Author: gettingofftheinterstate

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The Carpenter’s Tears

by Donna Poole

“George, I’m leaving you a cup of soup on your work bench. Don’t let it get cold, honey.”

“Thank you, Forty-eight,” he murmured as he held the tape measure against the length of wood he was cutting.

Florence leaned against the door frame of his workshop and grinned. So today my name is Forty-eight. Yesterday, when his mouth was full of nails, I do believe he called me Hammer.

She never knew what name he might call her when he was preoccupied. Her least favorite was Sandpaper. For a few minutes, Florence watched her husband of fifty years. White curls, once blond, tumbled on his forehead. He had deep crinkles around his blue eyes from squinting at his work, and smile lines because he was seldom without a smile. And sure enough, a stub of a pencil was tucked behind his left ear. A piece of wood was never just a piece of wood to him. Had ever a man loved his work more or put more of himself into it? She doubted it. The one thing she did know was this. The soup was going to get cold.

She closed the door between the workshop and the kitchen and shivered. She’d take George a jacket, but she knew he wouldn’t wear it. He insisted he was never cold, though just the last few months she’d noticed he’d liked going to bed earlier than normal and he’d sighed deeply when he’d pulled up the thick quilt.

George never complained, but she knew his back and neck hurt constantly. Because of fifty years spent hunched over his workbench, he could no longer stand up straight. And his hands, once young and strong, were gnarled and twisted with arthritis. But still he kept working, and she understood why, perhaps better than he did himself. His work was a part of himself, and it was how he gave love. Sometimes she wished he’d retire, but she doubted he ever would.

Florence had known from the first year she’d married him that George was a genius. His original designs were breathtaking and his finished wood products flawless. But after a few years she’d given up trying to get him to climb higher in his craft. He was content to stay in their little town, working in his tiny shop, sharing his beautiful creations with friends, and barely eking out a living.

The door between the shop and the kitchen opened and that boyish grin, somehow not out of place on the wrinkled face, still managed to make her day.

“Florence, your soup is delicious, but it’s cold.”

“So, you do know my name isn’t Forty-eight?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Sit here at the table while I warm up your soup.”

George talked while he ate, almost letting his soup get cold again, as he waved his hands and drew with his pencil on his napkin showing her what the bookcase for Margaret and Vance was going to look like.

Florence raised an eyebrow and whistled when he told her the three kinds of wood he was using. “Pricy! Won’t that go over the estimate you gave them?”

He chuckled. “Way over, but I’ll never tell them. You know what good friends they are. And I bet they’ve got a piece of my furniture in every room of their house. I want this to be something extra special for them. Margaret didn’t seem too enthusiastic about the last piece they commissioned me to make. She acted, I don’t know, almost indifferent.”

And she’s seemed a little indifferent about our friendship lately too, but maybe I’m just imagining things. I’m not going to say that to George. It would break his heart.

“I don’t suppose she’ll ever guess how much time and love you put into your work, honey, or how much sleep you miss, or how you work through pain. Speaking of pain, how’s your thumb feeling?”

There was that boyish grin again. “Don’t know how I ever managed to saw my own thumb half-off.” He held up the thickly bandaged thumb and shook his head at it. “Well, can’t say as it feels good, yet, Florence, but it’s not going to stop me from getting this bookcase finished by the date I promised.”

He stood to go back to work, cleared his throat, and hesitated. “I don’t just do my jobs for people, you know.”

Florence nodded and smiled. This was hard for George. He expressed his feelings with actions, not words.

“I work for Jesus. I like it that he was a carpenter. Sometimes it feels like he’s working in the shop with me. I think I hear him say I did good. Silly, isn’t it?”

Flornce hugged him. “It’s not silly at all. I think it’s one of the sweetest things you’ve ever said.”

When the delivery day arrived, George acted like a kid going to a birthday party. He slicked back his white curls, not that they’d stay that way, and put on his best overalls, the ones with blue and white pin stripes. He asked Florence to step into his woodshop for a final inspection before Mike, the teenager from next door, helped him load the bookcase into his truck.

The maple, cherry, and mahogany gleamed with their simple finish, and the teak trim work at the top of each shelf was exquisite. Florence caught her breath, stood on tip toe, and kissed his cheek. “George, this might be your best work yet. I think it’s your masterpiece.”

He blushed. “I can’t wait to see their faces, especially Margaret’s. I expect she’ll have a long list of projects for me to work on next. Well, you ready, Mike?”

An hour later they returned, and George spoke barely above a whisper. “I think I’m getting sick, Florence. I gotta go to bed.”

She started to follow him, but Mike stopped her. “Wait. What should I do with the bookcase?”

“Didn’t you leave it with Margaret and Vance?”

“Naw, it was awful. That Margaret lady? She said she’s tired of George’s style of work, and she’s found a new carpenter she likes better. She met us out at the truck. Wouldn’t even let us onload the bookcase. I felt so bad for George. He didn’t say a word all the way home. I know his stuff is kind of old fashioned, but it’s beautiful. I don’t think there’s many people left who can do stuff with wood the way he does. When we got back here, he told me to leave the bookshelf in the truck, but we’re supposed to get freezing rain.”

Florence grabbed a jacket. “Come on. I’ll help you carry it inside.”

“You? Aren’t you kind of…sorry. But aren’t you kind of old? That thing is heavy!”

“I’m stronger than I look,” Florence said. She patted Mike’s arm. “Love gives you strength to do what you have to do. You remember that.”

Florence was so upset she thought her adrenaline could have helped her carry the truck inside, but fortunately she didn’t have to put it to the test. Mike’s dad was in the driveway and helped his son unload the bookcase. He snorted when Mike told him the story.

“You get more gratitude and loyalty from dogs than you do some people. Hey, I just thought of something. You people are religious, right?”

“I wouldn’t call us religious, exactly,” Florence said, “but yes, we love Jesus.”

“Jesus was a carpenter. Probably not everyone liked his stuff either. They sure didn’t all like his preaching! You tell George that for me, okay? Might help him feel better.”

Florence told George that and a lot more, but nothing helped. He locked the door to the workshop.

“I’m done,” he said. “I gave my best. I gave more than I had to give, and it wasn’t enough.” And then he cried. Florence hadn’t seen him cry since early in their marriage when their only child, a son, had been stillborn. Florence held him. She prayed for him. Nothing helped. He prowled the house at night and slept most of the day. He ate sometimes but not enough. He listed his tools for sale, but no one bought them. The door to the workshop stayed locked.

At five o’clock one morning Florence woke to a terrible racket. She ran to the kitchen, and the door to the workshop was open. George was attacking the bookcase with a Sawzall. Wood was falling to the floor; the beautiful bookcase was destroyed.

“George!” She hardly recognized the terrified scream as her own. Trembling, she leaned against the door frame and covered her mouth with her hands.

He turned and looked at her. He was wearing his best overalls, the blue and white pin striped ones. His white curls had tumbled down on his forehead, and he was smiling. A pencil was tucked behind his left ear.

“What’s wrong with you, Thirty inches?” he asked. He gestured at a neatly stacked pile of boards he’d already sawed from the former bookcase. “I’m kind of busy out here. I’m making something for my new client.”

“Your new client?”

“Harry, the undertaker, called me late last night. A young couple lost a baby boy, stillborn, and they can’t afford a casket. He asked what I’d charge to make one. I told him nothing. I’m making as many little caskets as I can out of this wood. He said they can be thirty inches, and some as small as ten inches.”

He swiped at the tears in his eyes with the back of his gnarled hand.

“George,” Florence said softly, “I think the other Carpenter missed you working out here.”

“I missed him too,” he said. “I hope when I finish making these, he’ll say I did good. But right now, I’m kinda hungry. You suppose we could have soup for breakfast?”

“If you chop the vegetables.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Your thumb is healed now, isn’t it?”

George held it up and grinned at it. “Guess it is. And my stomach is growling. Let’s go.”

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 Girl and her Dog Who Was Too Much

by Donna Poole

Once upon a time in the land of Not Far Away there lived a baby girl with huge brown eyes and light brown curls. Before God sent her to earth, he told the angels, “I give everyone a gift to take down with them. I’m going to give this one something extraordinary. It will bring her great joy, but it will also break her heart.”

The angels stopped cooing over the big brown eyes and looked at God astonished. “Why would you give her something that will break her heart?”

God smiled sadly. “Because the world needs it so much.”

And so, he kissed the cheek of the baby, put his own hand over her heart, and sent her down to earth with an extraordinary amount of love for her family and for all his creatures great and small.

The baby was born into a family with three much older siblings, and she adored them. As each one went off to college, it broke her heart. She missed them terribly and didn’t want to be alone in her room. She begged her mom to let her have a cat, a dog, a horse, and an elephant. She didn’t get any of those, but her yard was full of wild, mangy barn cats with no one to love them. She sat in the grass and tamed each one. Her lap was often full of cats and kittens, and when each one died, her heart broke again. The cats belonged to neighbors, not to her, but her mom told her that because of her they died happy. They died knowing they were loved, and that is something not everyone gets to know.

The little girl did want one thing that wasn’t alive. Some of her friends had American Girl dolls, and she adored them. She never asked for one though, because her dad was a pastor of a little church and didn’t have much money. She was a strange little girl. She never asked for anything, and saved every penny, nickel, and dime she got to buy something for her parents or her siblings.

The girl’s mom knew she wanted that doll, and she scrimped and saved until she finally had enough money to buy Molly or Samantha, the dolls the girl had longed to own for so long.

The problem was it had taken so long to get the money that the little girl wasn’t so little anymore. By then she was thirteen. And when her mother told her she could choose her doll, she didn’t get the ecstatic response she’d expected. Instead, she got a small, hesitant smile.

“Oh, honey, are you too old for the doll now?” The mom felt like crying. This girl who loved and gave so much had outgrown the one thing she’d wanted.

“Oh, no, Mom! That isn’t it! I’d still love the doll, but there’s something I want more!”

She showed her mom an advertisement in the paper. Purebred AKC registered Golden Retriever puppies for sale! With papers.

“If I could get a puppy Mom, I could love her, and train her, and when she was old enough, I could breed her. I could sell the puppies and save money for college!”

And so, the mom, dad, and girl traveled an hour from their country home to the city to look at the puppies.

The girl took one look at one of the puppies and the puppy flew into her arms. Only after she was sitting on the floor cuddling the puppy did the women selling it confess that the puppies were not AKC registered and didn’t have papers.

“But I’m sure if you did research you could get papers. I promise you the puppy’s father is from a long, impressive line of registered dogs.”

Sure, lady, and you’re lying through your dentures the mom thought but didn’t say. Instead, she sat on the floor next to her daughter, who would always be her little girl, even when she was an old lady. “Honey, you won’t be able to breed her and sell her puppies. You won’t be able to make money for college.”

“I don’t care, Mom. I love her! Please, can I buy her?”

The mom and dad didn’t know much about dogs, but they knew the woman was asking too much and had placed a misleading ad. They tried to get her to come down in price. The woman might have been a crook, but she was a crafty one. She saw the love in the girl’s eyes for the puppy and the love in the parents’ eyes for the girl. She had her fish on a hook, and she wasn’t budging.

And so, the puppy who was too much came home with the girl who some might say loved too much, but she was just doing what God made her to do. She named her puppy Cassey. Cassey was a golden alright, but the retriever part was a joke! She never returned a single stick anyone threw for her. She’d run after it, but then she’d be in too much of a hurry to run back to love the person, especially if the person was her girl.

That puppy grew up to be the most lovable, worst specimen of a golden you ever saw. Despite years of training at Dog 4-H Cassey never learned to do anything right except love her human. Everything else she did too much of. She ran when she should walk. She bounced when she should stand still. She misbehaved at every 4-H dog show, but everyone loved her, and she loved everyone.

At one show the girl’s brother determined she was going to have a chance to win. He took the golden and ran her all over the fairgrounds until she was exhausted. And onlookers were amazed in the show. Cassey was standing, not running, or bouncing. She was behaving! She didn’t have energy left to misbehave. Then came the final event of the show, the long stay.

“Sit, Cassey,” the girl said, “stay.” and all the other dog owners told their dogs the same. Then the kids walked a distance from their dogs and stood in line.

By then most of the onlookers knew the girl and Cassey. There was collective breath holding. They were watching a miracle in action! Cassey was staying.

Cassey looked with longing eyes at her beloved owner. Then she dropped to the ground and army-crawled all the way to her, stood, leaned into her, and looked up at her with so much love. Onlookers laughed. Cassey didn’t get a ribbon, because the dog show didn’t give a best-in-class ribbon to the dog who loved most.

Back in 2013, when Cassey was twelve, her girl, all grown-up now, wrote this. “I don’t think goodbyes ever get easier. Today I had to make the decision to put down my baby. I got her when she was only four weeks old, and while we had twelve years together, it really didn’t feel like it was enough. I wanted so badly when I went to see her at the animal hospital today for her to jump up and wag her tail, but it took everything in her just to sit up. She laid her head in my lap like she used to when she was a puppy and licked my hand. I wasn’t going to stay while the vet put her down, but when I went to stand up (after crying all over the poor dog) she tried to follow me and gave me the most pathetic look when she couldn’t. So, I sat back down, held her, and she put her head in my hands. Then she was gone. I’m so glad she isn’t suffering anymore, but I’m heartbroken that she’s gone.”

The girl’s mother watched her sit with her dying dog and cried out to God, “It’s too hard for her. It’s too much.”

And God whispered, “Hush. That’s what love does. It does too much.”

I know this really happened once upon a time in the land of Not Far Away. Cassey died in 2013, and the mother is still crying as she writes this. Someday, God will wipe away all tears. Someday, dogs like Cassey and girls who love too much will never suffer again, but that day is not today.

And God understands the pain of those who love too much. After all, he does it too.

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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Tomorrow

by Donna Poole

“Happy New Year, dear.” Ken kissed her cheek, and she rubbed where his rough whiskers had scratched.

Cathy groaned and rolled over. “Do we have to go to that party today?”

“You know Joey will be broken hearted if we don’t.”

“I can’t understand why the pastor would schedule a party on a day when people would rather be home with their families. This is Terry’s last New Year’s with us. Next year he’ll be in college, and Will the year after him.”

Ken patted her back. “Do you suppose the pastor might wish he could stay home with his family today too, kick back, eat a few snacks, and watch football?”

Cathy laughed. “Ken, he doesn’t know a football from a basketball.”

Ken chuckled. “I know. Still, maybe he’d rather stay home. But it isn’t every day when someone turns 100 years old, and everyone loves Benjamin, especially Joey. We should go, but we won’t if you don’t want to.”

She sighed and got out of bed. “We might as well go. Will and Terry will probably disappear somewhere with friends if we stay home. At least this way the five of us will be in the same place for a few hours.”

Random thoughts chased each other through Cathy’s head as Ken made toast. and she scrambled a dozen eggs.

We’ve had barely any time as a family this whole Christmas break. First both sets of parents showed up for a week. I love them, but that was exhausting, especially when my siblings decided we should have family Christmas here. “You have the biggest house. You don’t mind, do you?” Then Janie and Bill asked if their kids could stay with us while the two of them went away for the weekend. Now our kids will be back in school in just a few days and that hectic schedule of trying to keep up with all their activities begins all over again. And soon Terry will be off to college and our family will never be the same again. Ken is hinting perhaps his folks should move in with us, and he’s probably right. His mom fell when they were here. So much to worry about. And money? Oh, don’t even go there, girl!

But she did. She played the numbers game while she flipped the eggs. Ken was older than she was, and his sixty-one years were starting to show on him. She sometimes wondered how long he’d be able to keep working. He’d worked for a small business all his life. He loved the work but had no retirement. Zero. Zip. Perhaps they could have saved more, but looking back she didn’t see how. And Joey, a surprise blessing born when she’d been forty, was going to require long term care. He’d live with them until they died. Ken would probably die long before she did, how would she care for Joey then?

Joey was the first boy down the stairs. “Hi, Mama! Look! I’m ready for the party!”

Tears sprang to Cathy’s eyes at the proud smile on Joey’s face. At six years old he functioned at about age three, and specialists said he’d probably plateau at the functional age of seven and go no further.

“You look great, Joey! Let me just straighten your shirt a bit.”

He’d buttoned only two of the six buttons, and they were in the wrong holes. His shoes were on the wrong feet.

“After breakfast you might want to put on jeans. It’s kind of cold out to wear shorts to the party, honey.”

“Okay, Mama! Do I have to wait for my brudders? I’m kinda hungry!”

Cathy laughed and scooped a pile of eggs on his plate. “You go ahead and pray and eat.”

“God is great. God is good. And we thank him for our food. And we thank him for Mr. Benjamin’s party. Woo hoo! Amen.”

Ken grinned and hugged his son. “You love Mr. Benjamin, don’t you?”

“Yep. We’re brudders.”

“What?”

“Yep. He says Benjamin and Joseph were brudders in the Bible so we’re brudders.”

“Oh, that’s right. And Rachel was their mother.”

“I dunno. But me and Mr. Benjamin are brudders. I’m gonna give him the new coloring book and crayons I got for Christmas. Can I have more eggs, Mama? I’m still hungry.”

Ken looked at the pan and laughed. “Let’s let your mama sit awhile. She’s been awfully tired lately. I’ll scramble some more eggs so Terry and Will have enough to eat too.”

Cathy sighed. I never want the boys to feel hungry, but why do eggs have to cost four dollars a dozen?

Time flew as it always does, and they barely got to church in time for the party. Only after they were there did Cathy realize Joey’s shoes were still on the wrong feet.

The fellowship hall was full. It seemed Ken was right; everyone did love Benjamin, but none more than Joey. Joey grinned and clapped his hands when Benjamin pronounced the coloring book and crayons his favorite gift, and Cathy knew he was telling the truth. It was his favorite, even though the church had collected money and put it in an envelope he’d already opened. He’d thanked them profusely, but the thank you to Joey came with his tears.  

“Benjamin, before you blow out the candles on your cake, would you say a few words of wisdom to all of us?” the pastor asked.

Cathy sighed inwardly. Here it comes. A too cheerful speech from Mr. Pollyanna. Just what I don’t need today.

Benjamin got to his feet with a little help from bystanders. “I want you all to know I’ve had a hard life, a very difficult life full of terrible things.”

He paused and Cathy stared at him. The rest of the crowd sat in stunned silence. This was not what they’d expected.

“Yes, indeed, folks, terrible things, but ninety-nine percent of them never happened.”

Then he slapped his hands together and roared with laughter. “You see, I spent a lot of time worrying about things that might happen that never did. Then when I was a kid of about sixty or so I decided to face the future with faith not fear. I discovered tomorrow is none of my business, so I’d let God take care of it. He hasn’t let me down yet. Now, it hasn’t been all sunshine. It was terribly hard when I lost Helen. Other things have been difficult too, but my life has had so much joy. Yours can be too, if you face the future with faith and say goodbye to fear.”

Benjamin sat down and smiled at the sheet cake shining with one-hundred candles. “I need help blowing out these candles before we set the place on fire! Where’s my little brother?”

Joey ran to his side, his shoes still on the wrong feet. “I’m right here, Mr. Benjamin!”

Cathy thought she’d never forget the sight of the two faces pressed close together, the wrinkled old man and the little boy. And she’d try to remember. Faith, not fear.

“Ken, tomorrow really isn’t any of my business, is it?”

He laughed and hugged her. “Happy New Year, dear.” And then, right there in church, he kissed her. But no one noticed. They were all clapping for the two brothers blowing out one-hundred candles.

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 Last Christmas

by Donna Poole

Meldrew Hucklebee never actually said the words, “Bah humbug!” But if anyone who knew him were to picture a modern-day Scrooge, his face would instantly come to mind. He never used profanity, but the pounding of his cane on the hardwood floors of his home said the words for him. Not only wouldn’t he say, “happy holidays,”—too pagan, he wouldn’t say “Merry Christmas” either. Just hearing the words sent him into a rant about how commercialized the whole thing had become and how baby Jesus in the manger would disallow the whole thing. His family thought Jesus would certainly disallow the language his cane and his slammed doors said for him, not just at Christmas, but all year long.

And wouldn’t you know, his birthday fell on Christmas Day. This year he’d turn a venerable eighty-years old. His wife, God rest her sweet soul, had died with a sigh of relief and a smile on her face a decade earlier. But his children weren’t so lucky. There were four of them, two sons, and two daughters. Even though some now had grandchildren of their own, they stilled called him “Papa” and obeyed his every command as quickly as they had when they were children and he’d thundered at them from his rocking chair, “Obedience which is not cheerful, prompt, and complete, is not obedience at all!”

His commands, quirks, and whims were many. You may wonder why the “children,” would allow the old man to control them. It was a combination of things, really. Surely love was in the mix, but so was duty. They still thought daily of the Saint Augustine quote they’d had to repeat to Papa each night at bedtime as children, “In doing what we ought we deserve no praise, because it is our duty.”

But the loudest voice of all commanding their long-standing servitude was money. Money has a thunderous voice, especially when it comes from a tyrant who has millions, hasn’t yet shared a penny, and changes his will every New Year’s Day, much to the disgust of his lawyer who must leave a family gathering and go to his home. The way it stood now, all four children would inherit equal shares of his fortune, but that could change this year. Some years he’d been so miffed at one or the other he’d cut them out completely.

Meldew might be eccentric and difficult, but he was never lonely; he’d seen to that himself. The day his wife had died he’d commanded the audience of his four offspring and ordered them to come without their partners or children.

He began his speech. “Your mother, God rest her soul, was a perfect wife to me.”

The four exchanged guarded glances. Perfect slave more like it. Gertrude, get me my coffee! Gertrude, warm this coffee up. You know I hate cold coffee. Gertrude, find my sweater. Not the red one! You know I don’t like red! Gertrude! Gertrude! Gertrude!

Papa pounded his cane to reclaim their attention and snapped his fingers for good measure. “Now, you four look at me. Your mother is gone, and I cannot abide being alone. I will not be alone a single night; do you hear me? Beginning today, from oldest to youngest, you four will spend three months each living with me. You will not bring your families. I will allow you one day a week to go home and visit with them, but you must return to me before dark. You will come straight here after work each day. You will cook, clean, and care for me in the matter to which I am accustomed. Do you understand?”

Jay was the eldest and most like Papa. He sputtered, “That’s totally unreasonable and impossible. You can’t expect us to give up our own lives to take care of you. First, you don’t need help. You’re as strong physically as we are, and the only prescription medication you need is eyedrops. Second, when you do need help, you have plenty of money to pay for caregivers or to go into assisted living. We won’t do it. Do you hear me, Papa? The answer is no!”

Papa and Jay locked glances. Jay looked away first. Papa’s voice was quiet, and that was even more terrifying than when he shouted. “I will never hire help or go into assisted living. You four will take turns living with me until I die, and if one of you chooses not to obey my wish, you disinherit yourself. The four of you can barely pay your bills. I know what my money will mean to you.”

Like I said, money has a loud voice. And so, for the next five years, the heirs of Meldrew Hucklebee did exactly as he said. Each endured a miserable three months every year away from their own families while the patriarch grew ever more demanding. It was hardest on Carole Beth, the youngest of the four. She had the months from October through December.

Sometimes Carole caught her father looking at her face with a strange expression she couldn’t decipher. She’d seen love there so seldom she didn’t recognize it. Meldrew had formed the habit of having silent conversations with Gertrude. It wasn’t hard even though he never actually heard her voice; he knew exactly what she’d say if she were here.

Carole looks the most like you, Gertrude. She has a lot of your personality too, but she lacks your spunk.

You hated my spunk, Meldrew.

Well, I miss it now.

I know you love our children. Let them be free to live their own lives.

I can’t abide being alone, Gertrude. You know I never could.

And I always told you that you never are. God is with you.

But I want someone with skin on.

You want someone you can boss and bully, and that isn’t God.

Meldrew pounded his cane four times in frustration, his version of a four-letter word, and his children knew it well.

“What is it, Papa?”

Carole’s voice sounded tired. Meldrew felt surprised. Did she always sound tired and he’d never noticed?

Carole was tired, body, soul and spirit. For five years she hadn’t even been able to go home on Christmas Day unless that happened to be the day her father chose to give her for her weekly day off, and no one loved Christmas more than Carole.

Carole did get to attend the Christmas Eve church service though; they all did. Though Meldrew Hucklebee refused to allow a tree, a gift, or even a piece of tinsel in his home, he did go to church on Christmas Eve each year, and he insisted all four of his children go with him, without their families of course.

“Children give me migraines,” he often complained. “I had a terrible time with those headaches when you four were growing up.”

Christmas Eve day dawned cold and snowy and light snow continued all day. Carole struggled to push the wheelchair up the ramp of First Community Church. Papa insisted on being taken to church in a wheelchair even though he never used one any other time. And he insisted on sitting in the front.

Carole dropped into the pew and glanced at the life sized creche, and the baby Jesus seemed to smile encouragement at her. Would she, would they, be brave enough to go through with it? Jay had agreed to be the spokesperson; the rest of them just had to have the courage to back him up.

After the service, Meldrew’s four children took him home, helped him into his pajamas, fixed his cocoa just the way he liked it, and pulled their chairs near the couch where he was sitting covered with a green, not red, Afghan.

“Papa,” Jay began, “we have something to say to you.”

“Quiet!” Meldrew thundered. “You know I prefer drinking my cocoa in silence.”

A sudden red crept up Carole’s neck and into her cheeks. She jumped to her feet, grabbed her father’s cane, and pounded it on the floor four times. He almost grinned. Spunky!

“Carole! What would your mother think if she heard you using a word like that?”

She ignored the question. “Papa, we love you, but we aren’t going to live here anymore. We don’t do a thing for you that you can’t do for yourself. We’ve neglected our own families far too long. This is the last Christmas Eve we’re going to leave our families alone. If you want us to come to the service next year, you’ll take us with our families. We’re leaving now, all of us. One of us will visit you for a short time each day to see if you need anything.”

Meldrew could hardly form words into a sentence. “But . . . have you four lost your minds? Don’t forget, I’m seeing my lawyer about my will next week!”

“Keep your money, Papa,” Jay said, as he tied a red scarf around his neck. “We don’t want it. We’d like your love if you have any of that left in your heart.”

“What’s that you say?” The old man shook his head like he was trying to clear cobwebs or understand a foreign language. “None of you want my money?”

The four of them shook their heads as they tied matching red scarves around their necks. Carole had bought them. “It’s a show of solidarity,” she’d said. “Tie them on and say a prayer for courage.”

“We’re going home now, Papa.” Carole said. “Goodbye, happy birthday, and Merry Christmas. We’re all celebrating at my house tomorrow at noon, and you’re welcome to join us.”

The enormous house echoed with silence after the door closed and Meldrew hurried off to bed. He’d never noticed before how loud the grandfather clock ticked.

Well, Getrude, I guess Carole is more like you than I thought. She’s got spunk. They all do. Not want my money! What do you think of that?

They might have thought for awhile they wanted your money, but I don’t think they ever really did.

Well, what did they want then?

You know the answer to that.

Gertrude, I hate being alone.

You’re never alone. God is with you. And how much you see the family depends on you now, doesn’t it?

I’m a selfish old man, aren’t I? Jay said they’d like my love, if I had any left in my heart. If I do, it’s been a long time since I gave any of it.

Gertrude was silent.

“What was that prayer Gertrude used to pray, God? I need to remember it. It was something like love through me, love of God. Oh, balderdash, Lord, I can’t remember the rest of it. Amen.”

It was a strange prayer, but it was enough.

Christmas Day dawned cold and clear. Sunlight poured across the carpet as Meldrew fixed his own toast, egg, and coffee. He sat at the table and to his surprise enjoyed the silence. He took a nap in his recliner, and when he woke, he noticed a gift-wrapped package on the couch. The tag read, “To Papa from his loving children.”

He opened it and laughed. It was a red scarf that matched the ones they’d worn the night before. He tied it around his neck and looked at the clock. It was noon. He wouldn’t go for Christmas this year, maybe next, but he did have a gift to give. He called Carole on his cell.

A child’s voice said, “Hello?”

“This is Meldrew Hucklebee.”

“Who? Oh, I think I know who you are. Are you the grumpy old man?”

Meldrew chuckled. “I certainly am. Are you my great-grandson?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? What’s your name?”

“My name is Mel, and my middle name is Drew.”

Meldrew swallowed a lump in his throat. How did I not know I had a great-grandson named after me?

“Are you old enough to give Carole a message for me?”

“Sure! Carole is my grandma.”

Meldrew had the boy repeat the message twice. He knew he gave it correctly, because before he disconnected the call, he heard the child shout above the background music and chatter, “The grumpy old man said to tell you three things. He’s wearing the red scarf. He’s never changing his will again. And Merry Christmas.”

Grumpy old man, huh? Spunky! How many more spunky ones are there in my family? I think I’d like to find out.

Meldrew was almost asleep in his recliner again when the doorbell rang. “We’re running a little late at my house, so we haven’t eaten yet. I got thinking. A man with twenty grandchildren and five great grandchildren shouldn’t eat Christmas dinner alone, especially when he’s wearing a red scarf.”

He hesitated. “How noisy is it?”

“Very.” Carole laughed. “Better get your migraine medicine. I have a feeling you’ve had your last Christmas.”

“What?”

“I mean your last quiet Christmas! Now come on, Papa, the ham is going to get cold, and the children are waiting to meet the grumpy old man.”

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 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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