by Donna Poole

Kristy knelt by her bed. “Dear God, I’m happy Easter is tomorrow! Thank you that Jesus died for us and rose again. And please, I really, really wish I could have a new dress for Easter!”

She hopped into bed, and Mom pulled up the covers. “Honey, we’ve talked about this. We would have gotten you a new dress if we could have. But you know Easter is about celebrating the resurrection, and we can do that without new clothes.”

Kristy nodded. “But the other girls at church will have new dresses to celebrate in. Maybe God will surprise me with one! It would be a perfect Easter if I could have one.”

Her mom sighed. “Kristy, God isn’t some kind of Santa Clause who gives us everything we want.”

“I know that. And it’s okay if God doesn’t give me a dress. I wish you could sew like Emily and Lydia’s moms.”

“I wish I could sew too, honey. I’d love to make you a new dress.”

Kristy sat up and threw both arms around her mom’s neck. “Don’t look sad. It’s okay you can’t sew. You do lots of things. You make me paper dolls and tell good stories. And you’re the best cook in the whole church!”

Her mom laughed. “I don’t know about that, but speaking of cooking, I better get busy making food for the Easter breakfast tomorrow.”

“Are you making the bunny bread?”

“Yes.”

“I hope Mr. Grumbple won’t get mad about it again.”

“I didn’t know you knew about that!”

“Last year I heard him tell Dad he didn’t think Easter Bunny bread belonged at a church breakfast.”

“What did your dad tell him?”

“Dad said if it would make him feel better, we’d call it the spring rabbit. But Mr. Grumbple didn’t eat any of the bread. I hope you won’t have to stop making it. All us kids love it.”

Mom laughed and kissed her forehead. “Don’t worry about it. I’m going to the kitchen to make the spring rabbit. You go to sleep now.”

Kristy smiled and snuggled under the covers.

Maybe Mr. Grumbple will eat the bunny bread this year. And maybe I’ll find a new dress in my Easter basket in the morning. And maybe it will be a perfect Easter.

Easter morning was pandemonium. Kristy’s mom was busy in the kitchen frosting cinnamon rolls, covering wonderful smelling casseroles, and putting the bunny bread on a platter. Dad was in the study looking over his sermon.  Kristy and her four brothers were racing through the house looking for the Easter baskets their parents had hidden. Hiding the baskets was tradition.

Kristy tried not to be too disappointed when she found her basket. It had a hollow chocolate rabbit, her favorite kind of jellybeans, and a pair of white socks with ruffles on the top. No dress.

But the socks will look pretty with my Mary Jane shoes.

Kristy looked in her closet for her nicest dress, the one she’d worn last Easter.

Kristy sat with the other six and seven-year-old girls at the Easter breakfast. She smiled to see how many girls had her mom’s bunny bread on their plates.

“Your mom is the best cook ever!” Emily said.

“And your mom and Lydia’s mom sew the prettiest dresses ever!”

The table full of girls began admiring one another’s new dresses, most of them flowery prints. No one mentioned that Kristy’s dress was a little snug and short.

“Is this seat saved for anyone?”

Kristy looked up and saw a girl about her age wearing a stained white T-shirt, jeans, and dirty sneakers with holes in them. Her blonde hair was in a messy braid, and her face looked like it had traces of tears.

Kristy smiled at her. “You can sit here. Have you been here before? I don’t think I’ve seen you.”

The other girl shook her head. “This is my first time. My stepdad dropped me off. He said I should stay here so he and Mom could have a couple hours without having to bother with me. I hope they remember to pick me up when they leave the bar.” She brushed away a tear.

Kristy touched her hand. “My mom and dad will be sure you get home if they forget. I’m Kristy. What’s your name?”

“Addy.”

“Addy, do you want some food? My mom’s bunny bread is really good!”

“I don’t have any money.” Addy spoke so softly it was almost a whisper.

“You don’t need money! It’s free!”

“I dunno. I feel funny here. You all have pretty dresses. I’ve never had a dress.”

“It’s okay. No one cares what you wear,” Kristy said.

Emily said, “Let’s all go with Addy. She can get food, and we can get some more food!”

On the way to the food table, the girls almost bumped into Julie, their favorite Sunday school teacher, who was coming out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of steaming breakfast potatoes.

“Oops, careful! You don’t want to wear these potatoes!” Julie laughed. “Kristy, I have a present for you. I saw where you’re sitting. I’ll leave it on your chair.”

“Thank you! What is it?”

“Oh, just a little something I felt like God wanted me to make.”

“I bet she made you a new dress!” Lydia whispered. “She sews even better than my mom!”

It seemed to take forever to get through the food line. Addie kept saying she’d never seen so much food, and it took her a long time to decide what to put on her plate.

Back at the table, Kristy set down her plate and picked up a lavender gift bag. She pulled out pink tissue paper and caught her breath.

Emily asked, “What is it? Take it out. We want to see!”

Kristy pulled out a cream-colored dress with a tiny pink rosebud print. It had short, ruffled sleeves and a ruffle on the bottom.

“That’s the prettiest dress I ever saw!” Lydia said. “Are you going to go into the bathroom and put it on?”

“I will after we eat,” Kristy said putting the dress back into the bag. “I don’t want to get any food on it.”

Her dad went to the microphone. “Please keep eating,” he said. “I’m going to talk about the resurrection during the morning sermon, but I wanted to say a few words about the cross while we’re together here. I’ve been thinking all week about how Jesus lived and died. No one ever lived a more beautiful life than Jesus. No one ever loved or gave like Jesus. He gave everything he had to give during his thirty-three years on earth. And then, at the end, he gave his life on the cross. Why? I think most of you know the answer. He loved us enough to die for our sins and to make a way for us to go to heaven. And now he wants us to love and give to others through us. We can be his hands and feet.”  

“Is that really true what that man said? Addy asked.

Kristy nodded. “He’s my dad. And it’s true.”

“Well, I never heard anything about God loving me. Or people loving me either. And I don’t know if I believe it.”

Seven-year-olds aren’t always good at putting things into words, but that’s okay. Actions are better. Kristy handed the gift bag to Addy.  “I want to give you this.”

Addy shook her head. “That lady said it was your present.”

“It was my present, but now it’s yours.”

“Take it, Addy,” Emily said. “I think it will fit you.”

“You’ll look beautiful in it!” Lydia said.

“The bathroom is right over there,” Kristy said. “Go try it on and see if you like it.”

Addy was gone for a while. When she returned the girls could tell she’d washed her face. She’d unbraided her hair. She looked beautiful even with the dirty tennis shoes poking out from the long dress. She smiled shyly at the girls. And then Addy got what was perhaps her first group hug and lots of compliments.

Kristy saw Julie looking their way and smiling. Julie gave her a thumbs up.

That night Kristy finished her prayers and hopped into bed. Mom pulled up the covers and kissed her on the cheek.

Kristy yawned. “Mom, God gave me a new Easter dress, but I gave it away. It made me feel happy.”

“Julie told me about that. I’m proud of you. And guess what? Mr. Grumbple ate my bunny bread.”

Kristy laughed. “I guess it was a perfect Easter, wasn’t 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

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

by Donna Poole

Nancy leaned on her cane and watched the contractor walk around the barn shaking his head. He kicked at a rotten timber, and it crumbled. Nancy winced, lost her balance, and almost fell.

The young contractor leaped to her side and steadied her. “Hey, Miss Nancy! You okay?”

She nodded. “I’m fine, Ted.” She smiled when she saw the pencil tucked behind his ear. “You look too young to do things the old school way. I thought you’d probably use a tablet.”

He laughed. “I would, but my dad, who owns the company, still wants everything written on paper.” He pulled a notebook from the pocket of his brown Carhart’s then put it back.

“Aren’t you going to write down any figures so you can give me an estimate?”

He cleared his throat. “Miss Nancy, I hate to tell you, and I can send my dad out to give you his opinion, but I know he’ll say the same thing. This old barn is too far gone to save. Forget repairs. It would be cheaper to tear it down and build a new pole barn.”

She shook her head and her eyes filled with tears.

“This barn mean that much to you?” he asked sympathetically.

“It’s just that it’s been in the family over three-quarters of a century. My dad really loved it. Before he died, I promised him I’d do my best to take care of it, but time got away from me. It seems things get older faster than you expect them to.”

She wiped her eyes. “Do you think a coat of paint would help?”

He glanced again at the sun shining through gaps in the roof, at the rotting beams, and at the sagging rafters.

Nothing’s going to save this old thing. It’s outlived its usefulness and needs to be torn down, but if it makes her feel better….

He patted her shoulder. “You kinda remind me of my grandma, Miss Nancy. I’m going to give you the card of a painter I know. You tell him I said to give you my contractor’s discount.”

He handed her the painter’s card, and she convinced him to come in the house and stay for a cup of coffee and some chocolate chip cookies. She wrapped up a dozen for him to take home and share with his family.

“I don’t know why I make so many cookies. I don’t have any family left to cook for. It’s just me out here by myself. I love this place, but it does get lonely sometimes.”

Ted was in a hurry. He had five more estimates to give that day, but he knew his dad would understand. He talked to Miss Nancy for an hour.

As soon as Ted left Nancy called the painter and asked for an estimate. “I’d have to come look at your barn to give you an accurate figure,” the man said, “but even with Ted’s discount you’re looking at a ballpark amount of….”

Nancy’s eye’s widened when she heard the amount. She thanked him and said goodbye. There had to be some old paint around here somewhere. Dad wouldn’t approve; she could hear his voice warning her that there probably wasn’t enough old paint left, what there was would clump, that her hands were too shaky, and that old women had no business trying to paint old barns. But her mind was made up. She hadn’t taken care of the old barn the way she’d promised she would; the least she could do was try to spruce it up a bit. There might not be enough paint to cover the whole thing, but she’d at least paint the side that faced the road.

***

The next Sunday Nancy came home from church. She was tired. The sermon had been wonderful, but she didn’t feel part of anything anymore. Whenever she offered to help do something, someone said, “You’ve done your part, Nancy. It’s time for you to rest. Your job now is to pray for the rest of us.”

She did pray, but she wanted to do more. Sometimes she felt invisible.

Nancy took off her coat, looked at herself in the hall mirror, and laughed. There hadn’t been enough old paint left, and what there was had clumped.

“Well, Nancy,” she said out loud, “Maybe you are invisible. You tried painting the old barn and no one noticed, or if they did, they didn’t comment. Perhaps they were just too polite to say anything. You can’t afford new makeup, and you should know better than to use some that’s so old. It’s a wonder those clumps of mascara didn’t get into your eyes and blind you. And you only had enough blush for one cheek.”

She swiped at the few wisps of white hair she had left. She’d tried to arrange them to cover the bald spots, but it had been impossible. If only there was money to go to the beauty shop. She limped her way into the kitchen, thinking her legs were very much like rotting timbers.

“You and your crazy dreams, Nancy.” She chuckled. “Dreaming about a barn, contractor, and painter, probably because you sometimes feel like an old barn yourself.”

Sunday dinner would be coffee and chocolate chip cookies. Not healthy, she knew, but she had a fondness for baking cookies. She sat at the table munching cookies and thinking about inflation. Property taxes, food, gasoline—everything except her fixed income was higher every year.

And you felt sorry for yourself because you couldn’t buy makeup and get your hair done. Silly old woman, that’s the least of your worries.

 Nancy was so deep in thought she jumped when she heard someone knocking on the back door.

A young man stood there in brown Carhart’s a pencil tucked behind his ear. “Afternoon, ma’am,” he said. “That your old barn over there?” He gestured across the road.

She shook her head. “That belongs to a man who used to live here, but he moved to town.”

“You happen to know his phone number?”

She nodded, and he pulled a notebook out of his pocket and jotted it down.

“What, no cell?” she teased. “You look too young to be old school with a pencil and notebook.”

He laughed. “My cell’s in my truck. And my dad owns our company. He’s the one who’s old school. He wants all the figures written down in notebooks. We buy old barn wood and make all kinds of things with it.”

Nancy stared at him. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Ted, would it?”

“You must know me from somewhere,” he said. “Sorry, I don’t remember you.”

“You wouldn’t. My name is Nancy. Do you happen to like chocolate chip cookies? I could wrap some up for you.”

He hesitated but just for a moment. “They’re my favorite!”

He waited near the door while she packaged them.

“Thanks!” he took a cookie out of the bag and munched one. “Wow, this is good. Do you like to bake?”

She sighed. “I love cooking and baking. I make too much food for one person to eat, though.”

“I’m glad I met you,” he said. “I don’t really believe in coincidence, do you? I think everything happens for a reason.”

She nodded. “Our pastor said the same thing at church this morning. God has his hand in more things than we realize.”

“I have to talk to my dad about this first, but I wonder if you’d be interested in a job?”

“You want to hire an eighty-year-old woman for a job?”

“Dad and I have been looking for someone. Mom’s been in heaven for a year, and Grandma lives with us. She’s younger than you, but she has rheumatoid arthritis and can’t cook. We don’t need anyone to clean; Dad and I can handle that, but Grandma is lonely. We’d like to hire someone to keep Grandma company and cook for us. Are you interested?”

“I think I am, but you need to talk to your dad about me, and I want to talk to God about this. Let’s talk again tomorrow, alright?” She started to close the door and whispered a prayer.

 “That sounds like a plan, Miss Nancy.”

She opened the door again. “Do you call all old ladies ‘Miss’?”

He laughed. “I’ve never called anyone ‘Miss’ in my life. I hope you aren’t offended. You just look like a Miss Nancy to me.”

“I’m not offended. You tell your dad to call me, or come see me, or whatever.”

“I thought you needed to pray about it?”

“I already did.”

Nancy watched the truck drive away then decided to take a nap. She pulled up her quilt and smiled.

Now I’ll have someone to talk to and cook for. I might even have enough money to buy new paint for this old barn. Even if I don’t, it doesn’t matter because it’s what’s inside the barn that counts. And inside this old barn is someone who still has a lot to give.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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!

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.

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

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.”

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.  

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!

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.

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

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!

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

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.

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!