Author: gettingofftheinterstate

by Donna Poole

Joan was my friend.

Those four simple words—Joan was my friend—carry forty years of shared life, love, laughter, and tears.

My first meeting with Joan taught me a lot about her. She was a member of a neighboring church, Locust Corners Baptist, where she loved Pastor and Audrey Potter. Their church invited our church, Lickley’s Corners Baptist, to attend something special. I forget what it was. Forgive me, it was long ago, and I can’t remember yesterday. After the meal our two churches shared, I walked by the kitchen and saw a blonde lady washing dishes in the sweltering heat. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, but she had a beautiful smile. And she was working alone.

“Where are the dish towels?” I asked.

“Visitors don’t do dishes,” she said.

“This one does,” I said.

“No, she doesn’t,” she replied, smiling.

I started opening drawer after drawer. She laughed, told me where the towels were, and we did dishes together. I found a friend that day. When Locust Corners sadly had to close, God gave our church a wonderful gift, Joan, Jerry, Jamie, and Jenny. We loved them all, and Joan became a close friend.

How do you put forty years of friendship into a few words?

Through the many years that followed, as long as she was able, Joan helped do everything there was to do at church and always did it with a smile, just like the first day I met her. If I told you all Joan did for our church and others, I’d have to write a book. So, I’ll mention just a few. Joan poured herself into helping in children’s church, Vacation Bible School, potlucks, cooking meals for others, baking her beautiful cakes, and being part of the “Seams Good Quilters.” And she sent John and me so many cards and letters of encouragement.

When our daughter, Kimmee, was little, Joan and Jerry, or Joan and Jennie, bought her a doll every year for her birthday. One year, shortly before Easter, Joan took Kimmee shopping and bought her a new Easter dress, shoes, socks, hat, and even a little purse.

Whenever I thanked Joan for one of her hundreds of acts of kindness she reminded me it was just the Lord. But it was also Joan letting Jesus love through her. I don’t know if Joan ever prayed this Amy Carmicahel prayer, but she sure lived it: Love through me, Love of God. Make me like Thy clear air, through which, unhindered, colors pass, as though it were not there.”

Friendship is sacred to me, and it was to Joan. She had many friends. If you were her friend, you would be her friend forever. Everyone should have a Joan. The world would be a much better place.

Joan and I were co-conspirators for a time. We prayed for years for a new fellowship hall at church. Then we decided on action. Every Sunday we cornered a trustee or two and asked, “How are plans coming for the new fellowship hall? And you better hurry because we aren’t getting any younger you know!” God and the trustees finally answered our prayers!

Joan, Gina Bradstreet, and I shared a special bond. We couldn’t decide if we were the three musketeers or the three stooges. But we knew we would always love each other, and we did, through fun and heartbreak, and through all of life’s changes. Gina moved to South Carolina. Joan moved to a nursing home. I got cancer. But whenever Dan and Gina came home to Lickley’s Corners, we three friends, from three different states, got together. And it was like we’d never been apart. Now Joan has moved again, to a far better place called heaven, but we’ll be together again.

Not being able to come to church after she moved into a nursing home was a great sorrow to Joan. This year, at Christmas time, our son Danny drove our church bus, and a few of us took church to Joan. We sang Christmas carols, and the love and joy on her face lit up her small room. It’s a beautiful memory I cherish.

I have so many memories of Joan. During the last week of her life, I held her hand, and even when she was no longer conscious, John and I talked to her about times we’d shared with her through the years. Some were serious, some sweet, and some funny, like the time her dog peed in Kimmee’s boot, and Joan was horrified, and Kimmee couldn’t stop laughing. We read the Bible to Joan during her last week. She loved Pastor Potter’s favorite song, “The Unclouded Day,” so we played that for her. We sang songs about heaven to her. Poor Joan. I sing a lot, but I really can’t stay on tune. Perhaps that’s why she finally left us to go Home to heaven, just to escape my singing!

We saw so many of Joan’s family that last week, and her daughter Jennie was with her constantly. How Joan loved her family, and her church family. And how she prayed for all of us! I’m going to miss that. Someday all who trust Jesus as Savior from sin will be together forever in heaven. Please be sure you know Jesus! Family and friendships will be unbroken in heaven. But until then, we need each other. Let’s gather in our churches. Let’s pray for each other. Let’s each be a Joan, and let’s walk each other Home.

Blessed are the friends who make us laugh, the ones who pray, the ones who last! Blessed are the friends who walk us Home, though far apart, we’re never alone. Blessed are the friends who see our tears and stay beside us through the years. Sometimes we’re sad and tired too; God saw that, so He gave us you.

We remembered you with love yesterday at your celebration of life service, my dear friend. I love you Joan, and I miss you. See you soon.

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 Laughterl

Gina, me, and Joan

by Donna Poole

“Grandpa Mike! We should pray for him.”

I agreed and wrote Grandpa Mike’s name on the Sunday school prayer list.

Mike has been fighting a long battle with cancer. He’s currently in remission, but treatments continue, and the side effects are troublesome.

“We need to pray for Grandpa John too,’ I said.

I briefly explained some of the problems my husband John is having with sleep apnea, congestive heart failure, and an as yet undiagnosed problem that’s causing his legs to occasionally feel weak and collapse under him. Then my granddaughter, Macy, raised her hand and attempted to summarize all I’d said about her Grandpa John.

“So, Grandpa John. We have to pray for him, because he’s having terrible hot flashes, and they’re giving him so many problems, and they keep him awake all night.”

I managed not to laugh. “Yes, Macy,” I said. “That really would be awful if Grandpa John had to deal with hot flashes on top of everything else he has, wouldn’t it?”

She nodded vigorously.

Did I laugh when I got home? Am I still laughing?

Those are rhetorical questions. But I’ve been thinking about a deeper truth Macy unknowingly reminded me of.

God doesn’t necessarily listen to the words we say.

Before you condemn me as a heretic and stop reading, let me explain.

God doesn’t necessarily listen only to the words we say. He’s too loving a parent for that. He listens to our hearts, and he knows what our hearts need far better than we do.

“No voice of prayer to Thee can rise/ But swift as light Thy love replies;/ Not always what we ask, indeed, / But O most kind! What most we need.” –H. M. Kimball

Any parent knows a toddler will sometimes say, “I need medicine. My head hurts,” while pointing to his tummy. A young child will sometimes say she’s hungry when she’s sleepy. Or kids might see a toy in a store and beg for it when Mom knows it will break ten minutes after they get home.

I’m thankful for the times God, in love, has said “no” to me. And I can think of times he gave me what I asked for and I lived to regret it.

When Mom had her first stroke at age forty-nine my sister Eve and I prayed together and begged God to give her more time, and he did. He gave mom five more years. Mom did get to see daughters married during that time, and grandchildren born, but in many ways, those were miserably unhappy years for her. When Eve found out she had advanced ovarian cancer she reminded me of our prayer for mom and made me promise not to ask God to give her more years.

“Only ask for God’s will, Donna,” she said. “And ask that my life will bring glory to God.”

Eve understood and lived until her dying day the truth Jesus taught us in the Garden of Gethsemane. “Oh my soul, learn from thy Saviour, ere ever thou pourest out thy desires in prayer, first to yield thyself as a whole burnt-offering with the one object that God may be glorified in thee.” –Andrew Murray

That’s what I asked for God for Eve—with an add on. I asked God to heal her if it was his will.

Eve fought a long, hard, brave battle with cancer. Almost every time I saw her, she asked me to pray that her life would honor God, bring glory to him. That’s what she cared about most.

The doctors gave Eve only months to live when they diagnosed her, but she lived six and one half years. Most of those years she was off chemotherapy only a few months at a time, but she lived with love and laughter, and she died with faith and courage. And she did glorify God. She showed me and many others how a Christian lives and dies. But, my prayer for her–did God answer it?

My two other sisters had also been asking God to heal Eve, if it was his will. Mary said, “When I got the phone call that Eve was gone, I said, ‘God answered my prayer. He healed her.’”

God did heal Eve. She’s in heaven now, and cancer can’t follow her there. Love and laugher, faith and courage? Heaven’s gates open wide for those, but cancer will never get in. God may not have given us sisters the answer our words hoped for Eve, but he looked deeper. He answered the cry of our hearts. He knew we loved our sister and wanted what was best for her. It was best her suffering ended. Eve’s suffering was long, but her joy will be longer. Forever long.

I don’t pretend to understand everything about prayer. How could I, when I’m as incapable of understanding God as a sparrow is of understanding me? I’m at least smart enough to know my intelligence is too limited to comprehend the ways of my great Creator. I know this much, because he said so: God is love. Because his essence is love, he answers prayers in love, not capriciously, not selfishly, not maliciously, because these are contrary to his nature. If we don’t understand God, that’s okay. A screaming toddler doesn’t understand his mother’s love when she won’t let him play with the nice, shiny knife. A ten-year-old doesn’t understand her mother’s love when she writes in her diary, “My mom is mean.”

And we don’t understand God’s love when we feel, “My God is mean.”

The wisest of us is a mere child in the kingdom of God. “Let’s give Him the satisfaction of knowing He has some children who can trust their heavenly Father.”—Amy Carmichael

We can trust God. We can pour out everything in our hearts and not worry about getting it right. Just a little prayer can make a world of difference. And if we ask God to help Grandpa John not to have any more trouble with the hot flashes, he’ll know just what we mean. He might not answer our words; he can’t take away non-existent hot flashes¸ but he’ll look deeper and see what it is we really want. He’ll make Grandpa John better here or in heaven. I hope it’s here. And Macy hopes so 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

by Donna Poole

I suppose if you called me an optimist you wouldn’t be wrong. When I was a kid, I exasperated my sister by dragging her home at running speed on grocery day in case Mom had bought us a present. Mom had no money to buy presents and had never bought us ones before, but that didn’t deter my stubborn hope that somehow this might be the day, and I couldn’t wait to get home and find out. I don’t ever remember feeling disappointed that no gift awaited; there was always the hope of next week’s grocery day!

It’s not my fault, really; I was born optimistic; my blood type is B positive.

If you aren’t laughing yet, let me tell you one of my favorite jokes. You may have heard this before, but come on. It’s funny enough to deserve more than one laugh.

An optimist fell off the roof of a high-rise building. As he passed the fifteenth floor on his way down, people heard him shouting, “So far, so good!”

When I was a child discipline was harsh and frequent. Money was in short supply, and we didn’t have the clothes other children had. Sometimes we went to bed a bit hungry, but we had parents who loved us, and we Piarulli girls had each other. Life was an adventure waiting to be lived. I woke up every day catching my breath with anticipation and thinking something wonderful would surely happen that day.

Not surprisingly, Pollyanna was one of my favorite books. I was drawn to her optimism and the “glad game” she played where she found something good even when things were difficult. I loved the old elm tree outside her window, the one she looked at often when she lost the ability to walk after she fell out of the window trying to save someone else. I learned a good lesson from that book, even the most Pollyanna of us can despair, and sometimes we need our friends to sing back to us the song our hearts have forgotten.

Pollyanna didn’t climb her old elm, but I’ve spent most of my life in a Pollyanna tree. When cruel north winds hurl me to the ground, family, friends, and especially God restore my hope. God is a God of all comfort, of hope, and of a joy that hums a quiet tune we can faintly hear even under the howling winds of sorrow.

And so, I brush away tears and dead leaves, find courage to climb again, and find my comfy spot in my Pollyanna Tree waiting for me, just as it always has since my earliest days. and I watch the seasons of my life pass, and I dream my dreams.

I dream of a better world. Someone joked that an optimist thinks this is the best of all worlds and a pessimist is afraid he’s right. I know sin and hate have done a good job of fragmenting our world, and it makes me sad. The first two brothers on earth couldn’t manage to live together in peace; one killed the other. Sin did that. Jesus died to destroy sin, and one day he’ll return to earth and make a world where love will rule in the hearts of mankind and in the animal kingdom. The Bible says a lion will rest next to a lamb, and a toddler will play with a poisonous snake, and nothing will hurt or destroy in all his holy mountain. Love will make our broken world whole again; Eden will return to earth.

Love can rule in our hearts now, if Jesus lives there.

“Love through me, Love of God,

Make me like thy clear air

Through which unhindered colors pass

As though it were not there.” –Amy Carmichael

I wish I could say I had never sinned against that love and never would again. I wish every drop of selfishness and ego were gone from my heart, but that must wait for heaven. Right now, self has a way of cluttering that clear air Amy talked about, but I pray her prayer every day. I have this Pollyanna dream of a world where all who claim to be Christians touch everyone in their lives with love. Not a love that overlooks sin, because sin kills every good thing it touches, but a love that says, what do you need? Let me help you. You are not alone. I am here for you.

“Optimistic people tend to have happier dreams,” or so says Sage Google, and who am I to disagree?

In my dreams I’m never old, never sick, always strong. John touched my arm and woke me in the middle of a dream this morning, and it was such a happy one it’s put a smile on my mood all day. I was bouncing a baby boy on my knee. I was babysitting the little guy somewhere. He was only a year old but had the vocabulary of a much older child.

“I’ve forgotten your name,” I said to him. “What does your mama call you?”

“Good boy!” He laughed. “I good boy!”

“Yes, you are. But what’s your name?”

“K-U-R-D-Y,” he spelled.

“Kurdy? Your name is Kurdy?”

He nodded. “I love you!” And he threw his arms around me. “I want to come to your house.”

“You can! And you can come to her house too!” I nodded at my sister and smiled.

I turned to the neighbor who suddenly appeared in my dream. “Janet, I forgot to tell you! My sister Ginny moved back to Michigan from South Carolina, and now she and Bob live next door to us!”

“That’s wonderful!” Janet said.

Kurdy pointed at my sister, Ginny, who was smiling her famous smile, the one that makes my heart hurt with missing her when I’m awake. “I love her too!” he said.

I ruffled his soft, black curls and cuddled him close. I knew something about Kurdy. He loved everyone, but that didn’t make his love for me any less special.

Then John woke me up.

“Good morning, honey,” he said.

“Can we have another baby?” I asked.

“What?” He roared with that laughter I love. “I don’t think so!”

I laughed too. Seventy-seven is a bit old to become a mother, especially if you’re me. I’m not even strong enough to stand up holding a baby; I have to sit in a chair, and even then a baby’s mom keeps at least one eye on me!

I wonder if there will be babies in heaven or if we’ll all be the same age. I know I’ll never have to say goodbye to my sisters or anyone else I love. And I know something else. Heaven will be more magical, awesome, and beautiful than anything even a Pollyanna can dream. And something wonderful will happen every day!

The end.

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

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

by Donna Poole

Just One Glimpse

by Donna Poole

Gabriel glided down, sat next to the two men on the grassy hillside, and smiled. “I figured I’d find you here. Florence and Izzy told me to look for you in heaven’s remotest field.

Bud and George looked at each other and grinned. They were each chewing on long pieces of green hay.

“We like the fields, Gabe. Wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings or nothing, but we kinda prefer it out here to those crowded streets of gold.”

Gabriel chuckled. “We’ve all figured that out by now. You know, we don’t have favorites in heaven, but if we did, you might be two of mine. I love your earth stories. Which one are you telling today? Are you reminiscing about the time before you knew the Lord when you saw someone getting baptized in a lake? As I recall, you ran into the crowd that was gathered on the shore to watch the baptism. You yanked down your suspenders and yelled, “Who’s drowning? We can swim! We’ll save them!”

George and Bud laughed.

“Nah,” Bud said. “We were just talking about the little country church we helped start.”

Gabriel nodded. “Oh, I remember. The tiny white frame building, the one on the corner of two dirt roads. Lickley’s Corners Baptist, right?”

“That’s the one!” George replied. “Bud and me were just talking about our second preacher and his wife. We got ‘em when they were fresh out of college, John and Donna Poole. They had a little girl with golden curls, almost two years old, and they were expecting another baby come Christmas. They were just twenty-five and looked kinda like hippies, but we loved em anyway. Donna had long dark hair to her waist, and Pastor Poole’s sideburns reminded some folks of Elvis. A little boy once asked him if he was Elvis!”

All three of them laughed.

“Pastor Poole taught us a lot,” Bud said, “But we had to teach him a thing or two first. Didn’t we, George?”

“Oh yeah, and Donna had a lot to learn too. She didn’t know a canner from a spaghetti pot, and he didn’t know a combine from a planter, but they learned fast. Remember the time Pastor was a little late for church and came in with his suit muddy cause he’d helped a neighbor chase down a stray cow?”

“Yep,” Bud said. “Figured then he might last at the Corners. But remember the time he preached a sermon about the two fighting men in the church in Philippi? I had to invite them over for lunch and tell him in the kindest way possible those two fighting men were women, and maybe he should remember that in case he preached about them again.”

“Never did ask you how he took that, Bud.”

“He took it pretty good. Better than he took it the time I invited them to lunch and told the pastor he’d started to sound angry, preaching people should do more to help out at church. I told him he could say anything he wanted to us in his sermons, but if he wanted us to listen, he better preach with love.”

“Pastor had a point though, Bud. Some of the church folk back then thought it was their spiritual gift to warm the pew with their butts.”

“Ahem!” Gabriel was trying not to smile.

“What?” George asked. “I’m not supposed to say butts in heaven, Gabe? Guess being here over a decade hasn’t taught me all the vocabulary yet.”

Gabriel avoided the question. “Keep telling me about this young preacher. Did he last, or did he leave?”

Bud answered, “We don’t know what happened to him after we came here, but he lasted as long as we did. I suspected he might last the first week he was pastor. I called him up and gave him his first job as our new pastor. I asked him to come up to church, help me turn over the outhouse, and get the bees out of it. He did it and got stung in his hand. Swelled right up too, but he just laughed and said nothing he’d learned in pastoral theology in Bible college had prepared him for tipping over outhouses.”

Gabriel laughed. “So, the church didn’t have any inside facilities?”

George answered, “Nope, not for a few years. Then we got us an inside bathroom by going to a garage sale. Got us a new furnace too, some registers, and I think a sink and a toilet. Hey, Bud, remember early on when the church board was worried we’d run out of money and Pastor Poole would have to leave because we couldn’t pay him?”

Bud smiled. “How could I forget that? I took Pastor for a walk. I told him when we ran out of money, couldn’t pay him, and he had to leave, we didn’t want it to ruin his ministry. We wanted him to go on and find another church, because we felt like he was a good pastor, and God was going to use him. He made a lot of mistakes when he was young, but he and Donna did one thing right. They loved people.”

“What did he say to you?” Gabriel asked.

“He said the church wasn’t going to run out of money, and he wasn’t going to be leaving. I admired his faith. But he didn’t know something then. When the offerings didn’t come to the 115.00 a week we paid him, we board members took money out of our own pockets to make up the difference so we could pay him. Still don’t know how in the world he made ends meet. We couldn’t give him much money, and the family kept growing. I hope that little church is still on that corner, though I doubt Pastor Poole is still there. I mean, who stays in a little church on the corner of two dirt roads that long? Gotta be more than fifty earth years now.”

“Hey, Bud.” George elbowed him and grinned. “Betcha the church IS still there. Don’t you remember the prayer Pastor’s mom always prayed when she came to visit? She prayed so loud you couldn’t help but hear her. ‘Lord, bless this little pastor and this little church on this little corner, and may it be a lighthouse until Jesus comes.”

Bud laughed loudly.

“What’s so funny?” Gabriel asked.

“It’s just that by then the little pastor wasn’t so little anymore.” Then Bud gave George a sweet, serious look. “But I loved that pastor and family, and that church. My son was a deacon there when I came to heaven. I hope God is answering Pastor Poole’s mom’s prayer. I hope the church is still there and still a lighthouse. It would mean a lot to me to look down and see.”

George sighed. “Me too, but you know the rules here. It doesn’t work that way.”

Gabriel looked up, nodded and smiled. “It doesn’t work that way, but there are exceptions. Look down quickly, this won’t last long. You get just one glimpse.”

Clouds parted, and George and Bud looked down. “What do you know about that; there’s an addition on the church!” Bud exclaimed. “And they have a fellowship hall and more bathrooms? Who’s that couple with gray hair? She uses a cane and walks stooped over. And who’s the older man sitting on the right of the auditorium?”

Gabriel chuckled. “That’s your pastor and wife. His son is on the church board. And the older man? That’s your son, Vincent. He’s still a deacon, and there’s not a person in that church who doesn’t love him. Some of those people in the pews are the Poole’s kids and grandkids. They have fifteen grandchildren now, sixteen next month!”

The clouds closed, and Bud exclaimed, “Wait, Gabe! I still have questions! Does Pastor Poole still make mistakes? Does he still love people? And will the church be a lighthouse on the corner until Jesus comes?”

Gabriel smiled. “I believe Pastor John still makes mistakes, but he loves people more than ever. And will the church be a lighthouse on the corner until Jesus comes? Only God knows the answer to that, but I hope so.”

The three of them were quiet for a moment, thinking.

“You know, people in heaven pray too,” Gabriel said. They heard a faint voice, turned, and saw a woman on her knees.

“Father,” she prayed, “please keep blessing my son, that little pastor, and that little church on that little corner. And may it be a lighthouse until Jesus comes.”

“Doesn’t she know her son isn’t so little anymore?” Bud whispered to Gabriel.

“Mothers never seem to notice,” he whispered back. “Let’s not tell her.”

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

by Donna Poole

I’ve always loved mornings with their unknown possibilities, but I hope you won’t think less of me if I confess that during these last five and a half years bedtime has become delightful. Epcoritamab, the cancer drug I take in the clinical trial I’m part of, has several side effects, and exhaustion is one. It’s rare if I don’t have to nap after a shower. I cook a little, nap a little, clean a little, nap a little, write a little, nap a little. Bedtime is my favorite.

We have a nighttime ritual. John comes to my side of the bed, tells me I don’t know how to fix my own covers, and snugly tucks me in. He kisses me, smiles, and goes to his own side of the bed. Then he turns on his phone, and we listen to Max McLean read the Proverb of the day.

Did you know the book of Proverbs in the Bible has thirty-one chapters, one for each day of the month? We’ve listened to or read those chapters for so many years we know many of the verses by heart. Like, “How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard? When wilt thou arise out of thy sleep?” That’s not one of my favorites, especially when I sometimes drift off before the reading finishes!

Our bed is cozy, and our bedroom has become my sanctuary. I love church; I adore family times and outings, but I sometimes stumble home with hazy vision and collapse into bed needing sleep like a man lost in a desert needs water.

Sleep is my friend. But when my treatments involve steroids, sleep acts like it’s never seen me before and doesn’t care to make my acquaintance. Last night was one of those nights. Yesterday I had an IVIG infusion for myasthenia gravis, and that involves Tylenol, Benadryl, and IV steroids. The Benadryl and the steroids duke it out; I either can’t stay awake or I can’t sleep. Last night the steroids won. I slept only forty-five minutes, and I’m not complaining.

Staying awake was rather delightful. From 11:18 to 2:34 a.m. I texted my night owl daughter on and off. Both my daughters are night owls, but I texted Kimmee, the one who lives with me. Via text, she helped me pick out a Christmas gift for her brother and do some other online shopping. I jokingly asked her to put earplugs in my stocking to block out her dad’s snoring and then recanted. His snoring doesn’t keep me awake. It’s my white noise. When he quits, I panic and think he’s dead!

Kimmee felt bad for me because I couldn’t sleep, but I texted, “I usually sleep my life away! All night and two or three naps, so it’s kind of fun to be awake!”

It really was fun to be awake in the quiet of the night. When I stopped texting, I thought of an amazing idea for a blog; it was so good it probably would have gone viral. It was epic, so I didn’t bother to write it down. Who could forget such a genius thought? I could; that’s who.

I thanked God for my many, many blessings. My scans last week showed only one spot to watch; there’s always something to watch. Morticia still slumbers peacefully, though since last January we’ve had several times we thought she was trying to wake up.

My right upper lung is heavily damaged from radiation, and the scans show the left lung is now showing signs of damage too. Perhaps in a few years I’ll sound like Darth Vader when I’m awake, not just when I’m sleeping and out-snoring John, and oh yes, I can do that!

I lay in my cozy bed and thanked God for the comfort of my pillow and my blankets tucked in just right, and for the blessing of still having a husband at my side. This will be our fifty-seventh married Christmas. I thanked God that the steroids were calming some of the pain from the cancer treatment, and I prayed for many of you.

Then I decided to check out the newest research findings on Epcoritamab. I was surprised to discover that of the 157 who started in the trial only 19 still remained in treatment by May 2024. My first oncologist I had during the trial, Dr. Tycel Phillips, contributed to the most recent article summarizing the study results compiled in May 2025. What I read in that article reminded me God really has given me a miracle. The trial began in 2021 with 157 of us world-wide who had relapsed or refractory large b cell lymphoma. We were all heavily pretreated and not responsive to the lines of therapy we’d had. Of the 157 people, 59 % of us had some kind of response to Epcoritamab, and 41% of us had a complete response. By May of 2025 only 27 people of the original 157 still had a complete response. Those numbers may sound dismal to you, but to oncologists they are a miracle. I’m not exaggerating when I say just a few years ago, before the arrival of Epcoritamab and other new drugs, most if not all157 of us would be dead. Even with these new drugs, many still are. Relapsed, refractory diffuse large b cell lymphoma is a monster, especially when it travels to your lungs like mine has.

The newest report shows the 157 of us had a median overall survival of 18.5 months. But many of us are still alive, and I’m blessed to be one of them. Even with all our treatment it’s very possible to have minimal residual disease, MRD, a tiny number of malignant cells that remain, too small to show up yet on bloodwork or scans, but still lurking, waiting for a chance to pounce.

Years ago, when my cancer was in several places, I named the largest tumor, the one in my lungs, Morticia, and told her she was going to die. She put up some kind of fight, and I still don’t trust her. My team still doesn’t use the word remission. Some of my scans say, “Due to the patient’s underlying malignancy repeat follow up recommended.” Then I get a scan in three months, not the normal six months. Other scans just say “Attention on repeat imaging,” and then I get to wait six months. I don’t know if I have any microscopic malignant cells, but I know God is in control.

In May 2024, nineteen of the original 157 were still getting Epcoritamab. The article that summarized results in May of 2025 didn’t say how many were still getting treatment. It did say the longest person to be in therapy was 54.8 months. That’s my time frame. So, I’m one of a few still getting cancer treatments every month. The side effects of the treatment aren’t fun, but they’re nothing like chemotherapy was, and I’m grateful for it.

When it comes time to die, I know where I’m going. I’m headed straight to heaven and into the arms of God who has carried me all through my life. Thankfully, my destination doesn’t depend on my goodness, and yours doesn’t depend on yours. I mean, think about it. How good would we have to be? We’d have to be as good as God. That’s why Jesus, God the Son, came to earth as the baby we celebrate at Christmas. He came to live the perfect life we can’t live and to die on the cross for the sins we know about and the ones we’re too self satisfied to even recognize.

So, I smiled in my cozy bed, and listened to John snore, my beautiful white noise, and I thought about the amazing love that brought Jesus to earth. I thought about how beautiful our tree is this year. I knew the lights on the Christmas tree in the living room were off; John’s not one for leaving them on all night. The electric bill doesn’t need any help to grow. But this evening those lights will glow.

The star on the top will slowly rotate, spreading its colors around the room as it has done since our first Christmas. It’s been broken and glued, but it still shines. Until Jesus whispers, “Come on Home,” I want to be like that broken star. I want him to shine through my broken pieces and light the way Home for others stumbling alone in the dark.

Scripture says it best; Jesus is the light of the world, and the path of the just is a shining light that grows more and more unto that perfect day. My perfect day is yet to come, but God’s light warms my heart even during sleepless nights in Michigan. Next time, I’ll write down the idea for that epic blog. And it probably will go viral.

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

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

by Donna Poole

Debbie fell asleep in the dentist’s chair waiting for Dr. Miller. That wasn’t surprising; she fell asleep everywhere these days, even in church, and that was embarrassing. She jumped awake to an entirely too cheerful voice.

“Good morning!”

Debbie stared up at the tall, white-haired man holding a mirror and a probe.

“I believe it’s afternoon, and you aren’t Dr. Miller.”

The elderly man’s face creased into what her granddaughter called stripes when he smiled. “I said good morning because I had to wake you, and I believe I am Dr. Miller.” He glanced down at the name badge pinned to his white coat.

She rubbed her eyes, trying to focus. “Oh, are you Dr. Miller’s father?”

He chuckled. “Close, but no cigar.”

That chuckle sounds so familiar, but I’m sure I’ve never seen this man before.

“That’s okay, a cigar is the last thing my lungs need at this point. And then, to her horror, she was crying. Crying for the first time since she’d gotten her diagnosis four years ago. Crying for so many reasons.

Dr. Miller put his instruments on the table and sat down on the stool. “How can I help?”

She shook her head and struggled unsuccessfully to stop the tears that had been years in the making. “You can’t help. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“I suppose you’re a therapist in your spare time.” Instantly she regretted her sarcastic tone. What is wrong with me today?

But Dr. Miller wasn’t offended. Again, he chuckled. And again, her mind searched for where she’d heard that distinctive laugh.

“Actually, I’m a licensed counsellor and donate my time at a church. And I don’t usually practice here as a dentist; I’m just here today to help out. I work at free clinics for people who can’t afford dental care. And I’m also a farmer. I’ve lived long enough to have more than one career. What did you do before you retired?”

Debbie knew he was trying to put her at ease by discussing a neutral topic; she’d done that enough times herself counselling people. How was he to know that word, “retire,” was half of her problem, and cancer was the other half?

More tears came. She choked out, “I’m not usually a sobbin’, sobbin’, sobbin’ woman; I promise.”

“‘Sobbin’ Women!’ My favorite song from ‘Seven Brides for Seven Brothers!’” He laughed.

Debbie smiled through tears. “It’s my favorite song from that musical too, but I haven’t thought of it for years. My brain seems to be taking its own walk and thinking its own thoughts today.”

“Do you want to tell me which thoughts are making you cry?”

She sighed. “I’m a bookie’s wife.”

His white eyebrows raised just a bit.

Debbie shook her head. “Not that kind of bookie. People call him Bookie because he reads so much and loves books. We own a small bookshop. Customers hang out to talk more than to buy books. I’m used to listening to other people’s troubles, not sharing mine.”

“Well, maybe that’s why God sent me here today, just for you. I’m a good listener, and I’ve got time. You’re my only patient this afternoon. Why don’t you give me a try?”

Once she started talking there was no stopping. It all tumbled out. She didn’t know if she was even making sense, but he nodded at the right times and looked sympathetic. After she finished and took a deep breath, he summarized with questions, just as she often did after an impromptu counseling session.

“So let me see if I get it. You’ve been a bookie’s wife for fifty years, and your husband doesn’t want to retire. He feels his work is a calling from God. You don’t want to discourage him or be the reason he sells the bookstore before God wants him to, but you’re exhausted from fighting cancer and working at the shop, and once in a while, life seems too much. You’ve run out of everything and have nothing left to give to people. You wish the two of you could retire to a cabin by a beautiful lake and rock away your time until God calls you home to heaven.”

She shrugged. “It sounds so selfish when you say it like that.”

He shook his head. “You don’t sound selfish. You sound tired. You’ve run out of your own strength, and that’s a wonderful thing. Maybe you know where I’m going with this?”

She shook her head.

“I’m not sure where I’m going either. I have to talk to God a minute.”

She waited in surprised silence while the old man sat with gnarled hands folded and white head bowed. She wondered if he’d fallen asleep. Then he spoke.

“Okay, I had to ask God to do a thing of two about this. And I want to say this to you. We run dry, but God never does. He’ll love and help people through us until he says it’s time to quit. And young lady, you need more naps. Lots more naps. And maybe only work at the bookstore a day or two a week instead of six days like you have been.”

A smiling young woman knocked and came into the room. “You ready, Grandpa? You’re going to be late if we don’t leave soon.”

“I’m so sorry,” the dentist said to Debbie. “I have to leave for my cancer treatment. I guess you’ll have to come back when your usual dentist is here. You asked if he’s my son. No, he’s not. My son is retired. He’s my grandson.”

“Grandson! How old are you?” Debbie blurted out the question before she had a chance to think it might sound rude.

“Ninety-seven. I hope to keep practicing as a dentist until I’m 100, if this confounded cancer doesn’t take me to heaven first. I’m one of the guinea pigs at the hospital. Like you, I’m in a clinical trial. I’ll tell the nurses at the cancer center you said hi.”

Debbie’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know I’m in a clinical trial?”

“I’ve seen you and your husband in the waiting room. You two always have your noses in your books.”

She heard the familiar chuckle again as the door closed. That’s where she’d heard it—the cancer center.  

This guy had cancer, was twenty years older than she was, and wanted to keep working until he was 100?

Thoughts turned to prayer as Debbie put on her coat and headed out of the office. Lord, I can’t promise I’ll want to keep working until I’m 100. Those rocking chairs and a cabin at a lake still sound good to me, but I promise you this. I’ll do a better job of trusting you until you say it’s time to quit. And I’ll take more naps.

Debbie tried to open the passenger door of the car, but it was locked. Her bookie was leaned on the headrest with his book over his face. She could hear him snoring through the closed window. He jumped when she knocked, got out, and hurried around to open her door.

“All done, honey?”

“Not quite. More like I’m ready to start again, but I want you to think about something. How about if we only open the bookstore five days a week instead of six? I don’t think I’m the only one getting tired.”

He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

She sighed, and her bookie laughed.

“We aren’t going to open it anymore than three days a week. God and I had a chat about it when you were seeing Dr. Miller. How is the young whippersnapper?”

She laughed, happier than she’d been in years. “The young whippersnapper isn’t as young as you think. And when he asks God to do a thing or two, I guess God answers! I’ll tell you about it on the way back to the bookstore.”

“On the way home,” he said. “I closed the shop for the rest of today.”

But she didn’t say anything. He glanced over at her. She was sleeping already, leaned up against her car window, with a smile on her face.  

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

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

by Donna Poole

“When you grow up, you should marry that nice little Johnnie Poole.”

I don’t know how many times Mom said that to me, but I thought it was too many! I had no intention of marrying the “nice little Johnnie Poole.” But he had every intention of marrying me.

This week was that nice little Johnnie Poole’s seventy seventh birthday. My mom and his mom thought he was perfect, so if they were alive, they’d appreciate the fact that he’s now reached the age of double perfection—double sevens.

Our story goes a long way back, Johnnie Poole’s and mine. Before we even went to kindergarten, we sang in a children’s choir at church. We wore short white jackets with arms that snapped at the wrists. Teachers tied red or black large crepe paper bows around our necks. We looked uniform and adorable except for that nice little Johnnie Poole. He looked adorable with his big brown eyes, but he didn’t look uniform. He was the only child who refused to fasten the snaps at his wrists and the only one who chewed his crepe paper bow while we waited to be called to the platform and wow the adults with our cuteness. That made him the only kid who stood on the platform with red or black lips and chin.

Johnnie Poole’s behavior drove me crazy. Being the preschool control freak I was, I told him every time before we sang to stop chewing the bow and to fasten his snaps. And every time he looked at me with those inscrutable brown eyes and kept chewing. But he grew up and married me anyway.

When we started school, Johnnie wanted to show off his academic progress one day after church. A blackboard was nearby, and he said, “I can write my name. Want to see?”

Slowly, carefully, he wrote, J-O-H-N, put down the chalk, and waited for a compliment.

“That’s now how you spell John,” I informed him. “Listen to the word. John. John. Do you hear any H? I don’t think so.”

He put the chalk in the tray, looked at me calmly, and said, “I guess I should know how to spell my own name.”

And then he walked away. Infuriating boy. Bossy little girl. But he grew up and married me anyway.

Johnnie and I were supposed to get baptized at the same time when we were eight years old, but I had to get my tonsils out, and the doctor said no baptism. He thought being dunked in a tank of water might lower my immune system, and a cold could then prevent the surgery.

After the tonsillectomy, I was in a mood. The doctor had assured me it wouldn’t hurt, but I had a sore throat that felt like the inside of a smoldering volcano. I was mad at the world. And then nice little Johnnie Poole and his parents came to our house. As the adults chatted, he said quietly in my ear in a sing-song voice, “Ha ha ha ha ha. I got baptized and you couldn’t.”

I looked at him, walked into my bedroom, and closed the door. Soon Mom came in. “You come out here and play with that nice little Johnnie Poole.”

“I can’t. I’m too sick.”

“I’m getting out some ice cream. If you don’t come out and play with him, you can’t have any.”

I carefully weighed my options. Ice cream would feel heavenly on my scorching throat, but I’d have to eat it with the infuriating boy. I stayed in my room.

We laugh about it now; we both behaved badly, but I won the brat contest. Still, Johnnie grew up and married me anyway.

When I was in fifth grade, we moved out of the area because Dad’s work transferred him. They sent him back to the same area for a short time when I was halfway through seventh grade. David, a boy I knew, talked to me between Sunday school and church.

“A guy wants to sit with you. He’s a really nice guy. Everyone in youth group likes him. He’s funny, and good looking too. He sent me to ask you if you will sit with him in church.”

“Who is it?”

“I’m not supposed to say until you answer.”

“David, I’m not going to answer until I know who it is.”

“Well, okay. It’s Johnnie Poole.”

“Johnnie Poole? I’ve known him all my life! If he wants to sit with me, tell him to ask me himself!”

“He’s too shy.”

“Well, then, the answer is no.”

But he grew up and married me anyway.

When it came time for our family to move again, Johnnie said goodbye to me after church. And then he returned and said goodbye again. And again. And again. Finally, he asked if he could write to me. We only moved about forty miles away and saw each other occasionally, but I got many letters during junior high and high school signed, “Your friend, Johnnie Poole.”

And I thought of him only as a friend. I dated another boy all through high school. Johnnie got pretty mad when he found out about it, but he grew up and married me anyway.

We dated during college. I remember one Sunday we were at his parents’ home after church. I asked if he wanted to go to town and get an ice cream cone, and he said no. I asked again, and again he said no.

“Johnnie,” his mom said, “if Donna wants ice cream, you should take her to get it.”

His dad wanted a milkshake. His mom didn’t want anything; I think perhaps she was feeling bad. That was the first and last time she ever took anyone’s side but Johnnie’s. He wouldn’t say a word all the way to town.

Johnnie pulled into the parking lot. I expected him to go in and buy his dad’s shake and my cone; that’s how things were done in the sixties. But no. “You want a cone, you go in and get it,” he said.

I took the high road. “Okay. What flavor would you like?”

“I don’t want a cone.”

I returned carrying his dad’s shake, a cone for him, and one for me. He didn’t open my door; getting into the car was tricky, but I managed.

“Here’s your cone.”

Silence.

“Would you please take your cone?”

Silence.

“I can’t hold all this much longer. Please take your cone.”

“I told you I didn’t want a cone.”

But he took it. Then he rolled down his window; this was back when you rolled them down by hand, and he slung that cone into the parking lot. He hadn’t wanted to drive to town, and then his mom had taken my side. And then I did something worse, much worse. I laughed. I ate my cone, and I laughed most of the way back to his house. But he married me anyway.

Oh, I should tell you about an argument we had at college. As things heated up, Johnnie said, “I wish I hadn’t gotten those concert tickets! I don’t want to go with you.”

“Fine, because I don’t want to go with you either!”

We were driving in town. I opened my window and threw the tickets into a snowbank. John pulled over, stopped, and looked at me. “Get out and pick up those tickets.”

“You want those tickets? You get out and pick them up yourself.”

I won the staring contest that followed. John got out and picked up the tickets. We were still the two bratty eight-year-olds even though we were eighteen. But he married me anyway.

John often jokingly asked me to marry him and then produced a ring from a bubble gum machine or a piece of string and laughed. Once we went with his parents and a friend to Georgia. The friend, John, and I were all on top of Stone Mountain, Georgia. The view was incredible, and John asked me to marry him. Back then proposals weren’t group or family affairs with photo sessions. They were quiet, romantic events between two, but we were three.

I laughed. “I’m not falling for that again!”

He’d been serious. He was so hurt he didn’t speak to me the rest of the day. Awkward, because we were with the friend, his parents, and his sister and her husband. Did they notice he was upset?

This should answer the question. His mom asked, “Donna, what did you do to Johnnie?”

Later that night we were alone for a minute or two in the living room. John glared at me. “Do you want to marry me or not? And this is your last chance!”

Marriage didn’t improve our behavior, not right away. John wanted to fold socks and towels the way his mom did. I wanted to fold them the way my mom did. And we had lots of other arguments over things just as important. But he loved me still.

We looked as childish as we acted. Once a salesmen came to the door and asked if our parents were home.

We’d been married about a year when I took a good look at that nice little Johnnie Poole, now called John, or honey. He was working full time and going to college, and he was tired. And I was tired of fighting. I wish I could tell you God got ahold of me, but it wasn’t anything that spiritual. I remember thinking, from now on I’m going to only argue about things that really matter to me.

I found to my surprise few things mattered, and we became a team. We finally grew up and became people God could use to show his love to others, and we became each other’s cheer leaders, comfort, encouragement, support, and best friends.

Fifty-six years of marriage brings breath taking joy and unspeakable sorrow, but we’ve faced it together. Mom was right all along. I love that nice little Johnnie Poole more than words can say, and I’m glad he married me. He’s seventy-seven, and I hope he lives to be at least ninety-seven and loves me still.

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

Photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer