Author: gettingofftheinterstate

by Donna Poole

The second he heard the wood splitting ten-year-old Chislon dropped the hammer and nails and covered his head, but he wasn’t quick enough. The blow sent him sprawling onto the tools on the carpenter table.

“Fool!” Demas, his master shouted. “By now you should know better! How many more good pieces of my wood are you going to ruin?” Demas hauled him up, spit in his face, and raised his fist.

Laughter came from the two tough looking men in the carpenter’s shop with him, men Chislon feared as much as he did his master. He didn’t know their names; he silently called them Rough and Rougher. They came only to the shop, never to the house, and the one especially enjoyed abusing Chislon as much as Demas did.

“Let me teach the boy a lesson, Demas,” Rougher said now. “There are easier ways than fists.”

Rougher yanked Chislon away from Demas, spun him around, held him at arm’s length, and kicked him so hard in the backside that Demas cracked his head on the wall on the other side of the room. Everything spun and he felt like he was going to get sick. All three men laughed like it was some kind of joke.

“Get up and clean the mess you made of the tools on the table,” Demas ordered.

“Let him sit a minute; why don’t you,” Rough, the man who never hurt him suggested. “We have business to discuss. Where’s the wine?”

“Chislon! Get inside and tell Tikvah to bring wine and glasses out here. And hurry!”

Chislon struggled to get up, but his leg was twisted under him, and he was too slow for Demas’s liking. The man hauled him up, leaving bruises on his upper arms, and shoved him toward the door.

“I’ll bring back the wine,” Chislon offered. He didn’t like the way the men looked at his mistress.

“Do as I say, or I’ll beat you with the ropes!” Demas roared.

Chislon could tell Tikvah didn’t like going into the shop when the men were there. She pulled her longest robe around herself and hurried as quickly as possible in and out of the shop. As she left, one of the men said something Chislon couldn’t hear, and the other two laughed.

Chislon began cleaning up the table, and the men started drinking and talking in low voices. He only caught a word here and there.

Finally, Demas said, “Enough with the drinking for now, boys. We’ve got work to do later. We need clear heads.”

Then the three men finished the way they always did. They raised their wine glasses to each other and said in unison, “I know where your families live.” They laughed, but the looks they gave each other made Chislon shiver.

Chislom was disappointed. He’d hoped they’d drink themselves into a stupor. Whenever they did that, he escaped and tried to see if the man Jesus was anywhere nearby. He loved listening to him.

He’d first seen Jesus in Capernaum. Demas had told Tikvah that a wealthy merchant in Capernaum had ordered a huge load of his carpentry, enough to make the seven days’ travel one way worth his while. But when it came time to leave, he’d put Chislon in the back of the wagon with just one table. A few miles down the road Chislon trembled when they’d stopped and picked up Demas’s two rough buddies.

“No abusing the boy on this trip,” Rough had said to Demas and Rougher. “We can’t draw any attention to ourselves.”

“What’s the fun in that?” Demas grumbled. “The only reason I brought the boy was to give us a little fun.”

“He’s right this time, Demas,” Rougher said. “We don’t want the wrong kind of attention. And it’s good you brought the kid. He’ll make us look innocent.”

Rough asked, “But what will we do with him while we…handle our business? That will take several hours.”

“To deliver the table you mean?” And all the men laughed again.

“He’s ten now,” Demas said. “He can look after himself.”

Those seven days to Capernaum were the longest Chislom could remember going without a beating. His parents had sold him to pay off debt when he’d been a baby. From what he’d heard, Tikvah had wanted a child, and Demas had wanted a slave. He refused to let Tikvah give Chilsom even a sleeping mat.

“He needs to learn his place. He’s bad blood. What kind of people sell their own child?”

Demas’s home was nicer than most homes in Jerusalem. Some of the floors were covered, but Demas made Chilsom sleep on the dirt part with no mat, and sometimes, on cold nights, he took his cloak too. On those nights the bruises and cuts hurt more than usual, and he could taste the bitter hatred building inside.

When I get big enough, I’m going to kill you. He’d even told his plan to Tikvah. He’d tried to spare her a beating by stepping in front of her but had only earned both of them a more severe punishment.

After Demas had fallen into a drunken sleep, Tikvah had wiped Chislom’s tears and covered him with one of her robes. “I’m going to kill him someday,” he’d whispered to her,

“Don’t say that, little one,” she’d whispered back, holding him close. “He’s a good man. It’s just the wine. Too much wine.”

Chislom wished Tikvah was with him when the men set him loose in Capernaum. He felt a little lightheaded. The men hadn’t beaten him, but they hadn’t fed him much either. He saw a crowd on a hillside, standing, listening to a man called Jesus. He’d never heard such wonderful words. He felt like Jesus was speaking right to him.

Chilsom could hardly believe his eyes at what he saw next. Jesus told the people to sit down. He took a little boy’s lunch, held it up to heaven, blessed it, broke it into pieces, and handed it to twelve men someone said were his disciples. Chilsom could smell the fish and the fresh bread and his stomach growled. He watched the disciples give people as much food as they wanted, and it wasn’t running out! Where was it coming from? How was Jesus doing this?

“How many people are here?” he asked a boy sitting next to him.

“Father says about 5,000 men plus women and children.”

Chislom’s heart sank. “They’re going to run out before they get to us, and I’m so hungry. I haven’t eaten much this week.”

The boy studied him. Chislom knew old bruises were still visible. “My name’s Barnabus. If I get some food and you don’t, I’ll give you mine.”

“Why would you do that?”

Barnabus smiled. “My parents and I follow Jesus everywhere he goes. He teaches us to love and give. I think he’s the Messiah.”

Chislom caught his breath. “The one who will save Israel from Roman rule? Do you think he could save servant boys from cruel masters?”

Barnabus’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry you have a bad master. I don’t know what all Jesus will do, but my mother says he will save people from their sins. She thinks he’s the son of God!”

The boys didn’t talk anymore after that because they each got a heaping amount of food.

It was food Chislom had trouble keeping on his stomach, because the no beating rule didn’t apply on the seven-day trip back to Jerusalem. The men were in good spirits. Bags of gold filled the back of the wagon. Chislom wondered how they’d gotten all that by selling one table, but he knew better than to ask. They celebrated by beating him and drinking. And every drinking session ended with raised glasses, a laugh, and an “I know where your families live.”

As he lay, bruised and bleeding on the ground every night on the way home, Chislom thought, When I get big enough, I will kill you all. Sometimes, before he fell asleep, he thought about Barnabus who’d been kind to him. He hoped he get to see the boy again sometime, and Jesus too.

Back home, life went on. Chislom tried to keep the hate out of his heart, but Demas made it impossible. Early one morning Chislom woke up hearing Demas talking to Tikvah. “I’m going away again for a week, maybe longer, a business trip.”

“Are you taking Chislom?”

“Not this time. I’m taking my two friends. And don’t you spoil that boy while I’m gone, woman. You make him work his usual fourteen hour day in the shop. If you don’t, you’ll both pay when I get back. Understand?”

“Yes, Demas.”

The minute the wagon rolled away Tikvah started fixing Chislom the biggest breakfast he could remember eating. And she packed him a lunch and rolled it in a towel.

Her eyes sparkled with joy. “Hurry and eat your breakfast, little one. That Jesus you always talk to me about is coming to town today. I can already hear the shouts of the people!”

“But Master Demas said…”

“Hush. Just hurry.”

Chislom tucked his lunch into his tunic and pushed his way through a crowd of people. Many were waving Palm branches and shouting “Hosanna! Blessed is he that comes in the name of the Lord!”

He squeezed into a hole in the crowd near the road and felt someone elbow him. “Hey, it’s you!” Barnabus said smiling. “You got here just in time. Jesus is almost here! And you don’t have a Palm branch to wave. I’ve got two. Take one! Are you still hungry like when I met you?”

Chislom laughed. “No, I’m stuffed. I had a big breakfast.”

“Lucky you! We left so early this morning I didn’t have time to eat! My stomach is trying to eat my ribs!”

Chislom thought he heard a stomach growl even with all the shouting going on around them. “Was that you?”

The other boy laughed and nodded.

Chislom pulled out his lunch. “Here. You need this more than I do.”

“But what if you get hungry later?”

A shrug. “I’m used to being hungry. Besides, my master is gone, so my mistress will feed me something good tonight. I might even get a sleeping mat and a blanket!”

Compassion crossed Barnabus’s face, but there was no time for questions. They could both see Jesus! He was right in front of them, riding a donkey! They waved their Palm branches high over their heads and shouted, “Hosanna!” with the rest of the crowd. Barnabus’s Hosanna was a bit muffled because part of a sandwich was falling out of his mouth.

Jesus looked directly at them and smiled. “Love is stronger than hate,” he said. “Love always gives, and love always wins. Remember that.”

Chislom’s face burned with shame. I feel like he looked right into my heart and saw all the hate. But maybe he knows I gave Barnabus my lunch too. For the first time in his life he felt ashamed of his sin, but he didn’t know what to do about it. He turned to ask Barnabus, but the boy was being pulled away by a kind looking woman, probably his mother.

“Hope I see you again sometime!” Barnabus hollered.

Chislom waved and smiled. I wish I had a mother. I wonder if Tikvah would come with me to see Jesus before he leaves Jerusalem.

The week passed in a blur of happiness for Chislom and Tikvah too. If Chislom had ever been happy before, he didn’t remember it, and he’d never seen Tikvah smile so much. She hugged him, fed him, and called him, “my boy.” She made sure he was warm and cozy at night. The only time a shadow crossed her face was when Chislom tried to talk about Demas.

“I don’t want him to hurt you, Chislom, but I can’t stop him. I have no family. No place to run. And he’s a good man, when he’s not drinking. And look what a good provider he is. He must be very talented and hard working to give us such a lovely home and so much food.”

Chislom knew better. He did most of the work done in the carpenter’s shop, and he wasn’t talented. Demas must be getting money from somewhere else. He certainly wasn’t making it from wealthy clients he was supposedly selling to on his long business trips.

He’s not a good man. I don’t know where he gets his money, but I think it has something to do with his two wicked friends. And Tikvah is wrong. He beats me even when he isn’t drunk. He enjoys hurting me.

But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to make another shadow cross the face of the only woman in the world he loved.

On Friday Chislom woke up feeling the uneasy heaviness he felt before a thunderstorm. Perhaps Demas is coming home today. The thought of that sucked the week’s happiness from his heart and filled it with dread and hatred. He was too restless to sleep. As soon as he finished breakfast, he asked Tikvah if he could take a long walk. He started hearing angry shouts and followed the sound. What was happening? He climbed a steep hill and stood too horrified to move. Three men hung pinned like helpless bugs to three crosses. Someone had beaten the face of the man in the middle so it was beyond recognition, but he knew the other two. The men dying in agony on the cross were Rough and Rougher. He couldn’t bear to look at them, but he couldn’t look away either. He started to shiver and couldn’t stop.

A kind hand touched his shoulder. A woman pulled him close. “Look away. You shouldn’t be here. I don’t know why I let Barnabus talk me into coming, but we’ve followed Jesus this far. It seems fitting we follow him to the end.” She begam quietly sobbing. “I still believe he is the son of God. No man could do the things he’s done.”

Jesus? The man beaten so terribly was Jesus? But hadn’t he said love always wins?

“Barnabus,” Chilsom whispered, “the other two men. What did they do?”

Barnabus wiped tears from his face with the back of his hand. “People say they were part of a viscous band of robbers. They beat people and robbed them. There were three, but one got away, and the other two were so terrified of him they wouldn’t give up his name.”

The raised glasses of wine. The laughter. The words, “I know where your families live.” How am I going to go back home? But I have to. I’m the only one who can protect Tikvah now. I don’t know how I’ll do it, but somehow I will.

“Chislom, I’m taking Barnabus home. You go home too. Please. This is a horrible place to be. The demons are dancing; I can almost hear their screams. That good man, Jesus, has never done one thing wrong. Somehow, I feel he’s suffering now for my sins, for the sins of the world, and I can’t bear it.”

Sobbing she pulled Barnabus away. He called back, “Chislom, where do you live? I’ll find you again!”

Chislom called back, but he didn’t know if his friend heard him above the clamor, the taunts people were hurling at the men on the cross, especially at Jesus. They were telling him to come off the cross and save himself if he was God the Son.

Rough and Rougher were making fun of Jesus too. How could they? He was struggling to breathe and didn’t answer a word to his tormenters.

Then Rougher looked at Jesus for a long minute. “Be quiet!” he said to Rough. “We deserve what we’re getting now, but this man is innocent.” He looked at Jesus and spoke in a quieter voice. Chislom listened hard to hear him. “Lord, remember me when you set up your kingdom.”

Chislom caught his breath in wonder. He heard all the unspoken things Rougher wasn’t saying. He was repenting of his sins and believing Jesus was the Son of God. But would Jesus forgive him?

“Today,” Jesus said to the man who had tortured and beaten Chislom and so many others, “you will be with me in Paradise.”

He doesn’t deserve Paradise. Why are you forgiving him so easily? You don’t know all the horrible things he’s done.

But somehow, Chislom knew his thoughts were lies. Jesus did know and forgave him anyway. Then Jesus cried loudly, “Father, forgive them. They don’t know what they are doing to me.”

He’s even forgiving the men who’ve nailed him to that cross? The ones who’ve bashed in his face so I didn’t even recognize him? The ones who pushed that crown of thorns onto his head so the blood is dripping into his eyes? If that’s how love wins, I don’t want any part of it.

Chilsom turned and ran for home and a plan formed in his mind. He would find and hide a rock big enough to kill, and the next time Demas got drunk and slept, he’d bash his head in with it. He’s take care of himself, and Tikvah too. No one would ever hurt them again.

But Demas wasn’t home. Chilsom couldn’t speak, eat, or sleep. He couldn’t tell Tikvah what was wrong with him. He didn’t cry, just stared off into space. She prayed and tried to help him, but he pulled away.

Early on Sunday morning before the sun rose Tikvah heard pounding on the door. Chilsom heard it too, but he couldn’t move. If it was Demas, he’d find the rock he’d hidden, and he’d use it at the right time. He didn’t know how he’d do it when he couldn’t find the strength to sit up, but he’d manage.

Then he recognized the voices at the door, Barnabus and his mother. “Yes, yes,” Tikvah said. “If he will go with you I will too. Perhaps you are a God send.”

She turned to call Chilsom, but he was already on his feet. He didn’t know where they were going, but somehow, he knew they had to go there. The little group of four made their way in the predawn hours through the quiet streets and into an enclosed, beautiful garden. Birds were singing, the sun was rising, and a man was sitting on a bench under a flowering tree.

“Chilsom, Tikvah,” a quiet voice said, “your names mean hope, and I’m here to give you eternal hope.”

“It can’t be Jesus,” Chilsom said to Barnabus. “I watched him die.”

Barnabus’s mom gave him a gentle push. “Yes, he died. But he’s alive now. The Son of God can’t stay dead.”

Chilsom ran crying to Jesus and buried his face on his knees. “I’m so sorry for my hatred. Will you forgive me? And will you help me love Demas when he comes home?”

“I forgive you, Chilsom, and Demas won’t be coming home. After he deserted his friends and ran off to escape capture, his wagon and all his gold plunged over a cliff. He was in it. His last words were to beg God for forgiveness.”

Tikvah began crying softly. “He was a good man.”

“No,” Jesus said. “He was a bad man. But he is a very good man now.”

Tikvah dropped to her knees. “My Lord and my God,” she said to Jesus. “Will you forgive me too?”

“When I died on the cross I took the sin of the world into my heart, felt the pain and shame, and tasted death for everyone. Now, you’ve repented. Your sin is gone. I made it not to be. How do you feel?”

Tikvah smiled through tears. “I feel like love is the only thing left in the world,” she said.

“Take Chilsom, go home, and love him as a son,” Jesus said. “Love always wins in the end.”

Hand in hand, mother and son left the garden to begin a new chapter. Chilsom liked this new feeling called hope. He smiled a goodbye to Barnabus over his shoulder, but his friend was busy talking to Jesus.

“Hurry, Mother,” Chilsom said, pulling her hand. “I have a rock to get rid of.”

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

When the train whistle blew, I threw my head back and laughed. The other passengers probably thought I was crazy, but I didn’t care. Did you ever have a dream come true, something you’d always wanted but never thought you’d get? The smells of the crowded city were already behind me, and out of my window I could see the countryside flashing by more beautiful than any painting. The colors of the autumn leaves were brilliant in the morning sun.

I’d wanted to take a train excursion ever since I’d been a little girl and heard my dad’s stories about when he and Grandpa had worked on the Lehigh Valley Railroad. If only Dad could see the luxury train I was riding now! But before I could even begin to describe it to him in my mind, my head flew back, violently hitting the seat behind me, and the train began screeching on the tracks. It finally rumbled to a halt, the doors opened, and a youngish man—mid forties, climbed aboard.

He walked straight to my seat and snatched my ticket out of my hand. “There’s been a mistake. You’ve got my seat. You need to get off here.”

He hauled me out of my seat, and there I was, standing in the aisle, rubbing my wrists, sore where he’d manhandled me. The car attendant was politely motioning me toward the door.

“Wait just a minute!” I sputtered. “Is this even legal? Did you see what he did? He just stole my ticket, and you’re going to let him get away with it?”

“Hey, you!” the thief hollered, “I didn’t really have any choice. You know how this works!”

I shook my head, trying to make sense of what was happening, but the headache I’d gotten when the train had slammed my head into the seat worsened. What is he talking about? I know how what works?

The attendant’s hand was firmly under my elbow, and he was helping me off the train.

“Wait! How am I supposed to get back to the city?”

He smiled. “Don’t worry. You’ll manage.”

I jumped back from the tracks as the train began to pick up speed and watched it, with all its gleaming beauty, as it disappeared from my sight. The last sound I heard was its poignant whistle, and with everything in me, I wanted to be back on that train. I’d never felt so alone.

There was nothing to be done about it though. I’d been robbed of my ticket; no one had helped me, and instead of assisting me, the person in charge had actually aided and abetted the thief. I could think a bit straighter now. I needed to do two things, report this crime, and call for a ride back to the city. I reached in my jacket pocket for my cell. Great. It was gone. It must have fallen out when the thief had hauled me out of the most comfortable seat I’d ever sat in.

Now what? I wasn’t stupid enough to hitchhike. I might have chanced it in my twenties, but by the time you’re sixty, you’ve learned a thing or two. I’d follow the tracks back. I couldn’t be that far out of town, could I? A cloud covered the sun, and I shivered and started walking. Within minutes the beautiful autumn day turned nasty; windy and rainy, spitting snowflakes, even worrying me with an occasional rumble of thunder. I usually walked five miles a day for exercise, so I could estimate distance. My journey back to town seemed like fifteen miles but it was probably more like ten, and it was dark by the time I got home, shivering, wet, and trying to explain to my husband what had happened to my beautiful dream trip.

“Did anyone hurt you?” Jerry asked.  “You’re not making a whole lot of sense.”

The look I gave him stopped more questions. “Okay, listen. I think you need to sleep.” He made me a cup of hot tea and tucked me into bed.

The next day Jerry took me to the police station. It was only when they asked me for details that I realized I couldn’t remember the address of the station or the number of the train. When I looked to Jerry for support, he looked back at me as confused as I was.

“Honey, you never did tell me the details of your trip, only that you were heading west and you’d keep in touch by cell.”

The cops looked at each other like I was nuts, shrugged and said there was nothing they could do, and I should take it up with the railroad.

When we left the police station, I told Jerry about hitting my head on the train seat. Our next stop was the walk-in clinic; Jerry insisted. After they cleared me, we stopped and got me a new phone.

In the Uber on the way home, I was as tired and as angry as I’ve ever been. I tried to explain to Jerry they’d robbed me of more than a ticket. They’d taken a dream, and something else, something I couldn’t put into words. I felt helpless, and I didn’t like it.

“Okay, honey, just let it go. Promise me? Whatever you paid for the ticket, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like we’re broke. I don’t want you running all over the city trying to solve this mystery. Forget it, okay?”

I nodded, and he took that as a promise. It wasn’t. I was furious. I’d probably never find the man who’d robbed me, but the railway company needed to be held accountable. I was a woman on a mission. First step; find out who I’d paid for my ticket. I checked credit and debit cards, nothing. Online banking, nada. Did I have a concussion? The doctor had said I was fine, so why couldn’t I remember where I’d boughten the ticket and how I’d paid for it? My brain felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton. Had I paid cash? When I checked my emergency fund in the cookie jar, it was all there.

I tried to let it go, but I couldn’t. So, I began a new routine. Being newly retired, I had the luxury of time. Every day, I packed a tuna sandwich, called an Uber, and began checking train stations. It was a discouraging process in a big city. Nothing looked familiar. Finally, one day I got lucky.

My Uber driver that day was Dominic, a short little Italian who smelled like garlic and reminded me of my dad. I was exhausted and told him the whole story.

“You think I’m crazy?” I asked.

He shook his head and chuckled. “Maybe got your brains a bit rattled when your head hit the seat, but I think I know where you got the ticket. Bet you didn’t pay for it though.”

“What do you mean? Did I win the ticket in a lottery or something?”

He snorted. “Nah. I didn’t say it was free. Somebody paid for it big time. Wasn’t you though.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re hard to understand?”

“Yep. My parents did, after I learned English at school and refused to speak Italian at home anymore.”

That distracted me. “You did that? Can you still speak Italian?”

He shook his head. “Only a few words. I can understand it though.”

He stopped. “Out you go.”

I glanced out of the window. The place looked more like a Victorian house than a train station. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been here before, but something seemed familiar. I hesitated for a moment. Then I heard it, that unmistakable sound, a haunting train whistle, calling me to a place I’d never been but knew I belonged.

Dominic grinned. “Sound like a dinner bell calling you home?”

I nodded. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Nada. Vai con Dio.”

I protested. “Uber drivers don’t work for free.”

“Better hurry if you’re going to make that train.”

“Thanks, Dominic. You go with God too.”

My last sight of Dominic, he was lighting a big cigar, the kind my Uncle Frank always smoked.

I was out of breath when I got inside the station, but no one else was in line at the ticket counter. I didn’t know how I was going to explain my sudden departure to Jerry, but somehow I’d make him understand.

“One for the trip West,” I said.

He shoved up the sleeves of his baggy white shirt and consulted a sheet of paper on a clip board. A roster? What? No computer?

“Back so soon, Joan? Nope, just as I thought. Your name isn’t on the list. And you can’t buy a ticket. The benefactor supplies them.”

I didn’t know I could yell so loudly, especially not in public, and definitely not at a stranger. “Listen, you…”

He taped his name badge. “Clarence.”

“Okay, Clarence. You’re going to be lucky if I don’t sue the pants off you and this whole cheating railroad. I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life.”

At the top of my lungs, I told him my entire experience of being unceremoniously exited from the train by a bully aided and abetted by a railway employee. I told him what I thought of his ridiculous tale of a benefactor and a free ticket, and then I slapped my debit card on the counter.

“Now give me a ticket before that train leaves. I have to get on it.”

Then I heard it. The sweet, sad sound of the whistle. The train was leaving the station.

Clarence smiled. “Put that away. I don’t have any way to process it. I’m telling you, the tickets are free, but only for those who are on the list, and only when it’s their time for the trip.”

“I want to see your boss.”

“He isn’t here. He never comes here.”

“I’m waiting.”

He sighed a tired sigh. “Be my guest.”

I sat on a bench and glared at him. After a while I ate my tuna sandwich. I waited again. I marched back up to the counter.

“How many times a day does the train leave this station?”

He glanced up at me, rubbing his eyes. He looked tired, but I refused to pity him. He was part of the conspiracy robbing me of my dream.

“Once,” Clarence said. “That train comes once a day. You might as well go home, Joan.”

“I’ll be back.” I tried to make it sound like a threat. I knew I probably didn’t look very intimidating, not at five feet two and a half inches tall with white hair.

“I can’t wait,” he said.

Outside I called the same Uber company I’d called in the morning and asked for Dominic. “We don’t have a Dominic,” the pleasant voice replied. “Perhaps you wanted Danny? We have a Danny.”

I didn’t believe her, but I was exhausted. “Sure, whatever. Send Danny.”

I almost fell asleep on the way back to the apartment. Just before I got home, I said, “Hey, Danny, do you know another driver named Dominic?”

“Nope. That was my grandpa’s name though.”

“Was he an Uber driver too?”

He laughed. “No. He worked for a railroad years ago when he was young. Can’t remember the name of the railroad though.”

I handed my card over the seat to pay him. “It wasn’t the Lehigh Valley Railroad by any chance, was it?”

“Yeah! That was it!”

I took the elevator up to my apartment. I desperately needed a nap. Thoughts tangled in my brain. I collapsed on the couch, and that’s where Jerry found me when he got home.

“Hey, sleepy head. You haven’t been there all day, have you?”

I shook my head. Why does my head still hurt so much?

“What have you been doing?”

“Oh, this and that. Why are you asking?” And why do I sound so snappy?

“I don’t mean to give you the third degree, but you haven’t seemed yourself lately.”

“I’m okay. Want to order in Italian for supper?”

“We could, but I was thinking Chinese.”

“No, I’m really hungry for Italian.”

Soon one day was like the next. As soon as Jerry left for work, I packed a tuna sandwich, called an Uber, and asked for Dominic. There was never a Dominic, so I took the next available driver, and went to the train station.

Once there, I hassled Clarence, but each day I seemed to lose a bit more fire. I never could get a ticket, but I watched the others who did. And Clarence was right. No money or credit cards exchanged hands. He consulted his handwritten paper roster. I heard the train whistle come in, sounding joyful, and I heard it leave without me. Then I ate my tuna sandwich.

Sometimes I talked to Clarence. He always wore a baggy white shirt. I told him he looked like Clarence the angel in the movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life.” He looked puzzled and said he’d never heard of it.”

“What planet do you live on? Everyone has heard of that movie.”

“Obviously, not everyone.”

Then one day he told me he hated the smell of tuna. “Reminds me of the story of Jonah and the whale,” he said. “I bet that’s just what it smelled like in the belly of the big fish where Jonah was for three days and nights.”

I laughed. “So, you don’t know about Clarence the angel, but you do know about Jonah.”

“Why don’t you bring a peanut butter and jelly sandwich like Sarah?”

“Who?”

He sighed. “Just as I thought. You don’t even know you’re not the only one here, do you? Sarah comes every day too. Just like you, she got off the train and can’t wait to get back on. I can excuse her; she’s only six. But you should know better. You have better things to do with your time than wait here every day. You have grown children and sixteen grandchildren you could be spending time with.”

I felt a pang of guilt. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d thought about my family. Even Jerry was more of an afterthought, a shadow. I was so tired by the time he got home every night I barely paid attention to him.

“Clarence! How did you know about…?”

But a tiny hand slipping into mine distracted me before I could ask any questions. “Will you help me find Mommy?”

I looked down into wide brown eyes, and straight dark hair.

“Sarah, honey, I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to help you find your mommy.”

Clarence was smiling. “If you want to help her, you can help her.”

“Well of course I want to help her. What kind of person do you think I am?”

I woke up in a hospital bed. Machines beeped softly. The IV in my arm stung, and I had the world’s worse headache. I winced and touched my forehead, but I couldn’t feel it. It was wrapped in thick bandages. Despite the pain, I was starving.

A nurse bent over me, checking my pulse. He wore a baggy white shirt. “Clarence?” I murmured, “I’m so hungry. Can you get me a tuna sandwich?”

He chuckled. “Dominic, go to the cafeteria and bring back one tuna on wheat.”

I smiled at the faint scent of garlic. So, Dominic didn’t drive Uber anymore. He worked at the hospital.

Clarence sat next to me while I ate the sandwich. “I had the strangest dream about you. You were a ticket agent at a train station, and I got kicked off the most wonderful train. I think it might have been headed for heaven.”

He chuckled. “If it was, I’m sure tuna wouldn’t be allowed. I hate the smell of tuna.”

When I woke up again the room was full of medical people. “It’s a miracle!” someone said. “I never thought she’d wake up after that many weeks in a coma.”

“Holy cow,” a nurse said. “Where did this tuna sandwich come from? It’s half eaten. I hope she didn’t eat any of it. She’ll be NPO for a while still.”

“Call Jerry!” Someone else yelled. “I can’t wait to see his face.”

A kind face bent over me. I think it was a doctor. “Welcome back, Joan,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

I was feeling warm, happy, and sleepy, but I had to know before I took a nap. “How’s Sarah? Did she find her mommy?”

“Who’s Sarah?” a nurse asked.

“I have a six-year-old brain injury patient named Sarah on pediatrics,” the doctor said. “She came into the hospital the same day Joan here did, with a very similar injury. And she woke up half an hour ago. I just came from her room. Her mother was crying with joy and holding her hand. But that can’t be the Sarah Joan means. There’s no way she could know about her.”

“Yeah, she’s probably talking about one of her grandchildren,” someone said. “I hear she’s got sixteen of them.”

I tried to tell them about the train station, but I was too sleepy. I’d tell them later if I remembered. Far away I heard a train whistle blow. It was a sweet sound. I’d take that train someday, but I wasn’t in any hurry. Right now, I wanted to see my family.

I looked out into the hallway and pointed. Clarence, Dominic, Danny, and every Uber driver who’d taken me to the station was waving goodbye to me. Dominic called, “See you later!”

I smiled and nodded. The doctor and nurses turned and looked into the hall. “What do you think she’s seeing?” Someone asked.

“Who knows?” the doctor sighed. “These brain injury patients. It takes a long time to heal.”

A nurse said, “I’d still like to know how this tuna sandwich got here.”

“And I’d like to know how this crust of bread got on her hospital gown,” the doctor said.

It was a mystery they’d have to solve themselves. I could still hear them, but I was falling asleep. Maybe I’d tell them later, when I woke up. Maybe I wouldn’t. They might think I was crazy.

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

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

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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