shadows, soap in hand, a triumphant night warrior.

Thanks to the many friends who helped me obtain these pictures! Special thanks to Joyce Young, Rita McGregor Stanley McKeon, and especially to Phil Child for taking time to find and send me photos from his files along with some interesting history.

The Wasted Nest

by Donna Poole

I couldn’t stop watching. The tiny window at the top of the stairs was the perfect spot to see Mama Robin begin building her nest on the windowsill. I wondered if this was her first nest; I doubted it, because that same windowsill had been home to previous nests.

How old was she? I had no idea, but I knew some robins live twelve years and build twenty or thirty nests.

Mama Robin worked almost a week on her nest, diligently gathering grass and twigs, intricately weaving them, and gluing them to each other and the windowsill with beakfuls of mud. She made hundreds, thousands of trips. I loved seeing her fly into the nest, flap her wings, and wiggle around to shape a perfect cradle for her babies. The nest grew large enough to hold a baseball. When it was almost finished, she lined it with soft grass. Research told me her completed nest weighed 7.23 ounces, almost half a pound.

I hoped, over the next five weeks, to see her lay her eggs and watch the baby robins grow. I knew it was unlikely I’d be there to observe their solo flight, but maybe it would happen.

Mama Robin didn’t lay her eggs right away, but one day a pale blue egg appeared, and a few days later another. Finally, she had four beautiful eggs and began sitting on her nest. She only left for short times. One day I noticed an egg was missing. I checked the ground for fragments of blue shell to see if the egg had fallen but found nothing. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one watching the eggs. Squirrels, blue jays, and crows all steal and eat eggs. Snakes will swallow the eggs whole, and coons love robin eggs as a tasty treat. I never saw the thief, but one by one, all the eggs disappeared

Then Mama Robin broke my heart. Instead of flying away she sat on a nearby tree branch hours at a time and stared at her empty nest. She did this for days. Is she an old robin? Is this her last chance to lay eggs and raise babies? Is that why she’s staying here so long? I knew she was mourning. Robins don’t cry, but my eyes were wet enough for both of us.

Finally, Mama Robin left, but through summer storms, fall winds, and winter snows, the nest has stayed. She built it well. I see it every time I go up or downstairs, and it makes me wonder about wasted things.

Elisabeth Elliot wrote of wasted things. When she was a young, single missionary, she lived with the Colorado Indians in San Miguel, Ecuador. They had no written language, and Elisabeth determined to learn their language and write it so they could have the Bible in their own language. She worked for almost a year, tediously reducing sounds to an alphabet. At the end of nine months she packed the only copy of all her handwritten work into a suitcase and gave it to another missionary so translation could begin. Someone stole the suitcase from that missionary.

At first Elisabeth expected a miracle. How would the suitcase be found? In what way would God have it suddenly reappear? It never did. It was a hard lesson of loss, nine months of difficult labor gone in an instant.

Was Elisabeth’s work wasted? The loss taught her to trust God with the inexplicable. The hard work sharpened her mind, and if you, like me, are a fan of her writing, you appreciate that deeply spiritual and awesomely creative mind. That early loss also made Elisabeth stronger to face deeper losses to come. So, no, it wasn’t wasted.  

Elisabeth lost her first husband, Jim Elliot, to the spears of the Auca Indians in Ecuador, and her second husband, Addison Leithch, to an agonizing cancer. When she was seventy-eight, Elisabeth began a ten-year battle against dementia. She lost her beautiful mind to that disease.

What a waste! That might be our first response.

When Elisabeth found out she had dementia she determined to accept it from God’s hand and for His glory just as she had everything else in her life. And now, as my own memory begins a downward slide, she is my teacher. How can such beautiful teaching be a waste?

Throughout our forty-five year ministry at our country church I’ve often thought of Elisabeth Elliot’s suitcase when people we’ve loved and poured our lives into have turned from us, or worse, from God, when misunderstandings happened and people refused reconciliation, when years of labor seemed to produce so few results.

Is our poured-out love wasted? My mind might cry “wasted” in its gloomy moments, but my heart knows better.

Even through tears my heart sings. Why? Because, in God’s economy, He wastes nothing. Love is never wasted.

Mama Robin, if you’re still alive, if you fly back to Michigan for another spring and see your empty nest, don’t feel like it was wasted. I wish you’d been able to have four beautiful babies, but maybe that will happen this summer. You built well, and you loved well, and love always means something.

Old Man North

by Donna Poole

Maddie dropped her bucket, bait, ice-auger, and homemade fishing pole. She groaned and put both hands on her back as she tried to straighten. “Degenerative disc disease isn’t going to stop me,” she muttered.  “At least I don’t have dementia, in spite of what my family and the townspeople think.”

She’s heard the whispers. “What’s a woman her age doing on that ice every day? She’s a brick shy of a full load.”

What choice did she have?

Maddie shivered, wrapped her worn coat tighter, and pulled the old scarf up over her mouth. That north wind off the mountains had teeth in its bite today. As soon as she got a bit farther out she’d sit on her bucket and turn her back to Old Man North. That would help some.

She’d been trying to keep the wind at her back for well over seventy years, but wind is slippery and sneaky. Before you can say zip-a-dee-doo-dah, it zero-turns from a warm breeze to a blizzard that smacks you in the face and rips your heart apart.

Old Man North had torn Maddie’s heart more than once. The most recent blow had been Walter’s death. They’d had fifty years, more than most. She and Walter had laughed and cried together, raised three great kids, and built “The Water’s Edge” from a shack into an elegant restaurant, famous for its freshwater fish caught right here in Georgetown Lake.

“Don’t cry over what’s gone forever,” Maddie chided herself. “Tears will freeze your cheeks in this Montana wind chill.”

Walking on clear ice always felt satisfyingly surreal. This ice was just right at about six inches. It would easily support her weight. The cold though, the cold. . . . But really, what choice did she have?

If the fishing was good today she might catch Salmon, Rainbow, or even a Brook Trout. She’d sell a few to The Water’s Edge. They were always willing to buy her fish. She hoped they didn’t pay extra because they felt sorry for her.

Maddie was short of breath after drilling a six-inch hole. With her back to the wind, she pulled up the scarf that had slipped and sat down. She expertly baited two maggots on a glow hook, dropped the line, and twitched the bait slightly up and down. Trout sure would taste good. She noticed how loosely her coat hung. She needed to eat better.

It was a good day. Within minutes she had two Rainbows and a Brook Trout.

That’s when she noticed the two little boys on the shore, shouting and waving their arms. Had someone broken through the ice? Were the boys crying? No, it sounded more like laughing.

Maddie stood and squinted to see. Was that. . .?

“Grandma!” Their voices carried. “Hurry! We’ve come to see you!”

Her family had driven ninety miles from Missoula to Anaconda without telling her they were coming? Why?

The little boys ran out on the ice to help. Kaleb carried the bucket with its fifteen pounds of fish.

“Kaleb, that’s too heavy for you.”

“I’m almost eight, Grandma. I have more muscles than you.”

She laughed. It was probably true. Well, she wouldn’t be selling fish to The Water’s Edge today. They’d need all the fish for supper.

Kaleb and Reece laughed and talked all the way to shore, but her son and daughter-in-law met her with tight lipped frowns. She knew a lecture was coming, but maybe they’d wait until they got home. That was always an issue too. They didn’t like her living conditions either.

After a lovely fish dinner prepared by Maddie’s cook, they sat in the luxurious living room in front of a roaring fire. The boys romped with Blackie the old lab and Sunny the golden retriever. The six cats curled up on laps and wound around feet.

Max pushed a cat away. He wanted Maddie to get rid of the menagerie.

“Mom.” Max sighed. “Why do you keep ice fishing every day? It’s not safe.”

“I have to.”

He raised his eyebrows, waiting.

“The menagerie likes fresh fish.” It was lame; she knew it.

“And with all your money, you could afford an entire fish store.”

“You don’t understand. I have no choice. It’s how I keep Old Man North at my back.”

She thought he’d be angry. Suddenly, he roared with laughter. “Everyone has to get old sometime, Mom, even you! Will you at least buy a warmer coat?”

“I always wore that coat when I fished with your dad.”

He waited.

“Okay! I’ll buy a new coat.”

“And you’ll call every time before you go out on the ice and when you get back?”

“I will, but the day I don’t call, don’t think Old Man North won. He never will, because I’m going where Dad already is, and they don’t allow any north wind there.”

“No,” Max said, “I’m pretty sure Old Man North loses the game there.”

Maddie stood in the curved driveway and waved goodbye to her family before she walked back inside. The cook was gone now, but it didn’t feel lonely. Old Man North howled around the chimney, but she was safe and warm; he couldn’t get in here yet. Maybe not for a long time.

Thank you to my friend, Lonie Hutchison, for helping me locate this picture of Georgetown Lake, and to her friend, Pam Burgess Morfitt for the beautiful photography!

Adventure on the Mustard Aisle

by Donna Poole

“Our exciting lives,” Gloria muttered. “Grocery shopping and church.”

“What’s that you say?” Bud asked loudly enough to be heard four aisles away.

Gloria shook her head and sighed. Where had that man learned to whisper? In the woods surrounded by chain saws?

All the years of farming on equipment without cabs hadn’t helped Bud’s hearing, and he refused to get tested for hearing aids.

“I hear everything I want to hear,” Bud said.

She’d reminded him of the time at church when the pastor had said, “Don’t think I’m preaching at you. I’m as big a sinner as any of you!”

Bud had thought the pastor had said he was preaching to the big sinners and had let out a loud and hearty “Amen!”

Gloria had felt the warmth creeping up her neck into her face when she’d heard smothered giggles. Even the pastor had grinned.

“See?” Gloria had said to Bud when she’d told him after church what had happened. “You do need hearing aids.”

Bud had just shrugged. He wasn’t easily embarrassed. He hadn’t gotten hearing aids, and he hadn’t quit being a big part of the amen corner either, something the young people at church found amusing. She had to admit people at church loved Bud. He and his warm laughter were the center of many after-church conversations.

Gloria thought about church as she and Bud walked up and down every aisle doing the weekly grocery shopping she hated. Maybe it was time, after fifty years, to look for a new church. She’d felt vaguely dissatisfied for quite some time, and she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t the people; her life-time friends attended the little country church. It wasn’t the young preacher. His sermons were good. Just last week he’d preached on “a wise woman builds her house, but the foolish pulls it down with her hands.”

Maybe it’s me, Gloria thought. It’s a new year; maybe I need a change. I wonder what Bud would say trying out one of those bigger churches in town. Or, quitting church altogether. She sighed. She knew what Bud would say. She always knew what he would say about everything, and she was tired of that too.

Bud steered the cart down the mustard aisle, and something in Gloria snapped when Bud reached up, as he always did, for the same yellow plastic bottle of mustard he bought every single week. How much mustard had the man bought in the last fifty years of their marriage?

Just last week Gloria and Bud had celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary. The kids had wanted to give them a big party, and Gloria had loved that idea. But not Bud. He’d finally agreed to renew their vows in front of the church and have cake after, but he’d been uncomfortable doing even that. Gloria had hoped he’d kiss her after they’d renewed their vows, but she’d known better.

“Did you feel bad when Dad didn’t kiss you?” their daughter had asked. Gloria had shrugged. Her daughter had smiled, stooped, and kissed her cheek. “You know he adores you, Mom. He reminds me of a joke I heard once. An old lady asked her husband why he never said he loved her. He answered, ‘Told you I loved you when I married you. If I ever change my mind, I’ll let you know.’”

Gloria had managed a weak chuckle. That was Bud alright. She’d loved him unwaveringly through fifty years of five children, little money, and cows and crops coming first. She’d always hoped their retirement years would be different, but nothing had changed. He still never said he loved her. And he still bought mustard. Every. Single. Week.

“Think I’ll get two this week,” Bud said in his normal shouting level voice.

Gloria, who hadn’t raised her voice in fifty years, out-shouted him. “You put that mustard back on the shelf! This is ridiculous! No one buys the same thing every week when he already has it at home!”

Bud stared at Gloria like he’d never seen her before. Then he threw his head back and laughed. People in the aisle laughed too; Bud’s laugh always had been contagious. Gloria wished she could evaporate like steam from her tea kettle.

“Hey ladies!” Bud’s voice boomed. “I’m taking a survey. What do you buy here even though you have it at home? Speak up, now, please; I’m deaf!”

An amused crowd grew around him. Bud put the mustard in the cart, whipped out his old fountain pen, and started writing down the answers people shouted out.

“My little boy begs me to buy ketchup in case we run out of it. He’d eat it straight out of the bottle if I’d let him. “

Bud’s list grew as did the laughter and the camaraderie in the mustard aisle. Cheese, milk, ginger, eggs, coffee, spring water, chicken broth, Oreos, popsicles, crackers, sour cream, fruit, tortillas.

When someone hollered, “chocolate!” people cheered.

“You people are all foodies.” A woman laughed, steering her cart around the group. “What about toilet paper?”

Finally people drifted away, smiling. Gloria glared at Bud.

“I was just trying to show you I’m not the only one who buys something they already have. When I was a little boy we could never afford mustard.”

“You might not be the only one who buys what you don’t need, but you’re the only one I have to live with!”

Bud’s smile faded. He put the two mustards back on the shelf. Quietly the two of them walked to the check-out. The line was long. Gloria looked wistfully at the self-check-out. It was empty, but she knew better than suggest it. Bud liked real people to check him out, not a computer who wouldn’t repeat things when he couldn’t hear.

Chatter at the front quieted. Gloria saw ambulance lights outside of the window. An elderly man lay on a stretcher, and paramedics were carrying him from the store.  

Even Bud was quiet for once. Without saying anything to him, Gloria left and returned with two mustards. She put them in the cart and looked straight ahead.   

Tomorrow was Sunday. Pastor was going to preach part two of his sermon on how a wise woman builds her house. Perhaps it was never too late to build—or to rebuild. Maybe she’d made a start with two yellow plastic bottles of mustard.

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Thanks to my good-natured husband for being my model. He has always been supportive of my writing. Once he measured a grasshopper for me, no easy task. In case you wonder, the only thing he has in common with Bud in my story is a love of mustard and of old fountain pens.

No More Somersaults

by Donna Poole

The only sounds in the room were logs breaking apart in the fireplace and Grandpa Bob turning the pages of his book. He looked up at a loud snap, saw sparks shoot up the chimney, and smiled. He liked nothing better than spending a snowy morning next to the fire with a good book, and he loved the new mystery he’d gotten for Christmas. It was a perfect, lazy-day Saturday. He pushed aside the thought that he had too many lazy days. He might be too old to work, but he was too young to do nothing day after day.

Bob looked over at Bella. She was wrapped in her new blanket, cuddling her Christmas teddy bear, and sucking her thumb. The picture of four-year-old contentment, he thought.

Alice stuck her head in the family room door. “Bella! Act your age! Quit sucking that thumb! Even your preschool teacher complains about that.”

And about other things too, Alice thought as she headed to the kitchen. Maybe they shouldn’t have put Bella in the expensive preschool that promised to have students working at a first-grade level by age five. Bella had tested ready for the accelerated curriculum, but lately her teacher had been suggesting they place her in an easier program.

Bella’s thumb made a popping sound as she pulled it from her mouth. Her face crumpled as she thought about preschool. She didn’t like preschool. The other kids could read a few sight words; she couldn’t even print the alphabet. The others could add and subtract small numbers, but she couldn’t. She was the only one who could count to one-hundred though.

Bob hoped his face didn’t express his thoughts. Alice, can’t you just let Bella be a kid? And I wish you and Andy would reconsider my offer of letting me homeschool her until she starts first grade. I miss teaching, and I know how to help Bella. She needs manipulatives for math and phonics for reading. I was an expert in both, even published papers in educational journals. A slower pace would help her too. Does it really matter if she learns to read when she’s four?

But Bob didn’t say a word. He’d learned not to interfere with Alice and Andy’s parenting. He appreciated living with them, but in many ways, it wasn’t easy.  

Bob heard Alice rattling pans in the kitchen. He hoped she’d be in a better mood by lunch. He heard Bella sniff. One tear ran down her cheek, and Teddy was on the floor.

“Hey! What do you say we teach Teddy how to do somersaults? Prop him up on the couch there so he can watch us.”

“Are you going to do somersaults, Grandpa Bob?”

“Sure! Why not?”

Bella giggled and put Teddy on the couch, giving him a good view of the floor. Bob struggled a bit getting out of the recliner. His right knee snapped, and he winced. He intended to put that knee replacement off as long as possible.

Bob tossed a sofa pillow on the floor, gingerly put his head on it, and rolled over with a crash. Bella roared with laughter, and Andy came running.

‘Bob! What in the world are you doing?”

“We’re teaching Teddy how to do somersaults!” Bella said, still laughing.

Andy wasn’t laughing. He helped his father-in-law off the floor. “It’s a miracle you didn’t break something. Act your age! Seventy-year-old men don’t do somersaults.”

“Obviously, some do,” Bob said dryly. Everything hurt, especially his knee, but it was worth it to see Bella laughing instead of crying.

Andy looked at Bob and Bella grinning at each other. In spite of himself, he laughed.  “You’re two of a kind!” He left to help Alice in the kitchen.

Bob could just imagine the kitchen conversation. Would he end up in a nursing home next?

“Grandpa Bob, why do Mommy and Daddy keep saying to act our age?”

He hugged her. “Oh, honey, they want the best for us, and they don’t always know how to make that happen. Hey, speaking of age, do you know how many years older I am than you are?”

Bella shook her head. “I know you’re seventy and I’m four, but I can’t do numbers. I heard teacher tell the parapro I’m not smart.”

That teacher is looking to get fired. Bob swallowed his anger. “Get me your scissors and some paper, please.”

Bob cut seventy squares and laid them on the coffee table. “That’s seventy squares, one for each of my years. You take away how many years you are.”

Bella picked up four squares.

“Sit on those.”

Bella laughed and sat on the four squares.

“Now count how many squares you have left. That’s a way to subtract your four years from my seventy years without using paper.”

Bella knew she could count to one-hundred, and there weren’t that many squares. This was going to be easy.

With their heads close together, neither Bob nor Bella noticed the noise from the kitchen had stopped. They didn’t see Alice and Andy standing in the doorway, watching them.

Bella yelled, “Sixty-six! You are sixty-six more than me! I subtracted from a bigger number than they do at preschool! I did it! I’m not stupid!”

About half an hour later Andy called, “Get your coats. We’re going out to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” Bob asked. “I thought I heard Alice fixing lunch. Why aren’t we eating here?”

“We’re celebrating New Year’s a little early,” Andy said. “Do you want to come or not?”

“I’m always good for a meal out.”

Bob looked around the upscale restaurant. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed a nice steak dinner out, and this was Bella’s first time.

Alice looked up from cutting Bella’s steak into tiny pieces. “Happy New Year, Dad,” she said. “Here’s to new beginnings. How would you like to homeschool Bella until she starts first grade? Andy and I’ve decided you’ll do a much better job than the teacher she has now.”

“Really?” Bella squealed with delight.

Bob sat silently, unable to say anything.

“Dad, don’t you have anything to say?”

Bob swallowed the lump in his throat. “Can we hold hands and pray? I suddenly feel about ten years younger and very thankful.”

Andy sighed. “Make it snappy; I don’t want my steak to get cold. And about that ten years younger thing? You have to promise, no more somersaults!”

Bob nodded. It was a small price to pay. Anyway, his knee didn’t seem to appreciate somersaults as much as he did.

Photo by HCCO Park. Used by permission.

The Broken Gift

by Donna Poole

“I don’t think so, not this year.” Annetta shook her head. If it weren’t for the white curls and deep lines in her face, she’d look just like a stubborn child.

Kate and Bob looked at each other. “Mom, come on! The candlelight service has always been your favorite! You know Bob will help you get into the church.”

After repeated refusals, Annetta’s family left. “Maybe she’ll change her mind before Sunday,” Bob said, but Kate cried.

As Bob pulled out onto the gravel road, Kate looked back at the old farmhouse thinking of Christmases past when Dad had been alive and the aroma of fresh cut pine and an impossible amount of baked goods had filled the home. Now the house smelled old and musty. It had been years since Mom had been able to host family Christmas. They couldn’t even let her walk to the end of the driveway to get her mail anymore; her balance was that bad. Mom couldn’t stay alone much longer, and that was going to be a battle Kate dreaded. After the holidays, they’d give her a choice, live with them or go to assisted living. She sighed; neither option was optimal. Kate felt sure Mom had no idea what they were thinking. Let her enjoy one last Christmas at home.

Annetta sat in her rocker; she too was thinking of Christmases past. How could she tell her family she didn’t want to go to the candlelight service because she was tired to the bone of having nothing left to share? Once she’d had so much to give her family and her church family. For many years the congregation had sat in awed silence at the candlelight service as she’d offered Christ and them her soprano solo of “O Holy Night.”

When her cracked and aging voice had stopped her from singing, Annetta had started writing short stories she’d read to the church children at the candlelight service. The adults had liked them as much as the kids. But then the cloud in her mind had ended the stories.

“It’s the beginning of dementia, hardening of the arteries,” the doctor called it.

“It’s hardening of the ought-eries,” Anetta murmured to herself. She couldn’t seem to remember what she ought to do, and when she did remember, she couldn’t find ambition to do it.

Annetta picked up her worn Bible, shivered, and pulled a quilt around her knees. Why is it always so cold?

“Lord, Lord,” she murmured, as a tear traced its way down a deep wrinkle in her cheek, “I can live with my body being so cold, but I can’t live with this empty, cold heart. I’ve nothing left to give.”

Everything was gone, even joy. Christmas would be at Kate’s again this year. Bless her heart; Kate tried, but she was busy. She worked full time, as did all of her siblings. No one cut a real tree anymore. No one had time to make crescent rolls or beautiful, layered Jell-O. And no one had read Luke chapter two on Christmas Day since her beloved Jacob had died. What she wouldn’t give to hear his strong voice read that once more.

Annetta sighed and opened her Bible. As she read about the wise men giving the Christ-child expensive gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, more tears followed. She longed to give the Lord Jesus something special this Christmas as she had so many years in the past, something of herself, but she was broken, body, soul, and spirit.

Blessed. Broken. Given. The words stirred a memory in Annetta’s foggy brain. Hadn’t Jesus used those words? He’d accepted a little boy’s meager lunch, blessed it, broken it, and given it to the hungry crowd and had miraculously fed a multitude.

Before He’d died on the cross for the sin of the world Jesus had taken bread, blessed it, broken it, and given it to His disciples. “This is my body, given for you,” He’d said.

Annetta remembered that after Christ’s resurrection His followers had recognized Him when He’d blessed, broken, and given them bread.

It must have been a habit of His, this blessing, breaking, and giving, if His friends recognized Him because of it, Annetta thought. But what does it mean? What does it have to do with me?

“I’ve been greatly blessed,” Annetta murmured, “and now I’m broken. Can I be given? What’s left of me to give?”

Annetta chuckled, remembering the year the pastor had preached, “Just give what you have to Jesus.” The next Sunday, Annetta had been shocked to see five-year-old Kate drop her favorite doll in the offering plate.

After church, the treasurer had come to Annetta, holding the grubby doll that was missing both an arm and a leg. “What exactly am I supposed to do with this?”

Annetta had laughed. “You’re the treasurer; you think of something. It’s Kate’s favorite doll, and she sleeps with it every night. I don’t know how she’ll get to sleep without it tonight, but she wanted to give it to Jesus.”

“What do you want, Lord?” Annetta whispered. “Do you want this mind, getting worse with dementia every year? Do you want this body, crippled with arthritis? Do you want this empty soul? It’s all less than worthless, but I give it to you.”

There. Her broken gift lay next to Kate’s grubby doll offering. Of the two, Annetta thought her present looked worse by far, but a quiet peace filled her soul.

Annetta went to the candlelight service. Bob helped her struggle to her feet, and in a halting voice, stumbling over words and missing several, she read Luke chapter two. There wasn’t a dry eye in the congregation.

On the way home, Annetta said to Kate and Bob, “I have a Christmas gift for you.”

Kate frowned. “Mom, we agreed, no gifts this year. No one needs anything.”

“Oh, you need this,” Annetta said mysteriously.

“What is it?”

“You have to wait until tomorrow.”

Christmas at Kate’s was nice. The catered ham dinner wasn’t too bad, and Annetta didn’t mention the dry rolls.

After they ate, Annetta handed Kate and Bob a small box. They opened it and pulled out a piece of paper. On it Annetta had written, “I’ve decided to go into assisted living at Maple Lawn after the first of the year. I love you, Mom.”

As Kate cried and hugged her, Annetta thought, blessed, broken, and given. It felt good to still have something to give. And to receive. The thought came suddenly. Adventure. It had been decades since she’d thought of that word in connection with herself, but who knew? Was she actually looking forward to a new life at Maple Lawn? Maybe. Maybe she was.

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Photo credit: Drones Over Broome: used by permission

Not on My Watch

by Donna Poole

The bottle of Dom Perignon was half-empty, but Jer hadn’t touched the Champagne. He wasn’t interested tonight in the pricey, popular Treasure Chest of drinks. Its dry ice drifted in a lazy fog over their table of four. He yawned and looked at the yellow-gold Rolex Lisa had given him.

“Here,” she’d kissed him lightly and laughed. “If you’re going to be appearing on billboards all over Chicago with my Dad, advertised as his brilliant, young, new law partner, you need to look the part.”

He hadn’t wanted to accept the watch; he and Lisa really weren’t at that point in their relationship. He didn’t know if he ever wanted to be, but things were complicated. He’d never have moved up so quickly in the law firm without Lisa’s dad, so he felt obligated to take the watch, obligated to keep being with Lisa, and he didn’t like the feeling. Jer sighed. He was tired and suddenly homesick for a place he hadn’t been in years, the hills of Tennessee.

“Hey!” Bud laughed. “What’s up, Jer? It isn’t like you to look bored at Three Dots and a Dash! This is our third club of the night, and you’ve only had one drink. Something wrong?”

Jer pushed aside his memories of a small church in the Tennessee hills where it snowed every Christmas, all roads led home, and grown men still called their fathers “Daddy.” His Daddy was the pastor at that church. Right now they were having the Christmas Eve candlelight service, and he knew light from inside was shining through the stained glass windows and reflecting on the snow. When Jer had been a boy, Daddy had always left the church lights on all night Christmas Eve, and as Jer’s family had left the snowy parking lot and headed home to the farm, he’d loved looking back at that reflection. It had seemed magical.

“Jer? You still with us?”

Jer looked at Bud, shrugged, and glanced at his watch. In a half-hour it would be Christmas. “I’m tired. Let’s go.”

“And leave the rest of the Treasure Chest? Well, it’s your buck! It you want to spend $400.00 for drinks plus your usual big tip and then not finish drinking, okay. The rest of us have probably had enough anyway.”

Enough and too much, Jer thought as he helped his friends out the door and waved for a cab.

Bud laughed again. “What’s that drunk doing here? He’s a long way from the mission!”

Jer hesitated, then walked over to the man lying on the sidewalk. What was a drunk, homeless-looking man doing in front of this trendy, expensive bar? Even in the dim light Jer could see the deep yellow of the man’s skin. If he wasn’t dead already from liver damage, he soon would be.

The man started shivering violently. Obviously not dead yet, Jer thought. But he’s soon going to freeze to death. They don’t call this the Windy City for nothing.

“Give him you coat, son.” Jer’s father’s voice sounded so clear, he looked around, startled.

Why not? It’s not like I can’t afford another one. I can afford to buy anything I want or need.

“Are you sure you don’t need something money can’t buy?”

Again, Jer looked around started. Why did he keep thinking he heard his father’s voice? He wasn’t drunk, not on one drink. Was he losing his mind? He took off his coat and bent to cover the man on the sidewalk.

Jer’s friends laughed. “Hope you never want to wear that coat again; it’s covered with lice and fleas now. Come on, Jer, cab’s waiting. Leave that guy. He’s just going to die anyway.”

“Not on my watch, he isn’t,” Jer said abruptly. “You guys go on. I’ll catch you later.”

Jer ignored his friends’ laughter and sarcastic comments as he dialed 9-1-1. He did hear Bud jeeringly call him a Good-Samarian Jeremiah. Bud knew he hated the name Jeremiah and all its biblical connotations. Jer was definitely not a Jeremiah, and he hadn’t been one, not for a long, long time.

Jer felt a hand grab his ankle. “Afraid,” a hoarse voice moaned.

Jer squatted next to the man. “What’s your name? And what are you doing here?”

“Samuel. Walked from the mission. Wanted to see Three Dots and a Dash one more time. Used to come here with my buddies.”

Jer’s thoughts raced. Wait. Three Dots and a Dash had only opened in 2013. This man looked like he’d lived on the streets at least forty years. When had he been sober and wealthy enough to have come here? And how had he walked from the mission?

Jer had volunteered at the mission when he’d first come to the city, before he’d left his faith behind, so he knew its location. It was a brisk forty minute walk away for a healthy man. It must have taken this man at least two hours to stumble here in his condition.

“Rum? Got rum?” Samuel’s voice was so low Jer could barely hear it.

Jer shook his head, and tears stung his eyes. It had been a long time since anything had made him cry.

“Don’t leave me. Don’t want to die alone.”

“I won’t leave, and you aren’t going to die, not on my watch!” Jer peered through the crowd of bodies that had gathered to gawk. Where was that ambulance? Finally.  

The paramedics rolled Samuel onto a stretcher. He grabbed Jer’s hand.

“May I ride with him? I promised not to leave him.”

“You a relative? You can only ride in the back if you’re family.”

Jer shook his head, but Samuel muttered, “He’s my brother.”

“Get in.” A paramedic chuckled and motioned to Jer. 

Samuel kept a grip on Jer’s hand. Jer had never seen such grime on a human body.

Again Samuel said, “Don’t want to die alone.”

“Hey! I told you. You aren’t going to die! Not on my watch.”

The paramedic caught Jer’s eye and shook his head slightly.

“Afraid, afraid!” Samuel moaned.

Jer was surprised to hear himself say, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him, should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

“John 3:16,” Samuel whispered. “I believe. So sorry. Almost forgot Jesus. Not alone. He’ll walk me Home.”

A few minutes later Samuel relaxed his grip. Jer didn’t need the paramedic to tell him Samuel was gone. Jesus had come and walked him the rest of the way Home.

“What happens to guys like him if they die without insurance or families?”

The paramedic shrugged. “DHS might help with cremation.”

“You look like an honest guy. “ Jer slipped off his watch. “Will you sell this, pay for a funeral for Samuel, and give the rest to the mission? I’d do it myself, but I need to catch the first flight to Tennessee.”

The ambulance pulled up to the hospital

The paramedic’s eyes widened as he looked at the yellow-gold Rolex in his hand. “Isn’t this thing worth like forty-grand? Sure, I’ll take care of it for you. It just so happens my grandpa is one of the chaplains at the mission. Who should I say the gift is from?”

Jer jumped down from the ambulance and turned to shake the paramedic’s hand. “Tell them Jeremiah gave it to you,” he said, “Jeremiah from Tennessee.” Then he sprinted off to find a cab.

Photo Credit: Drones Over Broome. Please visit their Facebook page for more breathtaking photos.

The Christmas Road Home

by Donna Poole

Which is true? You can’t go home again, or the greatest adventure of our lives is finding our way back home?

One hour and fifty-nine minutes. That’s how long it took to fly from Boston to Detroit. “Under two hours to fly to a different planet,” Darla muttered, “and wouldn’t you know, Mom and Dad would be late picking me up.”

Holiday music filled the crowded airport lobby. Travelers rushed to get to their destinations this Christmas Eve morning.

 “I’ll be home for Christmas,” the old song crooned. Darla wished she had earplugs. Detroit was only the beginning of what was sure to be an almost unendurable week. The ride to the family home south of Jackson, Michigan, would take thirty minutes longer than the flight from Boston to Detroit had. From experience Darla knew the trip would be filled with Mom’s irritating, optimistic chatter. And the questions! Mom’s questions never ended, but Darla dreaded most the one question she knew Dad would ask.

Who was it who said, “You can’t go home again?” Maybe they should have said, “Only a fool tries to go home again.”

Darla retrieved her bags, found a seat, and sighed. This wasn’t where she’d wanted to spend the holidays. She and her friends had planned to party through Christmas and then go to Times Square in New York to celebrate New Year’s Eve in style.

Darla almost wished she’d refused when Mom had called asking her to come home for Christmas and to stay for Grandma’s memorial service on December 31.  

Grandma. In spite of her black mood Darla smiled, visualizing her short, white-haired, grandmother. Darla could almost smell Grandma’s Christmas cookies. Every Christmas of Darla’s childhood had been spent at Grandma’s house, and at Corners Church.

Finally. There were the parents, hurrying toward her. She stood to accept Mom’s hug.  People always smiled at the contrast between her and her mother. Mom said Darla, at five-eleven, looked like Beauty in Beauty and the Beast, and that she looked like Mrs. Potts—the little talking tea pot.

As a little girl, Darla had sung, “Mommy’s a little tea pot, short and stout,” until Dad had made her stop. He’d feared she’d hurt Mom’s feelings. Darla still referred to Mom as “The Tea Pot” when she talked about her to her Boston friends.

As always, Darla felt half-amused and half-embarrassed by Mom’s looks. The way Mom dressed did nothing to enhance her five-foot frame. Even on tip toe she couldn’t quite reach Darla’s cheek.

Darla bent for Mom’s kiss. Then she felt the crush of Dad’s arms. They didn’t feel as strong as she remembered. She was surprised at the amount of gray in Dad’s hair and at the many wrinkles that lined Mom’s face. She glanced again at Mom’s cheeks. The pink cheeks she remembered were gone. Mom’s face looked pale and fragile.

The ride home was emotionally exhausting. Darla bit her lip more than once to stop from snapping.

“No, Mom, Devon and I have no plans to get married.”

“Yes, Mom, I know The Boston Globe is New England’s largest newspaper. I’ve worked for them for two years.”

“Yes, Mother, I keep my doors locked when I’m driving around the city.”

 “No Mom, I don’t eat three healthy meals a day. You have no idea how demanding my schedule is.”

Finally! Blessed quietness. Mom slept, her head leaned against the window. Darla noticed how the sunlight made Mom’s hair look even grayer than it had in the terminal.

Dad cleared his throat. Oh no, here it came. “The Question.”  Might as well get it over with. 

“I’m retiring the first of the year,” Dad said unexpectedly.

“What?” Darla bolted up in her seat. “You told Mom not to talk to you about retiring until you were seventy-five! Dad, why retire? You love your job!”

“Guess this is as good a time as any to tell you. Mom needs too much help now. I’m retiring to spend what time she has left with her.”

  “What do you mean ‘what time she has left?’ Does anyone in this family ever tell me anything?”

Dad’s voice was quiet “I wanted to wait and tell you in person. Mom has lymphoma. Stage four.” 

The size of the lump in Darla’s throat surprised her. She hadn’t felt close to her parents for years. Truthfully, she seldom thought of them except when she skimmed their too long weekly letters. Darla hadn’t been home for five years, and Mom and Dad had never visited Boston.  Darla was just as happy they didn’t come. The parents meeting her Boston friends? 

Darla didn’t know what to say to Dad. The car was silent except for Mom’s soft snores. Darla texted Devon the news of the lymphoma.

“So The Tea Pot’s going to whistle her last tune?” he texted back. It was exactly the kind of sarcastic, dark humor that had drawn Darla to Devon, but now it made her inexplicably angry. She turned her cell phone off and shoved it into the pocket of her jacket.

The trip took an eternity. Ann Arbor. Chelsea. Jackson. Spring Arbor. As Darla well remembered from her college days, there were still thirty minutes of car travel left before they reached her parents’ farm at the end of a dirt road.

Dad slowed as they passed the college. It looked even smaller and quainter than Darla remembered. She’d tried to forget her years there. If anyone asked where she got her education, she always said NYU, where she’d done her graduate work in journalism.

“Do you want me to stop at your old Alma Mater?” Dad asked.

“Don’t bother.” Darla sighed. “Let’s just get home and get this week over with.”

Dad glanced at her in the rear view mirror. His eyes looked sad. That was another thing Darla hated about coming home. It seemed she always said or did something to hurt Mom and Dad.

“Here,” Dad reached back over the seat and handed Darla an ad ripped from the paper. “I thought you might want to see this for what it’s worth.”

Darla couldn’t help it. She laughingly read out loud: “Wanted. Experienced journalist for the Hudson Daily Reporter. Salary based on experience. Benefits.” She remembered as a kid snickering at a story the paper had carried on its front page, “Calamity Cow Causes Car Crash.”

So the “Daily Blues,” as some called it, wanted to hire a reporter? Darla was surprised the paper hadn’t gone belly up years ago. When even Newsweek couldn’t survive the upheaval in print journalism, how had that little newspaper survived?

Hudson was only about ten miles from her parents’ home. Did her dad really think she’d return home and work for that nothing newspaper? Ludicrous! She crumpled the ad and put it in her jacket pocket. Her fingers touched her phone. Should she text Devon so they could mock her Dad’s idea together? Somehow, she just didn’t feel like it.

Darla carried one suitcase into the house, and Dad carried the other. Mom held his free arm. Darla knew she should say something to Mom about the cancer, but what? They’d never communicated well, not even when Darla had been a child. Mom was all the things Darla secretly despised, a stay-at-home Mom, with no higher education, and church as her only social life.

Darla felt she’d walked back in time when she stepped into the farmhouse. The tree was in the same corner. As usual, the top was crooked, and the tree topper had the same crack she remembered. The scent of pine filled the air. Darla sneezed. She’d forgotten about her allergy to pine.

Looking around, Darla sighed. Every nook was filled with something red and green. Her eyes widened at the array of home baked goods that filled the kitchen counter. She hoped her parents didn’t expect her to eat those. It took strict discipline to stay in her size six clothes. Dad saw Darla’s glance and smiled proudly.

“You think that’s something?” Dad said. “Wait until you taste the turkey, the ham, and the pork roast Mom has in the fridge.”

“I’m a vegan!” Darla hadn’t meant to sound so angry.

“What’s a vegan?” Dad asked.

How could anyone not know the definition of vegan? Darla tried to be patient. “I don’t eat anything that causes an animal to suffer. I don’t eat meat, eggs or dairy.”

“What do you eat?” Mom sounded stupefied.

“Veggies. Lots of veggies. And no baked goods.”

Mom took a long look at the counter. Tears came to her blue eyes. “I think I’m going to go take a nap,” she said softly.

Dad helped Mom into the bedroom and returned to Darla. “Sit, young lady!” he thundered. Darla almost laughed, but she sat. “Your Mom has been cooking for days for your visit. She has so little energy, and she used every bit of it to prepare for you to come home for the holidays.”

“OK, well I’m sorry.” Darla almost winced at the weak sound of her own voice. She spoke louder, “I’m a vegan by conviction. I’m not going to change just because Mom cooked!”

Dad’s face reddened. “By conviction!” he thundered. “Since when do you have any convictions about anything? You don’t even bother attending church. And do you think Mom and I are stupid? We know you and Devon are living together. And that last article you wrote for the paper on abortion? That made Mom cry. We prayed none of our friends would see it.”

Darla could feel her heart pounding in her head. One of her migraines was starting. “This isn’t going to work,” Darla said. “Home for Christmas? What a joke! This place isn’t home. I shouldn’t have come here. We live in two different worlds, and there’s nowhere left for us to meet. I’m flying back to Boston.”

“Maybe that would be best.” Dad sighed. “We’ll take you back to the airport in the morning. Perhaps you’ll stop thinking of yourself long enough to go to the Christmas Eve program at church with us tonight?”

Selfish? Dad thought she was selfish? She almost told him how much she’d donated to Planned Parenthood last year but realized just in time Dad wouldn’t consider that a point in her favor.

“Speaking of church,” Dad began.

Darla interrupted hastily. She already regretted her bitter words and didn’t want to argue anymore with Dad. “I’m going to do like Mom and take a little nap if I have to go to church tonight.”

Lying on the twin bed in her old room, Darla tried to sleep in spite of the pounding headache. Had she ever been that girl who loved pink gingham? Everything in the room looked like cotton candy. Pink was now her least favorite color.

From downstairs Darla could hear Christmas music playing and Mom and Dad talking softly. Her angry words with Dad must have prevented Mom’s nap. Was that noise Mom crying? Darla buried her head under a pillow. She would get through church. She would spend the night. She would fly back to her world in the morning and bury this one in the past where it belonged. Home for the holidays was just an outdated phrase; it had nothing to do with her.

Surprised that she’d slept so long, Darla woke. Downstairs Mom and Dad were waiting supper for her. No meats or treats were in sight. Two large trays of veggies and fruits sat on th counter.

“Are fruits okay?” Mom sounded timid.

“Oh Mom!” Darla reached down, hugged her, and realized Mom’s clothes no longer covered a plump frame. Mom was so tiny Darla could feel her bones. Darla pulled away, shocked.

 “You didn’t tell me about the lymphoma.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Mom said simply.

Darla nodded. She understood that, the not knowing what to say.

The three of them walked together through the snowy parking lot and into Corners Church. This part of Michigan enjoyed a white Christmas only fifty percent of the time. For some illogical reason, Darla was glad that it was snowing this year. She liked hearing the snow crunch under her feet. 

The white frame church was even smaller than Darla remembered. Just like every year of her childhood, there was candlelight, laughter, and music. The children in the play forgot their lines, just like they always did. Grandpas dozed and Grandmas looked proud. Babies fussed and were comforted. The same wreaths hung in the same windows. The same ridiculous Charlie Brown Christmas tree stood in the same corner. Its only ornaments were construction paper handprints. Must be the children were still tracing their hands to make Christmas ornaments.

Could it be? Darla leaned forward and peered at the tree. There it was—the handprint she’d made so long ago. It was the only one with a big yellow smiley face on it. At age seven, Darla had decorated everything with that silly smiley face.

Mom leaned close and whispered, “Do you remember the year you had to be Joseph in the Christmas play because there were no boys? You hated that. You wanted so badly to be Mary.”

From somewhere deep inside laughter bubbled. Mom started chuckling too. 

“Shh,” Dad whispered, but he was grinning broadly.

A little boy, reading, stumbled over the words in the old King James Bible, “And she brought forth her first born son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.”

I still believe those words, Darla thought, as a little girl placed a blanketed doll in a crude manger. That’s one thing Mom and Dad and I have in common.

Suddenly she no longer felt angry. Darla knew she couldn’t leave before Grandma’s memorial service. She leaned over and whispered to Dad, “I’m going to stay through the holidays.”

 Dad poked Mom, winked, and grinned. Had he known all along she wouldn’t leave?

I’ll answer Dad’s unasked question before I go to bed, Darla thought. It will make him happy. “Yes, Dad, I’ll look for a church when I get back to Boston. It’s not going to be anything like Corners Church, but I’ll start going back to church.”

She knew what her Dad would say. “Well, that’s a start.”

She wasn’t going to argue with him or Mom again, not about religion, or politics, or vegans. She was just going to enjoy being home, home for the holidays, perhaps for the last time.

Or . . . perhaps not for the last time. Darla reached into her jacket pocket and fished out the crumpled ad. It wouldn’t hurt to stop at the paper and just talk to them for a minute…. Had Dad just winked at Mom again? She watched him a minute, but he and Mom were staring straight ahead, holding hands, and smiling at the little angels with crooked tinsel halos who were singing quite off key, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, good will toward men.”

Photo Credit goes to Drones Over Broome who captures beautiful views in the area of New York where I spent many of my growing up years. Please visit the Drones Over Broome’s Facebook page for many more lovely scenes.

The Tale of Two Snow People

by Donna Poole

Quiet mystery hung over the restless night that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. Sometimes lazy snowflakes drifted down; other times the moon peeked out from behind dark clouds. Two snow people yawned on a front lawn facing a white house that smiled welcome with its green shutters. A Christmas wreath with silver bells hung on its red front door.

“You’re so tall and handsome,” the short snow person said to the other. “I like your black hat, your shiny straight buttons, and your glasses. What’s your name?”

“You may call me Professor. What is your name, little snow girl?”

“I. . .don’t know. I don’t think I have a name.”

“Silly child! Everyone has a name.”

The professor studied her. She was a chubby little snow girl with crooked buttons. Her red knit hat sat sideways on her head, and she had only one mitten. Her carrot nose looked ready to fall into the snow. The professor frowned. He disliked untidiness. Still, there was something charming about the little snow girl’s lopsided smile.

“I shall call you Scruffy,” he said.

“Scruffy? What does that mean?”

In his best lecture voice Professor said, “It means untidy, messy, shambolic, or disorganized.”

“Oh dear,” Scruffy said. “Am I all those things?”

“Yes, but it’s not your fault,” Professor said. “Things like this just happen.”

“So someone made me messy?”

“Silly child! Don’t you know anything? No one made us. We evolved.”

“What does ‘evolved’ mean?”

Professor frowned. How could he explain such a complex science to a simple-minded snow girl? “I’ll give you the easy version. First you were a snowflake. After a million years, you became a snowball. After a million more years you divided into three snowballs. By a process even I don’t fully understand the three snowballs stacked one on top of the other and. . .ta-da! You became you.”

“But who made the first snowflake? Who made my face?” Scruffy persisted. “Who gave me my hat and my mitten?”

The exhausted professor sighed. “Oh, do go to sleep, Scruffy. No more questions tonight. And look at that.” He sounded disgusted. “Your nose has fallen into the snow.”

Soon the professor was snoring softly, but Scruffy felt sad about her nose, and she had too many questions to sleep. So no one had made anything? That didn’t seem right. The snowflakes and the moon were so beautiful; she thought someone beautiful must have made them.

Lights came on in the house. Scruffy saw a tall man with a pipe and a messy little girl laughing together. The little girl pointed out the window and tugged the man’s hand. He nodded.

Silver bells rang as the red door with the Christmas wreath opened. The little girl and the man came outside. The little girl wore a red coat and red mittens, and the man had a long black coat. They walked right up to Professor and Scruffy.

The little girl bent down and picked up the carrot nose. “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t put your nose on very well. I’ll fix it.” She put the carrot back on Scruffy’s face and straightened Scruffy’s hat. “Look at that!” She laughed. “I forgot to give you your other mitten.” She pulled one off her own hand and put it on Scruffy. Scruffy felt happy and loved.

“Daddy,” the little girl said, “your snowman looks almost perfect. He looks like a professor, just like you. He’s just missing one thing. You should give him your pipe. You promised Mommy you would quit smoking. It could be your Christmas gift to her!”

The tall man shook his head and laughed. “You and your mom, always asking me to give up my pipe. It’s not even lit half the time, but if it will make you two happy, I guess I can live without it.” He carefully put his pipe just so in the snowman’s mouth. “Now let’s have some hot chocolate before bed. You’re already up too late; it’s Christmas Eve!”

The little girl tucked her hand in her dad’s hand. She smiled and waved at Scruffy.

As soon as the red door closed, Scruffy called, “Professor! Professor! Wake up! You missed it! We didn’t evolve from snowflakes. A man made you, and a little girl made me! Look! The little girl fixed my nose and gave me another mitten. The man gave you a pipe! Look in that window, and you’ll see them.”

Professor looked in the window. He saw no one. “Silly child! Next thing you’ll be telling me someone made the moon and the snowflakes. You must have been dreaming. Go back to sleep.”

Scruffy went to sleep, and she dreamed about a kind little girl.

Professor couldn’t sleep. Something puzzled him. Where had the mitten and pipe come from? How had Scruffy’s nose gotten back on her face? He thought evolution took millions of years. Surely his nap hadn’t lasted millions of years. Suddenly he saw something in the window. A tall man was carrying a small child in rumpled pajamas. Could it be? No! It went against everything he’d learned in all his years of study. Still. . . what if? He looked at the moon and the beautiful snowflakes. He looked, and he wondered for a long, long time.

Over the River and through the Woods

By Donna Poole

“Over the river and through the woods, to Aunt Eve’s house we go,” the kids used to sing when they were little and we made our annual Thanksgiving trek, the van loaded with food, to celebrate the holiday with family. How blessed we are, I often reflected on the drive, to have three of the four sisters living in Michigan. Who would have thought?

We Piarulli girls spent our growing-up years in New York State. My sisters, Eve and Ginny, along with their husbands and families, ended up in Michigan before we did. I never dared hope I’d live anywhere near a sister, but a year after John graduated from Bible college in Iowa, a tiny country church in Michigan asked him to come as pastor. There we’ve been ever since. So we became three sisters living in Michigan and deeply missing Mary, our New York sister, every time we gathered together.

Let me tell you something about Michigan. Just because three sisters live in Michigan doesn’t mean they will live anywhere near each other. The distance from our house in southern Lower Michigan to Eagle River in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is over 590 miles and takes over nine hours to travel in light traffic. Chattanooga, Tennessee is closer to us.  

But we three sisters were blessed. It took no more than a three hour drive for any of us to reach the other.

The drive to and from Eve and Bruce’s was full of traditions. “There’s the spanking place,” one of the kids hollered every year.

I always felt a bit miffed. Why, when we had so many wonderful memories, did they always point out the place where just once, years before, we’d pulled into an empty parking lot and spanked all of them before we arrived in time to stuff our faces with turkey and give thanks?

On the ride home the kids traditionally begged, “Wake us up to see the Christmas lights.”

When we got to the town that always lit its tree on Thanksgiving evening, John woke sleepy kids and sleepy me. I’m notorious for falling asleep in the car. There’s something about the rhythm of the wheels singing that lullaby, “Over the river and through the woods. . . .”

Years passed, and the stuffed turkey had nothing to brag about in comparison to the stuffed rooms at Eve and Bruce’s. Kids grew up, married, had children of their own, and still we all gathered “over the river and through the woods.”

That beautiful tradition ended when God called Eve home. Extended family began driving over the river and through the woods to gather at our home. Everyone helps with the meal and the food is as good as it ever was; our home rings with love and laughter, but it’s not the same. How could it be? Eve isn’t with us. This year another family member joined her in heaven, and more than one heart will smile through tears on Thanksgiving Day.

Thanksgiving was Eve’s holiday. I’m just pinch-hitting for her for a while. I do my best to spread the love for as long as I’m here, because someday someone will have to take over for me.

When Thanksgiving Day ends all too soon, we linger first at the door, then on the porch, next in the driveway in the traditional, drawn-out Midwestern kind of goodbye. There are a few rounds of hugs.

When Ginny can be with us I always fiercely hug her and whisper, “When will I see you again?” I cry because I love her. I cry because I really don’t like goodbyes.

One by one, cars and trucks leave. Our volunteer fireman son flashes his lights in the driveway so his nieces and nephews—and his mom—can see them and smile with delight.

John and I are two old people with tears in our eyes waving until the last taillights disappear down our gravel road, thanking God for memories of yesterday and today, and wondering how many more times we’ll have to gather together. Will someone else be missing next year when family gathers from over the river and through the woods?

I know what Eve would do if she were here. She’d hug me tightly. She’d remind me we’ll have forever together in heaven. She’d tell me to get back in the house before I catch cold. In my heart, I can see her beautiful smile and hear her say, “Good job, Donna. Thank you. It was a beautiful Thanksgiving.”

To Turkey Trot or Not

by Donna Poole

We get out of the truck, zip our hoodies tighter around our necks, and walk hand-in-hand through the field.

“Aren’t they cute?” someone says. “That old and still holding hands!”

We smile and keep walking. Yes, we still adore each other, but that’s not why we’re holding hands. We’re trying to keep from falling.

“Where’s the finish line?” we ask the first person who looks like he might know.

Reece, our grandson, placed second in this year’s community turkey trot race, and we missed it. We seem to be running for the worst grandparents of the year award, and we’re near the front!

Reece is only twelve. “I beat highschoolers, Grandma!” He grinned. “I even beat my athletic director.”

“Of course you beat him,” Reece’s mom said. “He has a bad knee.”

I ruffled Reece’s curls. I’m rather partial to them and to him. “Hey! You still beat him! Take what you can get!”

Reece’s sister, Megan, runs for Hillsdale College. I’m more than a little partial to her too.

I don’t often get to see my grandkids run, but every time I see their long legs flying around a track or through a field, I say to John, tongue-in-cheek, “They run that fast because of all the practice they got running away from their dad. And their dad was a good runner because of all the practice he got running from you!”

“Can I tell you a story?” Reece, our runner-grandson, asked in Sunday school this past Sunday.

“Is it a Bible story? Does it have any spiritual significance whatsoever?”

Looking disappointed, he sighed and shook his head.

“Tell you what. You tell me any story you want. I’ll make a spiritual application.”

“Really? Well, after I finished the turkey trot, lots of people were still running. I took my snowboard to the hill near the race. People were watching me. I was doing good; then all of a sudden I started. . . . .” He made a rolling motion with his hands.

“Head-over-heels? Not the impression you’d hoped to make?”

We both laughed. “Well, life is going to send you tumbling down many hills you didn’t choose, and sometimes people will be watching.”

We talked about how Reece didn’t get angry, put his snowboard away forever, or hide in his room. He picked himself up and laughed. We discussed the possible stroke or seizure I’d had a few days prior that today’s MRI will hopefully confirm or deny.

We can’t always choose our hills, roads, or tumbles, but we can get up, give God the pieces we have left, and keep going.

That kid snowboarded again Sunday afternoon.

Me? I just finished my MRI. The tech told me he did a special test for memory issues. That’s a good thing, because I walk Muddled Memory Lane often now, and I know many of you walk it with me.

Because of physical limitations, some of us may never again run a turkey trot or snowboard down a hill. I know some of you would love to just be able to get out of a wheelchair and meander a back country road. But there’s something we can do. We can help each other stand. We can keep walking each other Home. And we can cheer on those reaching the finish line.

The Road Home

by Donna Poole

Of course it was raining. I’d forgotten how muddy these backroads get in the rain. I’d forgotten many things, how to laugh, how to love, how to live.

The May lilacs drooped heavily over the country roads leading home. I’d once loved their scent. Now, all I could smell was myself. I smelled of the pigs I’d been sleeping with, animal and human, and I smelled of shame. You think shame doesn’t have a scent? You’d know better if you’d been where I’ve been, done what I’ve done.

I never expected this ending. Since I’d been a little girl, family and friends had remarked on what they’d called my unusual talent and radiant beauty. Convinced I could make fame and fortune my own, I’d fixated on one thing. Money. I needed money to get my start. Farm-life would wrinkle my skin, make me old before my time, and suck the life out of me. I had to get away from home.

So, I begged Dad for money, and I was relentless.

My brother, Eliab, was furious. “How could you! Do you know how Dad got that money he gave you? He cashed in his life insurance policy and gave you the half you would have gotten when he died. I heard him sobbing last night. He hasn’t cried since Mom’s funeral! This might kill him!”

I tried to care, but I was too excited. City lights were calling, and I had more money than I’d ever dreamed. Why try to explain to Eliab? He wouldn’t understand me; he never had. I edged passed him with my suitcase and headed out the door.

“Marion! Don’t leave like this when Dad’s not home! At least wait and tell him goodbye!”

“It’s better this way,” I said.

It was a beautiful, sunny September when I left. Hitchhiking was exciting, and contrary to all the warnings I’d heard, no one robbed or assaulted me. Not then.

My dream city job never materialized, but I was having so much fun with my new friends I didn’t care.

It’s amazing how fast you can blow through a hundred grand in the fast lane. The night life, breathtaking at first, eventually left me feeling so empty I almost didn’t care when my cash ran out. I wasn’t worried the first night I couldn’t pay the tab; my new friend would pick it up. He did but not willingly.

It’s amazing how fast you can blow through friends when you’re broke and need a bed or a hot meal. I was too proud for a shelter or the mission, and I vowed I’d never go home. I’d die first. And I almost did.

You don’t need to hear how I ended up on the streets and the things I did to survive that cold winter. No one would hire me. I didn’t blame them; I wouldn’t have hired myself.

One night I met a group of men who taught me quickly that not all farmers were the gentlemen my dad and his friends were. I’d already learned too much about men from sleeping on the streets to trust easily, but when I saw those farmers in a bar, their flannel shirts and jeans made me nostalgic for home and lured me into a false sense of security. When they offered me a ride and a place to stay, I went with them, like the idiot I was.

I don’t want to say much about the nights I spent with them in their shack or out in the barn with their pigs just to keep warm.

One early May morning, I woke from a nightmare. The men were still sleeping when I left. I tried hitchhiking, but no one would give me a ride.

So, I walked. Over and over I rehearsed my speech, “I’m not worthy to be your daughter. If you’ll just let me sleep in a clean bed, I’ll do anything! You can fire the cook and housekeeper; I’ll do all their work, and I can help Eliab do his chores. . . .”

I scratched at the lice on my head and dug at the flea bites on the skin I’d once admired. Once I’d worried about wrinkled skin, but now I shrunk in horror from my scarred soul.

When I didn’t think I could take another step, I saw it, the place I’d once called home, a white farmhouse with its wraparound porch. It looked so clean. I wouldn’t blame Dad if he shoved me away and shouted at me to go back to the filth I’d come from.

I saw a man push himself out of  the porch rocking chair. It couldn’t be Dad; this man was older, stooped, and weighed about fifty pounds less than the strong father I’d left. He shaded his eyes with his hands, looking at me. Then he started running and shouting for my brother.

“Eliab! Eliab! Come quick! It’s our Marion!”

“Dad,” I choked out, “I’m not worthy to be. . . .”

Dad was laughing and crying. He smothered my words in his hug.

“We’re going to have the biggest party this county’s ever seen! Eliab, you have to help me. We’re going to take Marion shopping for new clothes, and I want to give her your mother’s diamond ring. Hey! Why aren’t you hugging your sister?”

He stopped, shocked by the look of hatred on Eliab’s face and the venom of his words.

“How can you even stand to touch her? She smells like trash and worse. You’re going to have a party for that slut who squandered your money on booze, drugs, and who knows what else? What about me? What have you ever done for me?”

“You’re the most faithful son a man could have, and all I have is yours. But can’t you rejoice with me? We thought your sister was dead, and she’s come home!”

Dad kept one arm around my shoulder and led me toward the house. Eliab didn’t follow. Would Eliab ever love me again? I didn’t know, and my cold heart melted with warm tears. I looked up at the joy and undeserved love in my father’s face.

If Dad could look at me like that, was he a figure of the True? Could my heavenly Father still love me too?

I fell to my knees, sobbing myself clean in the mud. God did love me still. He loved me with a beauty only the broken see. And I could love Him; I would love Him with a depth no righteous elder brother, only other forgiven sinners like me can understand.

“Daughter! Marion, come inside. Soon we’ll have you smelling as sweet as the lilacs. Aren’t they beautiful this spring?”

I took a deep breath. The lilacs were lovely that spring, lovelier than they’d ever been.

This narrative is based on one of my favorite Bible stories. You can read it in Luke 15:11-32.

Community

By Donna Poole

November 12, 2019, 9:00 A.M.

The sun is turning the snow-packed gravel roads to diamonds on this frosty November morning. After the funeral we will drive down a diamond road to lay Anna May, one of our own, to rest in the Lickly’s Corners Cemetery.

The next stop will be the “Corners” where two dirt roads meet. Neighbors and family will sit around tables in the old one-room school where Anna May was part of the last graduating class back in 1948. Anna May was also part of the community club that met in the schoolhouse for many years. So was I.

We opened each community club meeting by singing, “Sew, sew, sewing on our quilts, helps brighten someone else’s world. We are happy as can be, because we’re community clubbers, you see….”

I wish I could remember the rest of the song. Sadly. of the twenty-four members there were then, only one other is still alive to ask. Perhaps I’ll see Sandy today and ask her if she can remember the words to our club song.

The community club sold the building to the church at the corners for $5.00, and the church has used it for potluck dinners ever since. For many years, Anna May was part of that church, our church.

Our church ladies will serve the funeral meal, a turkey dinner, at the old schoolhouse. Two of our women offered to make turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and corn. The rest of us will fill in things like salads, rolls, meatballs, calico beans, and a dessert table worthy of the name. There will be  lots of hot coffee to warm frigid hands and laughter to warm hurting hearts. Fixing food for others is one of the things the church at the corners does best. It’s one way we can show our love and the love of Jesus.

“How do so few people make so much food?” someone once asked of our church ladies. The question surprised us. We just do; doesn’t everyone? I suppose they don’t, but sharing food, love, and support is still a way of life at our Corners, and I hope the same is true in many places.

“Little House on the Prairie” knew the value of community. We’re lost, isolated, stranded without each other. You don’t have to be back roads country the way we are to cultivate community. It can happen anywhere. It just takes one person to realize we all need each other and to do something about it. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone needs you where you are right now.

We could talk about community today as we walk together through the snow on my gravel road and listen to the snow crunch under our feet. But first, I have a funeral dinner to help serve, and a few hugs to share. I might need a hug myself. I’ll dearly miss my friend.

Just Go

By Donna Poole

“Just go for a walk.”

How many times has John said that to me when my brain tangled around a writing assignment or my heart knotted with the pain of a friend?

The rhythm of a singular walk on a country road isn’t a panacea, a cure-all, but it sure is a great detangler.

Not all roads detangle thoughts. I walked in New York City once with our Maine-Endwell High School Band. We visited the 1964 World’s Fair, and we walked downtown. I remember the exhilaration and shock I felt when the light changed and the massive crowd moved as one to the other side of the street. There was no room for individuality at that point. Turning back would have been impossible. The crowd carried me forward whether I wanted to go or not. I loved visiting the big city but knew even then that the rhythm of small town and country would always call me home.

At home, I listen to the rhythm of my steps on gravel and hear what the seasons say. The winds erase extraneous thoughts, and my mind clears enough to try to think God’s thoughts after Him. I may be singular on my walk, but I’m not lonely.

God and I were almost to the bridge where the St. Joe River, looking more like a meandering creek, passes under the gravel road. It was a quiet day; I saw no neighbors, and no tractors hummed in the fields. Started, I heard footsteps pounding behind me.

I whirled around. A young deer was running right at me. Deer don’t run toward people; they run in the other direction. She looked into my eyes. I held out my hand, and she nuzzled it. Would she let me touch her? I barely breathed. She wasn’t as soft as I thought.

We talked without words for awhile. I told her this is how it will be someday. She won’t have to fear anything then, and neither will I, because God promises nothing will hurt or destroy in all His holy mountain. We told each other we can’t wait for that day, when death and her sickly children of sorrow and suffering are forever banished, and our God makes all things new.

For now, sorrow and suffering are still with us, as is death, the defeated enemy, but the enemy just the same. We said goodbye this week to a friend of forty-five years.

“Just go, Anna May,” we told her. “It’s okay. We’ll be coming along soon.”

Anna May left behind these gravel roads she dearly loved to walk when she was younger, and she went Home. I hope she finds some gravel byways up there with some wildflowers and a deer that walks right up to her, and I hope she waits for me there. Because I don’t imagine Anna May will like streets of gold any better than I will.

Just a Little Cake

By Donna Poole

As we walk each other Home, not all our meanderings will be on sunny paths. Will you journey with me awhile in the darkness, my friend?

Huddled in the darkest corner of my empty house I sit on the floor, rocking back and forth, head on my knees, arms wrapped around my legs.

I don’t have to open my eyes to know it’s dark; it’s the midnight of my soul. Is this coldness what it feels like to die? If it is, why can’t I just get it over with? I’m too exhausted to cry, too numb to call for help, too bone-weary to look for my bed. Is it even here any more?

I feel someone shake my shoulder. “Make me a cake.”

“Make you a what? I have nothing in my house. Look at me. I have given the last ounce of my love, sung the last note of my song, written the last word from my heart.”

He studies me, and He smiles. “Make me a cake. Just a little one. Make it from your weariness, your bitterness, your loneliness, your despair.”

My bones chill. Who is this monster alone with me in the dark asking me for an offering of my deepest pain? I shrink in fear.

“Are you the devil?”

“Look again.” The voice is mellow and strong.

A light, soft at first, glows and fills the room. I bend and hold His feet. “My Lord and my God!”

He laughs, a beautiful sound. “And now, my cake!”

He lifts me. Surprised I can even stand, I begin mixing all I have, exhaustion, heartbreak, loneliness, fear, pain, and despair. I hold it out to Him.

“Too dry! I have nothing to dampen the batter.”

“Try your tears.”

I shake my head wearily. “I ran out of those years ago.” He puts one hand on each of my cheeks, bows low with grace, and kisses my forehead. Suddenly, I’m sobbing healing tears, bursting from a place in my heart I thought had died with my long-lost saints.

I stir the batter and pour it into the pan. Still, I’m sad. “I have no fire to bake this little cake for You.”

“Thanksgiving always works.”

“Thank You! Thank You, Lord that You can use the emptiness, the grief, the suffering that is me.”

A fire begins within. It’s no longer cold and dark. I offer it up, all I thought was nothing but ugliness and pain. I give it with thanksgiving, and He wraps His arms around me and gives me words to sing again.

Dedicated to Lois Pettit with love, and with gratitude to Elisabeth Elliot and Amy Carmichael, because everyone we love and everything we read becomes part of us and makes us who we are.