Author: gettingofftheinterstate

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The Peters Twins

by Donna Poole

The Mary Jane shoes weren’t hard to find; they came in adult sizes now, unlike the 1950’s. The ruffled socks were another matter. Debbie bought the thinnest white ankle socks she could find and hand stitched lace edging around the tops. And red ribbons? No problem there. They were easy to find, especially at Christmas time.

Debbie wrapped everything in Winnie the Pooh paper. Debbie had loved Winnie the Pooh when she’d been nine years old.

Everyone had called them “the Peters twins” back then, but they weren’t really twins. The sisters were fifteen months apart but so close in size and looks they passed as twins. From the time they could walk and until Gertie went into the nursing home you seldom saw one at an event without the other, especially at Christmas time.

Gertie and Debbie had loved Christmas as long as they could remember. When the sisters had been little girls, their mom had wrapped most of their gifts and put them under the tree, but she’d also sat two unwrapped baby dolls on the couch. It had been a giggling mad dash every year to the couch to see who could get there first to choose a doll.

Both girls had loved their church Christmas program, but they’d been shy about speaking in public. They hadn’t stopped holding hands for moral support in the program until the year Gertie turned twelve, and they only quit then because their parents insisted they were too old to stand on the platform holding hands like little girls.

Debbie thought about all this and more as she printed “Gertie” in large letters on the tag and tied it to the gift wrapped in Winnie the Pooh paper. It was Christmas Day 2024, seven decades since Gertie had been nine years old. Today had dawned with an unexpected snow shower, gift of Lake Michigan. It was only an inch, just enough to officially qualify as a white Christmas. Gertie had always prayed for a white Christmas when they’d been girls—not that she’d notice the weather now.

Debbie brushed a tear from her wrinkled cheek. Not only won’t Gertie notice the weather, she won’t even know I’m in the room. It’s been at least five years since she’s recognized me or spoken a word. This is a silly, meaningless thing I’m doing, taking her this gift, but I want to do it. She might not remember me, but she’ll always be the big sister I love.

Feeling a little silly, Debbie put on the pair of white ruffled socks she’d made for herself and buckled her Mary Jane shoes. She pulled her white hair into two ponytails and tied red hair ribbons in them. Then she grabbed the car keys, and kissed Richard who was dozing in the recliner in front of the Christmas tree. He was exhausted after the long but wonderful Christmas morning they’d had with the kids and grandkids.

Richard jumped. “You heading out to see Gertie?”

She nodded.

He looked up at her hair then down at her feet and laughed. “What’s with the red ribbons and those socks and shoes?”

“I’ll tell you when I get home, honey. The later the day, the worse Gertie gets.”

She’d expected the nursing home to be full of visitors, but by mid-afternoon most of the guests had left—if they’d bothered to come at all. As usual these days, Gertie was sleeping.

Debbie sat by the bed, thinking back to that long ago Christmas and the white ruffled socks, the shiny black Mary Jane shoes, and red ribbons she and Gertie had wanted so badly so they could wear them to the church program where they had just one line to recite together, “God loved us and sent his son.”

On Christmas morning, Debbie had gotten the Mary Janes, ruffled socks and red hair ribbons, but when Gertie opened her package, she found saddle shoes, green knee socks, and no ribbons. Debbie could read the disappointment on Gertie’s face. It would be the first Christmas program where they hadn’t dressed alike.

Mom had said, “You’re growing up, Gertie. You’re nine years old now, over a year older than Debbie. You’re too old now for some things. You and Debbie can’t always do everything together.”

The girls had looked at each other and tears had filled their eyes. Not do everything together? But they would, forever, and they’d promised each other that before they’d slept that night.

And they’d kept that promise. They’d vacationed together, celebrated holidays together, and their children had grown up more like siblings than cousins.  It had been a wonderful life until dementia had stolen it away piece by piece.

Debbie realized Gertie was awake and staring at her with that vacant look she’d come to expect but hated non the less. She refused to take the gift, so Debbie opened it for her.

Gertie looked at the socks and shoes. She stared at her sister and a fog seemed to lift from her eyes. She touched the red ribbons in Debbie’s hair. “Sister,” she said clearly.

Debbie could hardly speak around the lump in her throat. “Do you want to wear your new shoes and socks? It’s Christmas!”

Gertie nodded, and Debbie put them on her and tied the ribbons in her hair.

Then, to Debbie’s amazement, Gertie said, “We better hurry, Debbie. We’re going to be late to the Christmas program. Do you remember our part?”

A nurse was standing at the door, smiling. Debbie looked at her. “Give me a minute, and I’ll be sure you have a congregation in the sitting room,” the nurse said.

Debbie helped Gertie into her wheelchair and wheeled slowly to the room where the Christmas tree lights shined brightly, and a large window gave a view of the grounds outside.

“Look, Debbie, it snowed!” Gertie laughed. “I told you it would. I prayed.”

“Yes, you did pray for snow. You do that every year.”

Gertie nodded. “And we dress alike every year. I like that, but I’m nervous about speaking our part. Will you hold my hand, sister?”

Tears ran unchecked down Debbie’s face. “I will always hold your hand.”

The two old sisters held hands, faced a few nurses and some patients in wheelchairs, and said together, “God loved us and sent his son.”

The nurse led them in a few carols, and then the Christmas program 2024 was over.

“I’m tired, sister,” Gertie said. “Are you tired?”

“A little,” Debbie said. “We’ll help you get back to bed.”

Debbie kissed her sleeping sister and walked down the hall. The nurse stopped her. “You know this sometimes happens; patients who haven’t spoken in years talk again at the…”

Debbie nodded and hugged the nurse who’d become a friend over the years. “Don’t say the end. For Gertie it will be the beginning. Because God loved us and sent his son.”

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

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: 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

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Hear the Bells Ring

by Donna Poole

The old country church was tired. But it was a good kind of tired, the kind you feel at the end of the day when you know you’ve done your best, even if your best isn’t as good as someone else’s mediocre, and you go to sleep contented.

When you love someone, you always wish you had something better to give. Sometimes the old church felt like the old man who’d been married to his beloved wife for fifty years and had no money to buy her a gift. So, on Christmas morning, he sat empty handed next to the decorated cedar tree he’d cut from his field, tears running down his face, head bowed, work calloused hands clasped between his knees.

Compared to the big churches, what did this little church have to give? It well remembered a guest speaker who’d stood behind its pulpit years ago talking about church growth. “If you want a church that’s going to grow,” he’d said, “three things matter. Location, location, location.”

The white frame building had sighed and slumped a bit on its concrete frame. Location? It stood at the corner of two dirt roads surrounded by fields, corn one year, beans the next. No busy freeway passed withing miles of it. Tractors rumbled slowly by; Amish wagons with the brisk clip clop of horses passed, and sometimes a teen on a four-wheeler zoomed up a dust cloud.

It had long ago given up its dream of becoming a huge church to give glory to the one it loved most, the Lord Jesus. But the last two weekends had been special.

On a Sunday after church the people had piled into the new fellowship hall for a Christmas party. The old country church had never thought it would see the day it would have an addition to hold that much love, laughter and food. It was a good day, a very good day.

The very next day the old church was full again, but not for a party. This time there were tears mingled with laughter, sobs with songs. The people were celebrating the life of a woman who had come to the church for well over half a century. The service was a gift to her memory, a gift to her family, and a gift to the one the old country church loved most, the Lord Jesus.

At the end of the service a little girl who’d had a special friendship with the women who’d died went to the back with her big brother to ring the church bell. “We’ll have a minute of silence,” the pastor said. “Listen to the bell and think of Judy.”

How many times through the years has the old church bell rung out over farms and fields with news happy and sad always calling people to remember the two things easiest to forget, the shortness of time, and the length of eternity?

After the memorial service the people once again piled into the new fellowship hall where the hospitality committee, with the help of the other church ladies, had organized a wonderful meal for the grieving family and friends.

“This is the first time we’ve been able to have a funeral dinner of this size at our church,” the pastor’s wife said to the women’s daughters. “I’m so grateful for this addition. I thank the Lord.”

“I do too,” one daughter said.

“Remember when the church was so small we didn’t even have bathrooms, only an outhouse?” another daughter asked.

They all laughed. The pastor’s wife said, “Yes, and none of you kids had to use the outhouse when it was cold or rainy. It was a miracle every winter! But come spring, every kid in the church had to go out to the outhouse at least once!”

The old church heard and smiled. It too remembered the day of no inside plumbing, then just one bathroom, the one the pastor’s wife had wanted to cross stitch a sign for, “One for all, and all for one.” Now there were two bathrooms, soon to be four. God was good. The church was happy, not because it was getting city fancier, but because it could better serve the one it loved most, the Lord Jesus. When the last person left the funeral dinner, the old church thought it heard the Lord whisper, “Thank you for loving my people.”

Then came the next Sunday and the Christmas program. There weren’t many children who attended the little church, but the ladies in charge of the program came up with a wonderful one. The small choir sounded good to the people in the pews and to the old church. And the two senior citizen angels did a wonderful job. The old church loved hearing them read a poem and the Scripture. It felt happy when the angel called out with joy, “Glory to God in the highest!”

The old church wanted that more than anything. Glory to God in the highest.

Yes, it had been a busy couple of weekends, and the old church was tired. A good tired. It would rest now. Next Sunday would be one of its favorite services of the year, the candlelight service, where everyone who wanted to participate would sing, or play an instrument, or read a poem, or a story. It hoped Carole would feel well enough to be there and read, “A Cup of Christmas Tea.” That was tradition.

No, the little church couldn’t offer the Lord Jesus big cantatas or huge programs, but it could give itself, and that it did well. Before it fell asleep, the little church remembered the end of the story about the old man who’d been married half a century and had no gift to give his wife.

She’d come out of their bedroom, wiping sleep from her eyes, and hugged him. “Are you crying, dear?” she’d asked, looking worried. He never cried.

“I don’t have a gift for you,” he’d said, head still bowed.

She’d lifted his chin and looked into his eyes. He’d seen the surprise there. “Why, honey, you’ve given me the best gift of all, your love. I don’t want anything else.”

And he’d known it was true. If she only wanted love, he had plenty of that to give, more every year.

And the little church on the corner of two dirt roads had love to give in abundance to the one it loved the most, the Lord Jesus. It would be its Christmas gift to him, every day of the year. Ring out that news, old bell, ring! Ring out on that corner until Jesus comes again!

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

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: 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

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A Cobweb in the Manger

by Donna Poole

In the darkness on the hillsides a few miles from Bethlehem shepherds drew their cloaks closer against the chill, watched over their sheep, and rubbed away the cobwebs of sleep. No intruder, human or beast, would carry off an animal while they stood guard. Their eyes, accustomed to darkness, could notice even a flickering shadow of movement, and they looked in all directions, except up. And up is where the invasion came from, one that would forever change their lives.

A sudden flash brighter than lightning streaked the sky, and those tough outdoorsmen cowered in terror when an angel’s voice thundered above them.

“And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.”

If the thunder of one angel voice wasn’t enough, the sky then reverberated with the sound of thousands of them shouting together. “And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

But in the manger, where God had invaded earth in the form of a helpless baby, there was no thunder of angels. All was quiet. Mary’s groans had ended; the cry baby Jesus uttered at birth was now silent. All creation held its breath in the stillness of that winter’s night. What did baby Jesus see in that holy silence?

He saw the loving eyes of his young mother, the virgin Mary. He saw the face of the man he would cherish as his earthly father, Joseph. And let’s imagine for a moment, because it’s entirely possible, that he saw a cobweb, because, as we all know, cobwebs are everywhere.

“Annetta, would you like me to come over and help you clean your house before garden club meeting?”

“No thank you, Anna Mae. I guess I’m not so old yet I can’t clean my own house!”

“Okay, but last year when we had garden club meeting at your house, we all sat there staring at a big cobweb dangling from the ceiling.”

That’s human nature, isn’t it? Have your house 99.9 percent clean and people notice the cobweb.

Buy a Christmas tree thirty times without a mouse in it, but you’ll always remember the tree that did have one.

Be an amazing cook, good enough to rival Betty Crocker, and serve 1,000 perfect meals to friends and family. What will they remember and laugh about? The time you forgot to put that cup of sugar in a peach pie.

Have a perfectly oval face, flawless skin the envy of every night cream ever invented, and lashes that make Mabeline drool, and what will people notice? The one mole on your chinny chin chin.

Preach model sermons for fifty years and what will your congregation remember? They will snicker and snort about the Mother’s Day sermon when you intended to invite people to become Christians but instead said, “I sincerely hope if any of you are not mothers you will become one before you leave this place.”

Or, perhaps, be like the beautiful little girl with long blonde hair who came to church with a lovely dress and shining shoes, but the only thing anyone saw was the ice cream cone somehow stuck in her pony tail and unnoticed by her mother.

You might be Oliver who did not fall into his grandparents’ Christmas tree ten years but did for two years in a row when he was a toddler, and that’s the story that gets retold every Christmas.

Chuckles aside; what about the person who lives a wonderful life? They are a good partner, co-worker, neighbor, volunteer, parent, but in a moment of weakness they “sin a big sin.” What sin? It doesn’t matter, does it? It might be embezzlement, or infidelity, or any one of the sins that ruin reputations forever. That sin becomes the cobweb in the room; it’s all people see.

It’s not fair, is it? But it’s human nature. We may forgive, but we never truly forget.

Our wonderful, amazing, God of all grace does though. He says, “Your sins will I remember no more.”

How can a holy God forgive sin and not betray his own righteous nature? It has everything to do with that baby in the manger.

The angels promised peace and good will toward men, but it cost Jesus everything to give that to us. He lived a sinless life despite facing every temptation we face. He gave up everything to serve others and to show men the face of God the Father. And then, in a supreme act of sacrifice, he died on the cross…for us. The cross was far more than physical torture, though that’s beyond our wildest imaginations. On the cross Jesus took into his own heart every sin ever committed, felt the horrible pain and guilt of them, and, this part is the most astonishing of all to me, he made them not to be. That’s why a holy God can forgive a sinner who repents of sin and trusts in what Jesus did.

Let’s travel from the cross back to the manger. Cobweb? What cobweb? There’s not even one in sight. It’s truly a Merry Christmas, everyone.  

And Oliver, you’re a big boy now, and quite unlikely to fall into the Christmas tree this year. But if you do, your grandma says it’s 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

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

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: 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

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Listen for the Whisper

by Donna Poole

I love the hustle and bustle sounds of the season, little bells jingling on street corners, big bells chiming in church steeples, people laughing and talking, and music everywhere. I never tire of Christmas music!

I got a text from one of my grown children the other day. “I heard ‘Silver Bells’ and it made me miss you. It’s one of your favorites, right?”

Sometimes I sing my favorite Christmas songs, and then someone in my family finds some “real” Christmas music to play that isn’t off key, too loud, and monotone.

I get as excited as a child when I hear, “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.” I bow my head and worship to the beautiful strains of “O Holy Night.”

Sometimes the memory of a granddaughter’s version of “What Child is This” sings itself in my mind, and I chuckle. She was little and didn’t know all the words, so she made up her own. Her song went like this: “Your stinkin’ lambs and your stinkin’ goats, and I will get lots of pr-e-sents.” Like any country kid, she knew the manger would have been smelly.

Not only do I like the music, I like the organizing and the shopping, the rushing and the cleaning, the cooking and the wrapping—and we do a lot of it. There are twenty-five just in our immediate family, and we have several gatherings during the holiday season. It began on Thanksgiving Day when relatives from near and far joined us for a meal of turkey and ham and love and laughter. Sunday we’ll feed our church family in our fellowship hall after church; it’s our way of saying, “Merry Christmas! We love you, and we thank you for your love and kindness to us all year.” Next comes family Christmas, when hopefully all our children and grandchildren will gather for a day. Last, on Christmas Day, we’ll celebrate with just the four of us who live here.

I even like the noise in our small kitchen when we squeeze around each other to cook, bake, load and unload the dishwasher, and handwash dishes to keep up with the big bake-a-thons we do to feed a crowd.

People with normal brains might be able to do all this without lists, but lists keep me sane. One notebook holds menus and grocery lists for the gatherings. The Christmas notebook categorizes gifts and the items going into stockings. I have several Christmas notebooks; this one I started in 2011. I like the sound of the yellowing pages flipping until I get to 2024 and find the name I’m searching for.

John and I wrap gifts together. I like to hear his box cutter slicing through the wrapping paper, the tape as we rip it off the roll, and the complaint the tags make when we pull them loose from their sticky paper.

After not being allowed in stores for several years because I was too immunocompromised from cancer treatments, I even like hearing the sound of squeaky shopping cart wheels, and tired shoppers correcting cranky children.  

But sometimes, perhaps because I was away from crowds for so long, the noise can be overwhelming. I feel like the old man in the children’s book, Too Much Noise. And that’s when I pause and listen for it, and when I hear it, I’m amazed at the wonder of it all.

In the midst of the busyness of life, I listen for the “whispered sound of sandaled feet.” I read that phrase somewhere and love it. It’s Jesus’ birthday we’re celebrating, after all, and we can hear him everywhere this season, if we get quiet enough to listen. Someone, not me, paid for a friend’s meal in a restaurant the other day. I heard about a nurse in a hospital being kind to someone I’m praying for. Someone said, “Human love is Jesus showing his hands.” In every kindness I hear the echo of his heart.

I don’t like the sounds of sorrow; who does? Yet even in tears we can hear whispers of our Lord’s comfort. A friend of fifty years went to heaven last week, and her last mile was not easy for her or for her family. But there were more than tears around that hospital bed; there were hymns played and sung, sweet memories rehearsed, love given and received. Our church family drew close, supporting them with food, love, and prayer. Now they are planning a funeral meal and hoping it will bring some comfort. A little girl made a sympathy card for the bereaved husband. She drew a picture of him and his wife holding hands. She printed. “You will be okay. We love you. Your church family loves you.” He treasures the card. He hasn’t said so, but I know what he hears. He hears the whispered sound of sandaled feet.

In the twinkling lights that add a glow to dark December nights, we can hear Jesus say, “I am the Light of the world, and Light will always overcome darkness.”

Light and darkness. Darkness and light. How dark the world would be if Jesus hadn’t come to carve out a path home to the Father! A supernaturally bright star announced his birth to wise men. Angels appeared like flashes of lightning to shepherds in dark fields to tell them the Savior had been born. Jesus died on the cross with the horrifying darkness of our sin taken into his own heart. Even the sun hid its face for three hours. But three days later, Jesus rose victorious with the sunrise. I imagine it was the most beautiful sunrise of all time.

And what does God promise to those who believe Jesus died to destroy their sin and take them to heaven? I heard it again last night.

Last evening our power went out. In an instant darkness snuffed out light. Work came to a sudden stop. I couldn’t flip through the pages of my notebooks and try to figure out how I was going to get everything done in time for Sunday’s meal for all our friends at church. We couldn’t cook, or shop online, or wrap gifts. So, in that deep darkness, we went to bed early. As we always do, we listened to a proverb before we fell asleep. Half awake, I heard these words, “But the path of the just is as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day.” –Proverbs 4:18

The Christmas lights weren’t shining on our tree; there wasn’t a single star in the sky, but Christmas had never looked brighter. Because, in the windy darkness of a winter’s eve, I heard the whispered sound of sandaled feet, and they walked beside me on a path that will shine ever brighter until I get to the glory that’s heaven itself.

“Glory!” The angels thundered in the night to the shepherds. “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, good will toward men.”

And then they left, and their light faded from the sky. But that baby Jesus? He brought with him a light that the darkest night of earth can never dim.

God loved us and sent his son. Listen for that whisper and be amazed at the wonder of it all.

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

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: 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

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I Was a Carpenter

by Donna Poole

I never wanted to be a zebra. If that sounds odd, I’ll try to make it clear later.

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a pastor. Mom told me when I was a toddler I used to stand on a box, say, “Hum num one,” wave my hands in the air, and start singing. She finally figured out I was saying, “Hymn number one.” At out church the pastor was the song leader, and I was imitating him.

When I was about ten, I was standing in front of the mirror combing and recombing my hair.

“Bobby, what in the world are you doing?” Mom asked.

“I’m trying to make my hair look like Pastor Miller’s,” I said.

Other kids had sports heroes. My heroes were preachers. I know, I know. I was a strange kid.

I knew exactly what kind of church I wanted to pastor, too. When I grew up and went to seminary, my fellow students laughed when I told them I hoped God would send me to a little country church, maybe even one on a dirt road.

“Are you crazy, man?” My best friend, Joe, asked me. “Listen, Bobby. Aim higher. You go to a country church, and you aren’t going to have the time to dig into Greek the way you love doing here at school. You’re going to be doing everything else that needs done. You’ll be the guy pushing the broom on Saturdays to get the church cleaned for Sundays.”

“Yeah, Bobby.” Ted laughed. “Joe’s right. You’ll be the guy they call when the toilet overflows.”

“Oh, come on guys,” I said. “I don’t think it will be that bad. Country churches need pastors, and most seminary graduates aren’t interested.”

“True,” Ted said. “That’s because we want to get paid enough to eat something besides pork and beans and maybe even save up enough to retire someday.”

I didn’t say what I was thinking. What about Jesus’s command to go into all the world and preach the gospel? I don’t remember reading only go where they can pay you the big bucks.

Okay, so in retrospect, I can see where I felt a bit superior, maybe even condescending.

“What are you grinning about?” Joe asked.

“Oh, nothing,” I replied.

But I was remembering a joke I’d heard. “The first rule of the condescending club is kind of complex, and I don’t think you’d understand even if I explained it to you.”

I felt bad thinking that, but I still chuckled. The fact was, I was no better than they were. God called them to large churces, and they were good at what they did. And God gave me the desire of my heart. He sent me to my country church. It was even better than I hoped; it wasn’t just on one dirt road. It sat on the corner of two dirt roads. And Ted had been wrong. They didn’t call me when the toilet overflowed because they didn’t have indoor plumbing, just an outhouse. A deacon did, however, ask me to help him tip over the outhouse and get the bees out of it the first week I was there. I could picture Joe, and Ted, and the rest of the guys laughing as I turned the stink house over, especially when I got stung by a bee. I admit, seminary never prepared me for that. I could almost hear my friends’ voices.

Still happy about your country church, Bobby boy?

I was happy. Preaching to those people and loving them was what I’d been born to do, I was sure of it. I was still sure of it when a dog bit me when I was out calling. I never doubted it when I had to slide down a coal chute into a dark basement to rescue some children who’d been accidentally locked inside a house. Even lying flat on my back between piles of dog poop to fix a parishioner’s broken pipe—I knew I was where God wanted me to be. But seminary had never prepared me for most of it.

The guys had been right about one thing. If we’d had to eat only what we could afford from the salary the church paid me it would have been only pork and beans, and we did eat a lot of that. But in those early years, the people who attended church in that little white frame building didn’t have much, but they shared what they had. My family and I never lacked for fresh milk or eggs. Sometimes people would leave beef  in our car from a cow they’d butchered.

And Grandpa Finn—that’s what everyone in the church called him, sometimes left beautiful gifts in our car. He was a master carpenter. I think he might have been rich and famous in the city where people could have afforded to pay him what he was worth. He made a cookbook stand for my wife, a barn for our boys, a cradle for our little girl, and bookshelves for me. He framed our old fireplace and got it working. Grandpa Finn had no family, so my wife often invited him to come home for Sunday dinner. He didn’t say much but smiled a lot. He especially liked sitting in front of the fire after dinner during what he called the cozy season.

Our kids asked Grandpa Finn what the cozy season was. “It’s the cold ‘brr’ months,” he said. “You know, September, October, November, and December.”

Usually, when Grandpa Finn was putting on his hat to leave, he said, “Good sermon, preacher.”

That warmed my heart. I loved preaching. Holiday sermons were my favorite. I especially loved preaching the Thanksgiving ones. I remember my first Thanksgiving sermon. I preached on I Thessalonians 5:18: “In everything give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.”

I threw in a few quotes for good measure. John Miller said, “How happy a person is depends upon the depth of his gratitude.”

J.R. Miller wrote, “Somehow many people do not train themselves to see the glad things. There are a thousand times more things to make us glad than to make us sad.”

Those words are easy to say when you’re young and life has few problems. But years passed, and in twenty-five of them, sorrow and suffering came along many times and took me places I hadn’t planned to visit. I learned a hard truth. Real gratitude and joy don’t depend on easy circumstances; they depend on the presence of God.

Still, I wasn’t prepared to become a zebra, or for what it took from me. It started slowly. My legs got tired easily, and my eyes looked droopy. Sometimes it was hard to swallow. And then my voice got soft and hoarse. The hard of hearing people in my congregation were having trouble hearing me even with my mic turned up to just below screeching level.

The doctor ran tests and came up empty. She said, “They say in medical school when we hear the sound of hooves, think horses, not zebras. But I guess you’re a zebra. I’m not sure what’s wrong with you, but I think you might have myasthenia gravis. It’s a rare disease. I don’t have any other patients with it. It only affects 20 out of every 100,000 people in the United States.”

By then my voice was so nasal and quiet I had to ask twice before she could hear me. “Can it be treated? Can anything improve my voice so I can keep preaching?”

“I think so,” she said. “From what I’ve read, it’s treatable. I’m going to send you to a neurologist who specializes in MG.”

The specialist had high hopes treatment would restore my preaching voice, but it didn’t. Soon, I could only whisper. The Sunday I had to resign, tears ran down my face. Strangely enough, it was Thanksgiving Sunday. People crowded into the front pews to hear what I had to say.

I preached my first Thanksgiving sermon all over again. I Thessalonians 5:18: “In everything give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.”

“We can be thankful today,” I whispered, “that God is still God. He’s not surprised by this, though frankly I am. We can be thankful that Jesus who died for us will help us face whatever we have to endure in this life. We can be grateful he will be with us in life and in death. Where do we go from here? I don’t know. You’ll have to find a new pastor, and I will pray for you and help you. I’ll have to find a new job, and I don’t know how to do anything but preach.”

Grandpa Finn stood. “I’ve been praying for a long time for an apprentice. I have too much work, and I’m old. I have no one to leave my business to. Would you come work for me, Pastor?”

The seminar never prepared me to get a job offer from the pulpit. I looked at my wife. She grinned and nodded. I looked at my kids. “Go for it, Daddy!” the youngest hollered.

“What if I stink at it?” I asked Grandpa Finn. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a preacher who was a good carpenter.”

“Don’t you?” he asked.

Everyone laughed. Except me. I didn’t get it.

“He means Jesus, Daddy!” My same kid hollered again.

And so, I gratefully accepted the job. When I see the Lord and give an account of my life, I hope to say, “I was a preacher. And I was a carpenter. And I did my best at both. In all seasons.”

And then I hope I hear that Master Preacher Carpenter say, “Well done.”

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

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: 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

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Once Upon a Sunday

by Donna Poole

Even the tiny, white frame building seemed to shiver, and a few more flakes of paint drifted away in the north wind. The panes in the stained-glass windows rattled. It was an unusually cold Sunday for the middle of November in Southern Michigan. Inside the building the handful of people waiting for the service to start huddled around the large, square floor register. Underneath it, the old furnace moaned and groaned, trying to keep out the cold.

“I guess this is everyone who’s coming,” the young pastor called from behind the pulpit. “Might as well find a seat, and we’ll get started.”

Laughing and talking, the people slowly left the warmth of the register and moved to one of the six small pews on each side of the auditorium. There was plenty of room left after everyone had found a seat. The piano player rubbed numb hands together and struck the opening chords of the Doxology. Everyone stood. The young pastor raised a hand to lead the singing, and the congregation sang loudly, “Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow; Praise Him, all creatures here below; Praise Him above, ye heav’ny host; Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

Only one person sang the long, drawn-out “Amen.” It was Berta, a middle-aged woman with the mannerisms of a child.

“You may be seated,” the young pastor said. People tried not to smile. The pastor was new and hadn’t yet lost his formality or learned country ways. Everyone knew you sat after the Doxology; they didn’t need to be told. They sat. Except Berta. Noticing the four front pews on each side were empty, she walked up to the first one on the left-hand side and sat.

“I don’t want you to feel lonely up here all by yourself,” she said to the pastor.

“Thank you, Miss Williams,” he said in an even more formal tone.

Berta laughed loudly and slapped her knee. “No one don’t never call me that. I’m Berta. Say it right.”

Now people were grinning. “Alright then. Thank you, Berta.”

The ushers came forward to take the offering. They started at the back and when they got to the front pew Berta stood, as she often did, put in a five, and made change. It took her a long time to count out four ones. This week, there were mostly bigger bills in the plate, and she protested loudly.

“I can’t afford to give no more than a buck, and there’s only three ones in here for me to take out!”

“It’s okay, Berta,” the usher said quietly. “I got you.” He pulled out his own wallet and gave her a dollar. Satisfied, she sat down.

The pastor groaned. He’d grown up in the city and had always attended large, formal churches, even when he’d been in seminary. Why had God called him to this country church?

Don’t expect me to stay here long, Lord. I don’t think these people are capable of learning anything I have to teach. I’m going to resign on the first of the year.

The song service continued enthusiastically. This was the part of the service everyone enjoyed. When it was finished, the piano player closed the lid to the old black piano with a bang and found her seat in one of the back pews.

“Please, ladies, gentlemen, and children,” the pastor said, “turn in your Bibles to the book of Hebrews.”

“We don’t got no children,” Berta said. “Bobby’s the only kid here today, and he’s ‘most twelve years old.”

The pastor sighed. “Thank you, Berta. Now, congregation, you doubtless remember the book of Hebrews was originally written in Greek for a Greek-speaking people. We can understand it better if we know a little Greek ourselves. So, let’s review some words we learned from the book of Hebrews last Sunday.”

He was a high-tech guy himself, but this church had nothing electronic, so he’d had to resort to old school. He wheeled out the large chalk board with the Greek words and their English translations written on it.  

Farmer Brown suddenly noticed how itchy his overalls were. It took Berta about five minutes to start snoring, and she snored like a trucker who’d been driving for ten hours longer than the legal eleven hours allowed.

Sallie loved the Lord and supported the new young preacher and tried to pay attention, but all she could think of was how sore her butt was and why they didn’t have pew cushions like the church in town.

A sudden gust of wind blew the door open, and a mangy mut staggered in, whining and shivering.

“Someone, remove that dog from the premises at once!” the young pastor thundered.

No one moved.

The pastor eyed the dog. He was afraid of dogs, and everyone knew it. It wasn’t a good quality for a country pastor to have, because every farmhouse seemed to have a dog or two. He sighed and remembered his dear, departed mother’s oft repeated advice, “If you want a job done right, do it yourself.”

He stepped down from the pulpit and made his way toward the dog. Great. Not even a collar. How am I supposed to get ahold of this thing? Lord, give me courage.

He reached out a hand, expecting a snarl and a bite, but the dog looked at him with big brown eyes and licked his hand.

“Come on, boy,” the pastor said, patting his knee and heading for the open door, shivering himself as he felt the north wind blowing through it. To his surprise, the dog slowly heaved himself to his feet and staggered after him. This was going to be easier than he’d thought.

“Wait!” Bobby jumped up from his pew. “Preacher, I can see all his ribs! That dog is half starved. You can’t send him back outside. What would Jesus do?”

The young pastor stared down at the dog, and it leaned into his leg panting for breath. He was surprised to see his hand reach down and pet the dog’s head. His voice sounded husky as he asked, “Well, I don’t exactly know what Jesus would do. Do any of you have some ideas?”

“I suppose Jesus might start by shutting that door. It’s freezing in here,” a deacon called out.

Everyone laughed, even the preacher, and he and the dog headed back to the big floor register.

“I think Jesus would feed him,” Bobby said. “And I brought a lunch, because sometimes you talk so long about Greek words that don’t mean anything to me my stomach starts making noises.”

“Is that so?” The young pastor laughed. “Well, I’m only half-way done with my long sermon, so you better get out that lunch and share it with this poor, hungry creature.”

The dog ate more of the lunch than Bobby did, and the pastor watched, grinning. Then he went back to the pulpit, pushed the blackboard out of the way, and told the story about how Jesus fed five-thousand people and maybe a dog or two with a boy’s lunch. Farmer Brown forgot about how itchy his overalls were. Berta stayed awake.

When everyone had left, the pastor turned out the lights. He woke the dog who was still sleeping on the warm register. “Come on dog, let’s go home. I guess I’ll need a dog, since I’m going to be here awhile longer than I thought. These people have a lot to teach me. I just hope and pray I’m capable of learning.”

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

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: 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

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The Day After the Election

by Donna Poole

The old lady sat in her favorite spot and rocked slowly. Creak, creak. Creak, creak. The porch swing was almost as worn as she was. She looked across the yard to the garden and smiled in amazement.

Pink, yellow, and white snapdragons still in bloom on November 6th in Michigan? Never in my ninety years have I seen it so. Perhaps it’s a sign of hope, and hope is something we can slowly use in this broken, divided country of ours.

She placed a hand over her heart and bowed her head in prayer, because she was many things, and deeply patriotic was one of them. A tear traced its way down her wrinkled cheeks. She whispered a few words, then looked up at her favorite maple tree. The few leaves left on it trembled in the soft southern breeze. It was unusually warm; yesterday, election day, had broken records in many ways, and the weather was one of them. It had been the warmest in history.

A record voter turnout had determined the election result. Now half the country was cheering and the other half mourning. Half felt the nation was saved; the other half felt it was doomed. And the old lady, what did she feel? She was too old to feel the country was either saved or doomed; she’d lived through too many elections. She was just sad the election had left families furious with each other and friendships shattered.

She hadn’t voted.

About a month earlier she’d found her absentee ballot in the kitchen trash. Thinking it was an oversight, she’d reached in to take it out, gingerly avoiding the brown banana peel next to it.

“Leave that there, Mom. Please.”

Her daughter’s voice sounded sharper than usual.

“Why, Patricia?”

“David and I discussed it. You know you aren’t yourself anymore. You forget your pills. You almost wore your slippers to church. You don’t remember the names of some of the grandkids. You’ve burned up two tea kettles. And remember the morning I found you eating mustard instead of peanut butter on your toast?”

Thoughts came to the old lady’s mind. You forget your pills too, Patricia. I don’t think God would have cared if I’d worn slippers to church. I might remember the names of the grandkids if I saw them more often. And I ate mustard on my toast on purpose. I was missing your dad terribly that day, and that’s what he always ate on his toast when we were young, before any of you kids were born.

But the tea kettles? She didn’t have a good answer for that, so she didn’t say anything at all. She did what she often did, walked quietly to her room and thanked God that Patricia and David were kind enough to give her a home. Most of the time they lived together in love and laughter, and when they didn’t, the old lady backed away.

She overheard a conversation that evening.

“Mom found her absentee ballot in the trash today.”

“So, what happened? Fireworks?”

“No, David. She didn’t say anything. I don’t think she cares about politics anymore.”

But Patricia was wrong. She did care about politics. She’d been researching the two main candidates for weeks, and she kept right on doing it. And she prayed. She prayed for the election as much as she did for her family. And that was a lot.

The old lady set a timer on her phone, so she’d remember her pills. On Saturday nights she sat a pair of shoes next to her slippers, so she’d remember to wear them to church. She made a list of all the grandchildren’s names and rehearsed it several times a day. She stopped making tea. But she forgot other things; it seemed she forgot something new each week. Patricia caught her putting salt instead of sugar on her cereal. But she was trying. Sometimes she felt like her mind was floating away like the clouds in the sky.

She’d stayed up late watching the election results on the television in her room until Patricia had come in.

“Mom, you need to shut that television off and go to sleep. You know you have more trouble forgetting things when you’re too tired.”

She’d frowned. “Do I? I hadn’t remembered that. I’ll go to sleep then.”

The old lady had gone to sleep, but she’d awoken several times in the night, checked the election results, and prayed.

And now she was sitting on the porch swing. Creak, creak. Creak, creak.

Patricia came out, sat next to her, and tucked the quilt closer around her.

“Are you warm enough, Mom?”

She smiled and nodded.

“I hope you don’t feel too bad about not voting this year.”

“That’s okay, honey. I did something just as important. I prayed.”

“Who did you pray would win?”

“Oh, I didn’t pray either of them would win. I just prayed for God’s will.”

“I’m curious, Mom. Which one would you have voted for?”

“Neither. I didn’t like either of them well enough to vote for them.”

“What!” Patricia started laughing.

“That’s right. That’s why I just prayed for God’s will. And now I’m asking God to heal our divided country. But I’m warning you, honey. They give me someone I like four years from now, and you try to throw away my ballot, you’re going to get some fight from me. And why are you laughing?”

Patricia gasped for breath. “Mom, I’m making you a doctor’s appointment. I do think you have memory problems, and maybe some medicine can help. But I was wrong. I don’t think you have Alzheimer’s. I think maybe you think more clearly than a lot of people in this country. Now, let’s go inside, okay?”

“You go in. I’ll come in a few minutes.”

The old lady sat in her favorite spot and rocked slowly. Creak, creak. Creak, creak. The porch swing was almost as worn as she was. She looked across the yard to the garden and smiled in amazement.

Pink, yellow, and white snapdragons still in bloom on November 6th in Michigan? Never in my ninety years have I seen it so. Perhaps it’s a sign of hope, and hope is something we can slowly use in this broken, divided country of ours.

She placed a hand over her heart and bowed her head in prayer, because she was many things, and deeply patriotic was one of them.

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

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: 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

Photo Credit: John Poole

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The Tale of the Ancient Tree

by Donna Poole

I’m good at a few things, mediocre at most things, and I really stink at several things. Saying goodbye is one thing I’m horrible at, and that’s why I sympathize with the tale of the old tree. He’s been around since the whisper of Potawatomi moccasins rustled through the grass beneath his branches, but…. Well, I should let him tell you his own story. He can say it much better than I. Now, if I can just keep from interrupting. That’s another thing I’d get an F in if this were report card day.

Come with me to the old tree. It isn’t hard to find. See that? The old maple towers above any other tree in the area. It’s a beauty in the fall. Even with that shelf fungus growing on its side, a sure sign of decay within, its leaves turn a glorious orange that rivals the best autumn sunsets. Only a few leaves still cling to its branches now; the rest are piled in glorious abundance beneath. It’s an unusually warm day for late October in Michigan. You’ll be cozy sitting here under the tree with me. Lean your back against his trunk and listen well. He speaks softly.

***

Welcome, friends. Do you have time to listen to the ramblings of an old man? I’m honored you want to hear my story. Please, don’t look so alarmed. That creaking you hear doesn’t mean I’m going to fall. I will some decade soon, but not today. Let my sounds, the blue of the sky, the winds from the south, and the warm sun on your face soothe you as you listen, because all of these things are part of my story. It’s a story of change, and change is in the air. Just a week ago there was a huge spike of bird migration during the night while the people in the house slept. Over 400,000,000 birds flew over the Great Lakes, and some passed over me. I could hear their nocturnal flight calls, telling each other their position and sending the message, “Hurry, hurry. Old man winter is coming.”

How do they know? Scientists say instinct; theologians say God tells them. I say what is instinct but the whisper of the Creator in the ears of the creature. I hear the whisper myself; I’ve heard it for many years, especially in the spring when it’s time for new leaves and in the fall when it’s time for me to let my leaves shine in a short season of beauty before they drop and die. Autumn is melancholy time, a time for poets to dip pens in tears and write beautiful words like, “The trees are about to show us how lovely it is to let things go.”

Lovely? Yes. The way of all nature. Yes. But so very hard. I’ve seen so many goodbyes in my time.

I don’t know how long I’ve stood here, but I was growing long before this gravel road existed. Not far to my south the Potawatomi traveled a simple footpath now called Squawfield Road, and some of them stopped here and rested in my shade. They were kind to the first settlers in the region and never a threat. It was a sad day in November of 1840 when the government forced Chief Baw Beese and his gentle tribe to leave Michigan and go to Kansas. The settlers lined the road to say goodbye, many of them in tears. A marker commemorating the Potawatomi stands just a few miles from where I do.   

I recall the first house built near me. A family was heading farther west and stopped to camp here for the night. In the morning, I heard the wife say, “Husband, you travel on if you want to, but I’m staying right here.” And so. the husband built a small house, and stay they did. He built a barn too and became a farmer. Their children climbed my branches and spent happy hours playing in my shade. Many years later, the wife noticed horses pulling wagons of lumber up over the barn hill. That’s when she discovered her husband had decided to build a bigger house just to the north of the little one, and she was not pleased. When the big house was finished, I saw her carrying linens and kitchen ware up over the barn hill from the little house to the big one, and I saw tears running down her face. She’d spent many happy years in the little house, and goodbyes are not easy.

Her son and his wife moved into the little house. They had two children of their own and I lost count of how many foster children they cared for. I loved having so many happy children playing nearby.

I’ve seen so many changes. I remember when the Ford Model Ts began replacing horses and wagons. One old farmer refused to buy one. The neighbors teased him. When he plodded by with his horses and wagon, they’d laugh and holler, “Get a truck!”

One spring torrential rain turned the dirt roads to mud and all those Model Ts got stuck. The old farmer came along with his horses and pulled each one out, grinned, and said, “Get a horse!”

When the old folks in the big house died, I wept right along with the family. It’s not easy saying goodbye.

The big house didn’t stay empty for long. The son and his wife moved into it. The little house sat empty for a time. A tenant farmer lived there for a while. Once, it even housed chickens.

Then one summer, fifty years ago, a young couple with a little girl moved into the house. I knew what was happening; my leaves don’t miss many whispers. A small country church down at the corners had hired a new pastor and they were renting this house for him to use as a parsonage. I watched as that family grew to six, and the couple in the big house grew old. I was growing older too, and bigger. Children could no longer reach my branches to climb them.

And then the old couple in the big house died, and I cried again. They were good people. They’d helped many children, and they’d cared for the land.

Once again people carried household belongings up over the barn hill from the little house to the big one. A kind neighbor had bought the house and had given it to the pastor and his family. If you think there are no good people left in the world, you should stand where I’ve stood for a few hundred years and hear the things I’ve heard.

By the time the pastor and his family moved into the big house two of the four children were already in college and one was getting ready to graduate from high school, but there was still one young child. If you haven’t guessed by now, I love children. This little girl was six years old, and she declared I was her tree. She couldn’t climb me, but one day she did climb a nearby tree and got stuck.

She hollered for her parents to come help her, but they were inside and didn’t hear. The farmer who had moved into the little house was outside, and he came and helped her out of the tree. She was embarrassed to need help and furious with her parents for not hearing her. It’s almost thirty years later, and I think she’s still a little upset with them.

When the college children came home to visit and left again, I watched the mom and dad stand outside and wave goodbye until the car taillights disappeared down the road. Goodbye is hard.

The parents grew older long before they expected to, and I can tell they are still having a hard time adjusting to it. Sometimes now the mom needs help getting into the house. For several years cancer and its brutal treatments left her unable to do many things, and her youngest daughter and her son-in-law took over. That same daughter is a photographer, and she loves taking photos of me. She still says I’m her tree.

When the adult kids come home now, they bring a troop of grandchildren with them, fifteen at last count. Sometimes the younger ones play outside, and I love hearing the laughter.

When their family leaves, the mom and dad still follow them outside and wave until the taillights are out of sight. They have many years of practice saying goodbye, but it doesn’t seem to get any easier. I see tears on their faces sometimes, and the mom whispers, “Via Con Dios, go with God.” I expect I will still be here when the pastor and his wife go to be with God, and I will once again shed tears with the family.

 Who will live in the big house next? Will I still be here? A maple tree lives 150-300 years. I can feel a change coming, a coldness in my rings. The third child born to the pastor and his wife had a favorite book when he was a little boy. It was titled, “The Dead Tree.” It told how a tree fell, became a home, sheltering small wild things, and eventually crumbled away, enriching the earth. I’d like to think that would happen to me, but since I’m in someone’s yard, I suppose when I fall, I’ll be chopped up and hauled away. I hope I become firewood and warm someone’s home, useful to the last ember. And I hope someone feels a little sad when I’m gone.

Thank you for listening to my story. Perhaps you can tell it to your children, the story of an old tree who lived when the only sound was the whisper of moccasins, who saw the first roads, cars, trucks and tractors, the first phone and electric wires, the first satellite dishes, and through it all did what God made him to do. He gave shade to all who needed it and beauty to all who would look. And every day his branches pointed high to the Creator, higher than any of the other trees around. And he knew that there was one little girl who never stopped loving him, not even when she grew up.

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

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: 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

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

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A Parable of Ewes

by Donna Poole

Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, two ewes were the best of friends. Betty and Rose, their rams, and little lambs enjoyed the land of the Good Shepherd together. Their lambs ran and played in the green pastures while the parents talked around campfires and sat beside still waters. Friendship grew into family, and soon, you could hardly distinguish one family from another.

Their friendship became a little sanctuary from the storms of life. When one walked through shadows, they never walked alone. Their friends were there for them. They ate simple meals at rough picnic tables. Their cups ran over with joy. Have you ever heard sheep laugh? No? Too bad. It’s a memorable sound.  

Goodness and mercy followed them, and they expected to walk together on earth until they lived in the house of the Lord forever.

But something ominous was stalking the friendship. Something with yellow eyes, big teeth, and a long red tongue with saliva dripping from it. The big bad wolf was lurking, because, you know, he always is, whispering in ears, snapping at heels. Sadly, one day something that hurt like a sword divided the two ewes. The something doesn’t matter to this tale, nor does who was at fault, because when there is discord, there is seldom one ewe to blame.

Like they say, “It takes two to tango.” In 1952 Al Hofman and Dick Manning Wrote “Takes Two to Tango,” and singer Pearl Bailey made it popular that same year.

“You can sail in a ship by yourself,

Take a nap or a nip by yourself.

You can get into debt on your own.

There are lots of things that you can do alone.

(But it)

Takes two to tango.”

President Reagan was talking about Russian American relations in a 1982 news conference and saying the Russians needed to put actions to their words if they wanted to ease hostilities. He said, “It takes two to tango.”

The international media loved the phrase and spread it widely. It’s mostly used in a negative connotation.

It takes two to make a friendship, but it also takes two to end it. Hard words were said. They needed to be heard, but there were tears. The long-time friendship between the ewes ended.

A chilly breeze blew over the meadow. The still waters froze. Coolness and strained conversation replaced love and easy laughter, and friendship was no longer a little sanctuary from the storms of life. They still loved each other, but it was awkward. Avoidance became the name of the game.

A mysterious fence made of field stones grew ever higher between the two ewe families, and each was tempted to blame the other, until they realized it was a silly blame. Sheep can’t pile up rock fences; they don’t have hands. They saw dark shadows flit by the fence and heard gleeful howls at night. They shivered in the cold. They missed the warmth their friendship had once offered.

All the while the Good Shepherd had been looking out for them. He knew that far more dangerous than the wolf lurking without was the enemy waiting to pounce within. Bitterness is always ready to replace sorrow, and the root of bitterness chokes out everything good and destroys any chance of reconciliation. Though apart from each other, he kept the friends close to himself, and can those in the heart of God ever really be separated?

One ewe, Betty, prayed desperately that the friendship would be restored. Is it me, Lord? Change what needs changing in me. God did change her, but he didn’t give her back her friends. She kept praying, but time passed, and hope is fragile. Hope didn’t disappear from her sky, but clouds hid it from view much of the time. Betty grew quieter. She wanted to hide away herself.

An even older ewe saw what was happening and talked to Betty often. “Go out, go out,” she said. “Make other friends. There’s a new family in the pasture; they seem nice.”

“Perhaps they are.” Betty spoke just above a whisper. “But I’m never going to get close enough to them to find out.”

The Good Shepherd taught Betty a lesson in those lonely years. The best thing to do with love is turn it to prayer, and she prayed with all the love in her heart for her lost friends.

Years passed; the lambs were almost fully grown. It’s not true that time heals all wounds, but it does make a heart tender that refuses to become bitter, and Betty did make new friends. The new family in the pasture became one of her nearest and dearest. And then one day the Good Shepherd sent another blessing. Though Betty was almost too old for lambs, he gave her a beautiful little one.

Not long after that, Betty and Rose found themselves together in the pasture. Rose looked at the beautiful lamb and the lamb smiled up at her. “Could I?” Rose asked. Betty nodded. And Rose nuzzled the baby.

The two ewes smiled at each other. Neither heard the sound of the rock wall tumbling down, but the Good Shepherd laughed as he kicked it apart. There’s no wall too high or too strong for him. The wolf snarled, threw up his head, gave one lone howl, and slunk into the shadows.

Betty and Rose and their rams are best of friends again. Shadows are deeper around them now, because they are old, and they know the final shadow, the shadow of death will someday come. But they will be there for each other, a little sanctuary from the storm. Their times by the still waters are few but sweeter than ever. They rejoice with a chastened grace. Once again, friends are like family, but you can tell where one family ends and the other begins, and that’s a good thing. Goodness and mercy follow them, and one day they will dwell in the house of the Lord, together, forever.

The ewes and rams have grown a bit wiser with their years. They’ve learned to watch out for dark shadows and listen for distant howls and to run quickly to the Good Shepherd. Because of that, their friendship is safe, and so are they.

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

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

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

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

This photo is from JasonAshley Thomson and is used by permission.

Posted on

Night of the Macabre, the Mundane, and the Miracles

by Donna Poole

It was a night of miracles. The first one happened when my daughter asked me to come outside at the late, almost turn into a pumpkin hour of eight o’clock, and I didn’t have on my pajamas. If circumstances permit, I’m usually ready for bed by seven-thirty. Blame my mom for that. It was a rule growing up; you must be in bed by seven-thirty even if you were a senior in high school. And lights out. No reading. She never knew I held my book up to the little window and read by the neighbor’s outside light.

But I digress. On that unforgettable night, Thursday, October 10, 2024, Kimmee begged me to come outside. Why? On Wednesday, a deep black hole on the sun known by the name of Sunspot #3848 lined itself directly up with the earth and let go with a massive flare. The coronal mass ejection erupted toward us at 2 million miles an hour. That sounds scary, doesn’t it? But all it means is this massive geomagnetic storm gave us here in southern Michigan an excellent chance to see something on many people’s bucket lists, the northern lights.

Kimmee has desperately wanted to see the northern lights ever since she was a little girl and missed a chance. Her brother came home from his second shift job, woke us up and asked, “Want to see the norther nights?”

Did we! We woke Kimmee. No, she definitely did not want to get out of bed, so we went without her. Later she was upset with herself and the rest of us. We should have forced her to get out of bed rather she wanted to or not, don’t you know. After that, she determined she would take every opportunity to see them and the rest of us would too, rather or not we were in our pajamas or in our beds, don’t you know.

That’s why I was outside shivering Thursday evening. Kimmee’s husband, Drew was outside too, and so was my husband, John. He had finished preaching at the nursing home service and Kimmee had captured him before he had a chance to get in the house.

Sometimes you can see the northern lights by taking a picture of them with your cell phone even when you can’t see them with your eyes, and that was what was happening. John and I decided to drive down to the next gravel road where it was open in all directions and look from there.

We were able to get pictures of the northern lights in every direction, not just north. But John kept asking, “Are you ready to go now?”

“No, I’m not ready to go! This is a night of miracles. Can’t you just enjoy it?”

I didn’t say it but I sighed inwardly. No romantic hand holding? No whispers of endearment under this sky sparkling with stars and cradling a sliver of moonlight? No “I love you” to make the pinks and greens we see in these photos fade next to the beauty of our love lasting for fifty-five years of marriage?

A voice rudely interrupted my thoughts. “Are you ready to go NOW?”

My inward sigh erupted outward. “Okay. Let’s go.”

We got home, and John dashed for the bathroom saying, “I haven’t been in here since five o’clock when I left for town!”

And then I laughed. Poor guy. No wonder he kept asking if I was ready to go. He was ready to go! Every day is miracles and mundane.

Pajamas on and cozy in bed it was lights out time, but around ten our phones lit up with calls and texts from Kimmee and Drew. “Come to the garden, please! You can see the lights with your eyes now, not just with your phones!”

I hesitated for a moment. I’m seventy-six not sixteen; would I get another opportunity to see the northern lights? On the other hand, the macabre creatures we call wolf spiders lurk in the garden and in the big yard between the house and the garden. You hear their gargantuan bodies rustling through leaves when they creepy-crawl at night. If you shine a flashlight, their demonic eyes gleam malevolent thoughts of your demise.

“John, will you come out to the garden with me?”

“No, thanks. I’m good right here.”

Goodbye forever, my dear John. You stay right there and be cozy, and leave me to brave the creatures of the night alone. I’m off now, to fulfil my quest, and perhaps slay a dragon or two, ere I reach the promised land of the garden, but you enjoy your slumber.

Our happy marriage of fifty-five years is partially due to the fact I don’t verbalize quite all my thoughts.

No sooner did the back door slam than Drew came running and grabbed my arm. “Dad coming?”

“No.”

“Too bad!”

“Yes.”

And then I stood next to Kimmee and Drew and watched the magic unfold. Hues of pink and green waved, folded, and spiked up into the sky. I knew I’d never have words to describe it. I thought of the Apostle John who saw the wonders of heaven and was told not to write them all in the book of Revelation. Perhaps he didn’t have the vocabulary. And I don’t have words for the northern lights. Magical, mysterious, wondrous, amazing? No. These won’t do.

I say with the Psalmist, “The heavens declare the glory of God.” –Psalm 19:1

I forgot all about the lurking wolf spiders and focused on the sky. Yes, that’s an allegory, friends. You connect the dots.

I wondered if the people I love in heaven were looking down at the display even as I was looking up. And then I realized that even such a stunning, breathtaking sight as I was seeing would pale compared to seeing the glory of God in person the way people in heaven do every day.

About an hour later I was curled up next to John getting warm and trying to say what I’d seen. I told him about a picture I’d gotten of Kimmee and Drew standing together, gazing up at the sky. I didn’t say I wished we had been together. We were together now; we loved each other more than the day we’d married, and that itself was a miracle.

“I should have come,” John said.

“It’s okay. Maybe there will be another time.”

And perhaps there will be. Because life is composed of the mundane and the miracles with a bit of the macabre thrown in, just to keep us looking up.

The end

Note: Photo credits: 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

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: 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