Author: gettingofftheinterstate

by Donna Poole

I don’t understand how two of my favorite colors can make the color I hate. How can mixing red and blue make a disgusting mud brown?

Ruby Jo didn’t have anything against mud. She liked it where it belonged, in the creek, squeezing up between her toes when, wild and free, she explored the countryside in the summertime. But she didn’t like it on a skirt that she’d already worn for two years and would probably have to wear for two more since her growing seemed to be happening only up and not out, and the skirt had been too long to start with.

Mom’s voice echoed in her ears. Ruby Jo was pretty sure all moms said the same words. “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.”

I’ve tried to use it up and wear it out and I’d love to do without it!

Ruby Jo sighed and looked down at her wrinkled, brown cotton skirt. It had belonged to her older sister and before that to who knew how many others. She frowned. But she couldn’t stay sad for too long; it was almost time for class to start, and she loved school.

Ruby Jo was in fifth grade and part of an experiment. The school was combining 5^th and 6^th graders. A few subjects were mandatory, but the kids were allowed to vote other ones in or out. They voted out spelling. They voted to learn science only by experiment and history only by biography. And best of all, in Ruby Jo’s opinion, they voted to write and mimeograph a newspaper! She wanted to be an author when she grew up.

The class voted to keep vocabulary words. Miss Jennings wrote one on the blackboard, anathema: “noun. Someone or something intensely disliked or loathed.”

“Anathema,” Ruby Jo whispered. She loved big words, the way they sounded and rolled around on her tongue. Miss Jennings told the class to write the word in a sentence. Ruby Jo was sorely tempted to write, “My brown skirt and my wrinkled brown lunch bag are anathema to me.” But she wasn’t about to admit to anyone, not even her beloved Miss Jennings, how embarrassing those two things were to her. Instead, she wrote about something Miss Jennings had just taught them in history, “The Battle of Matewan happened because unions were anathema to coal companies.”

Chewing on her pencil, she imagined herself standing next to the police chief, Sid Hatfield, in the street of the small mining town on May 19, 1920, when the deadly shootout happened. She, in her faded, too long brown skirt, would jump in front of the police chief when the guns blazed. Not even the hired coal company guards would shoot a ten-year-old girl, would they? She’d save Sid Hatfield’s life, and the mayor’s too, and somehow, she’d protect the seven miners who’d died that day! The townspeople would carry her through the streets on their shoulders shouting, “Hats off for Ruby Jo!” And she’d be a lifetime honorary president of the United Mine Workers of America. To express their gratitude the women of the town would sew her a new skirt, and it would have tiny squares of all different colors, like a patchwork quilt, and…

“Ruby Jo?”

Why is Miss Jennings saying my name like she’s asking a question?

Flora whispered a bit too loudly, “Ruby Jo, Miss Jennings wants you to repeat the definition of ‘supercilious’ and use it in a sentence.”

Ruby Jo glanced at the blackboard and saw two new words had been written there since she’d last looked at it. Unfortunately, the definitions were not on the board. She said, “Um, that word means super silly. My sentence is, I feel super silly because I was daydreaming and not paying attention.”

The class laughed, and Miss Jennings chuckled too. “That’s not quite right Ruby Jo. The word means to behave or look as though you are better than someone else, and as you know class, that kind of attitude is anathema to me. We all daydream sometimes, don’t we? But try to pay attention, Ruby Jo. It’s almost time to work on our newspaper, and I know you love that!”

“Yes, Miss Jennings, I will pay attention.”

And she did try, but she was already smelling the wonderful scent of the mimeograph ink and hearing the sound of the stapler fastening the articles and stories they’d written. They’d try to sell them to other students and teachers for ten cents a copy. Some of the kids took a newspaper home and sold it to parents.

Miss Jennings had asked only one time, “Ruby Jo, you write so many of the poems and stories in the paper. Wouldn’t you like to take it home and sell it to your parents? I’m sure they’d love to see what you write!”

Flora answered before Ruby could. She whispered to Miss Jennings, “Ruby Jo’s parents don’t have ten cents. They’re poor. They live in the trailer park.”

Why did I have to pick a best friend who tells everything and whispers too loud? Ruby Jo thought.

“It’s not that my parents can’t afford ten cents,” she said defensively. “My parents are rich as the Rockefellers. They are just very discriminating with how they choose to distribute their funds.”

“Huh?” Flora said. “I thought you were poor.” She wandered off to talk to someone else.

Miss Jennings said, “I understand.”

The next day Miss Jennings said, “Class, from now on, the person who writes the most material for the newspaper will win two free copies!”

Ruby Jo caught her breath. She knew she could write the most material. Now she could take home the paper. When her stories were as popular as O. Henry’s she’d say to her twenty, no thirty, grandchildren, “Would you like to see some of the stories and poems your famous grandmother wrote when she was a little girl?” She would sit in a rocker, and they would gather around her feet and listen without saying a word. When she finished, they would say, “Hip hip hooray for our famous grandma!” And then they would smother her with hugs and sticky kisses. But wait. She didn’t like sticky kisses. Maybe she’d have only sixteen grandchildren. That would be fewer sticky kisses…”

“Ruby JO!” Flora was almost shouting. “Are you coming to lunch or not? We’re the only two left in the classroom.”

As usual, Flora went through the line and bought lunch, a delicious smelling lunch of spaghetti, garlic bread, chocolate cake, and milk. Ruby opened her anathema of a wrinkled lunch bag and pulled out her usual lunch, a sandwich and an apple. She slipped the three pennies in the bag her mother intended her to use for milk into the pocket of her brown skirt.

Flora wrinkled her nose. “Peanut butter and jelly? Well, at least it isn’t cream cheese and jelly this time. I don’t know how you swallow your sandwich with nothing to drink. Why don’t you use the pennies and go buy milk?”

“You know why. If I save three pennies every day, on Friday I have fifteen cents, enough to buy an ice cream sandwich. Those are my favorite!”

“Why don’t you ask your mom for enough money to buy milk and ice cream every day?”

The two girls looked at each other for a moment.

“I hate this wrinkled old brown lunch bag,” Ruby Jo said, tears springing to her eyes. “It’s anathema.”

“Your lunch bag is pretending to be better than someone else?” Flora asked.

Ruby Jo said, “No, silly. That’s supercilious, not anathema.”

“Oh.” Flora sighed. “Words confuse me sometimes. If you hate your wrinkled bag, why don’t you throw it out and get a new one?”

“I have to save it. Mom decides when it’s old enough to throw out. Use it up, wear it out…”

“Make it do or do without!” Flora finished laughing. “Your parents aren’t really rich as the Rockefellers, are they?”

“Maybe they are. Maybe they got rich by not spending money on lunch bags or new skirts.”

Flora nodded. “Oh. I understand.” She looked at Ruby Jo’s apple. “I’ll trade you that apple for my chocolate cake.”

“I thought you hated apples.”

“No, now you’re confused. You’re the one who hates apples.”

Ruby Jo took a bite of the cake. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d tasted anything so delicious. “Why aren’t you eating the apple, Flora?”

Flora turned the apple so Ruby Jo wouldn’t see the worm hole. “I’m kinda full. I think I’ll save it for later. Do you think we’ll be friends when we’re grown up?”

Ruby Jo swiped at the chocolate frosting on her lips and managed to smear it across her face. “We’ll be friends forever, Flora! When I’m grown up, I’m going to write a story about you!”

“Really? Do you think a lot of people will read it?”

Ruby Jo was about ready to tell her probably a million people would read it because she was going to be so famous, but she decided friends deserve the truth.

“Probably only a few people will read it, Flora. But I bet those few will like it. And Flora?”

“Yeah?”

“My parents aren’t as rich as the Rockefellers.”

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

Barb had been aimlessly driving the backroads since before daybreak when she spotted it, a small white church on the corner of two dirt roads. On impulse she pulled into the parking lot and sat there looking at it. Its windows were open to the late summer’s cooler breezes, and she could hear children singing.

“I want to go in there and see the kids.” Startled, Barb looked in the backseat. Nikki was awake.

“You’ve never been to church, honey. You probably wouldn’t like it. Children have to sit still and be quiet in church.”

“Those kids aren’t being quiet. They’re singing. I want to go in the church with the kids!” Nikki’s voice sounded close to tears.

Sighing, Barb grabbed a tissue and scrubbed the tear streaks off her own face. Oh, why not let her have something she wants. I have to tell her later today that her daddy isn’t coming back this time; the younger woman won. And I’m going to have to find a job and a new place to live. Her whole world is about to turn upside down. I wish I had someone to talk to about this. I didn’t realize until it was too late what a good job Ed did of isolating me from everyone.

“Please, Mommy! I want to go!”

“Okay, Nikki, we’ll go inside, but you have to be quiet.”

Nikki was already unhooking the belts to her car seat and wiggling out. Too late Barb remembered she’d grabbed Nikki from her bed still in her pajamas and put her in the car.

“Wait! Nikki, we can’t go. You’re wearing your pajamas!”

But Nikki ran down the sidewalk and was standing at the front door of the church. At least she’s too little to open that door!

Barb scooped her up; Nikki started crying, and an older man opened the door and smiled at them.

Sobbing, Nikki reached out her arms for him. “I want to go to church but I can’t because I’m wearing my pajamas!”

The old man patted her back. “There, there. We don’t mind if little three-year-old girls come to church in their pajamas.”

Nikki sniffed. “I’m four.”

He chuckled. “Four years old in pajamas is just fine too.” He smiled at Barb. “Welcome, ma’am.”

He put Nikki down, and Barb took her hand and sat in an empty pew near the back. The children were still singing.

The choir director who looked like a college student turned and smiled at the congregation. “For our last song today, we’re going to sing an old Sunday school song. No one knows who wrote it, and it’s more like a chant than a song. The kids have a lot of fun with it. I hope you like it.”

Nikki ran into the aisle and headed for the platform.

“Nikki!” Barb hissed, “Come back here.”

“I want to sing with the kids.”

The choir director smiled. “It’s okay. We always have room for one more.”

Barb slunk down in her pew. She could feel the red creeping up her neck and face and the tears pressing against her eyes.

This was the 1980s. Nikki didn’t seem to care that all the other little girls were wearing ruffles and bows, and she had on wrinkled pajamas with a missing button. The little girl standing next to her on the platform didn’t seem to mind either. She smiled at Nikki and took her hand. Nikki didn’t know a word of the song, but she grinned at the people in the pews, and Barb noticed most of them smiled back at her. The kids sang and chanted,

Oh Soldier, Oh O Soldier,
Grab your bible; follow me.
I’m in the Lords infantry.
If I die on the combat zone,
Wrap Me up and send me home.
Lay my Bible across my chest.
Tell my Lord I did my best.
Oh Soldier, Oh O Soldier,
Grab your Bibles; follow me.
I’m in the Lords Infantry.

Lay my Bible across my chest.
Tell my Lord I did my best.

And then it was over. Except it wasn’t. When the last piano note died away, Nikki stepped forward from the group. She put her hand over her heart and shouted, “Lay my Bible across my chest and tell my MOMMY I did my best.”

The chuckles in the pews turned into applause when Nikki bowed right, left, and center. Finally, the little show stealer skipped down from the platform, once again holding the hand of her new friend.

The little girl whispered to Barb, “I’m Amy. We have children’s church now. Can Nikki come with me?”

Barb nodded. Nikki? When did you two have time to exchange names?

She hoped her little girl would behave in whatever this children’s church was, but the man who stood up to preach soon captured her thoughts. “Perhaps you came today feeling unloved and without hope,” he said. “I’m here to tell you God loves you, and Jesus died not only to give you hope for this life, but to give you hope for heaven.”

When the service ended Barb still had no idea where she could find a job or where she’d live, but she knew something she hadn’t known when she and Nikki came inside. She knew she was a sinner who desperately needed saving. She knew Jesus had died so her sins could be forgiven, and she knew she was God’s child and on her way to heaven.

The piano played softly and Barb sat in the pew.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up into the smiling face of a woman about her age. “Hi. I’m Natalie. We’re having a potluck downstairs. Would you like to stay?”

“I didn’t bring anything!”

“Don’t worry about that! We always have way too much food.”

Barb hesitated only a moment. “Okay. But I’ll have to find Nikki first.”

Natalie laughed. “She’s with Amy, my daughter. They were the first two through the food line, and they’re eating already, so it’s a good thing you said yes. I taught children’s church today, and your daughter was an absolute delight. I hope you’ll come back again. Our girls are already friends, and I have a feeling we could be too.”

Tears once again filled Barb’s eyes. “I’m not sure you’d want me for a friend. I come with a lot of baggage.”

Natalie sighed. “I’ve got plenty of my own luggage, but I’m learning to let Jesus carry it. Maybe we could work on that together if you keep coming to church here.”

Barb didn’t say anything. They’d reached the food line when Nikki grabbed her around the knees. She looked down at her little girl’s smiling face now covered with what looked like chocolate cake.

“Mommy! We have to come here every Sunday! I have lots of friends. This place is the best! Okay?”

“We’ll see, Nikki.”

Nikki hugged Amy. “When Mommy says ‘we’ll see’ it means yes. I’ll see you every week! And we’ll be best friends forever!”

Amy said, “Mommy, can I wear my pajamas to church next Sunday?”

Natalie chuckled. “We’ll see.”

Amy sighed. “Nikki, when my mommy says ‘we’ll see’ it usually means no.”

The two girls marched off chanting, “Lay my Bible across my chest, and tell my mommy I did my best!”

Natalie and Barb grinned at each other.

“Kids make friends so quickly, don’t they?” Natalie asked.

Barb nodded. “I’m glad Nikki has a friend. She’s going to need one. She’s facing a really hard time she doesn’t know anything about.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

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

“Why? Just why? God knew how badly we needed this vacation, especially you!”

It was bedtime at the end of a week full of challenges and disappointments.

Jeremy sighed. “Julie, we don’t question God.”

“Maybe you don’t but I do sometimes, and I’m in good company. The Psalms are full of ‘why’ and ‘how long’!”

Jeremy sighed again. “I should have listened to Danny.”

“I wanted you to say yes when he offered to haul our camper somewhere for us so we could have a real vacation instead of this disaster of a staycation.”

“We both agreed Danny was too busy, and we didn’t want to bother him. And you helped me make that long list of projects we wanted done on the house.”

Julie hugged him. “I’m sorry, Jeremy. I don’t want to make you feel any worse. But sometimes I think we hold the Guiness record for vacations that turned out to be anything but! I should have known. I should have listened to my friend Bobby.”

“Is Bobby one of your thousand Facebook friends? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you mention a Bobby.”

Julie shook her head. “No. He’s one of my high school friends, but he’s dead now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, babe. I know you’ve been losing a few classmates recently. I guess that has to be expected when we’ve been out of high school for sixty years.”

She couldn’t resist. They really needed to laugh. “That’s okay, honey. He was dead when he was my friend in high school too.”

She laughed then. The look on his face said, “You needed a vacation worse than I thought!”

She’d tease him a little longer. “He should have been your friend in high school too, but maybe not. I know your marching band was better than ours, or so you say, but I’m not so sure about your academics. Bobby wasn’t your friend? He never told you about accidentally destroying a mouse’s home while ploughing his fields? He even wrote a poem about it.”

“If I knew any Bobby who was upset about ploughing up a mouse’s nest I think I’d remember it, and I’d also think he was a rather strange dude.”

“Hey everyone loved him! Except snobs and hypocrites. And since you weren’t either, I’m surprised you weren’t his friend.”

“Knock it off, babe. After the week of non-vacation I’ve had with everything going wrong that possibly could, I’m really not in the mood for riddles. No, I wasn’t friends with any dead Bobby who wrote poems to mice.”

“I was just trying to make you laugh. I can see it’s not working. Remember learning the quote, ‘The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray?’ Well, Robert Burns wrote that, and it’s sure true of this vacation, isn’t it? In Scottish, the original was.

‘The best-laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!’”

“I’m sorry,” Jeremy said. “Our best laid plans did go astray, didn’t they? Even the little things you wanted to do like taking rides to see wildflowers or spending afternoons at the park didn’t work out. God must have had a reason for allowing this week to happen. But hey, we still have seven days left. This is the first time I’ve ever taken two weeks off in a row. Maybe we can still do some of the fun things on our list. And there’s no reason we couldn’t take a day trip or two is there? Where would you like to go?”

“Muskegon to the channel to watch the boats! Where would you like to go?”

They spent the next few minutes making happy plans. The angels either laughed or cried.

Jeremy yawned. “You getting sleepy?”

“My body is but not my brain. I just thought of another quote.”

“Apparently your mouth isn’t sleepy yet either.” He chuckled. She ignored him.

“A pessimist was miserable, so an optimist told him to cheer up. What do you think happened?”

Jeremy was snoring. Julie poked him. “Jeremy!”

“What?”

“We didn’t listen to our Scripture Proverb yet! You can’t go to sleep. Did you hear what I asked you?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. Listen this time. A pessimist was as miserable as he’d ever been when an optimist told him to cheer up because things could be worse. So, he cheered up! And sure enough, things got worse!”

“You and your quotes!”

But they both laughed. And they smiled as they listened to the Proverb and fell asleep dreaming of next week. Little did they guess that the next week would leave them with no transportation and with Jeremy in bed with back pain.

The two-week vacation was one for the record books alright, but Jeremy and Julie enjoyed it anyway. They counted their many blessings and thanked God. They thought of people they knew who’d give anything to spend a similar non-vacation with a loved one now in heaven. It would be heaven on earth for them just to wake up together one more time. And Jeremy and Julie tried to make each other laugh.

On the last night of vacation Julie wanted to wake Jeremy and tell him something, but his back hurt so much she didn’t have the heart to disturb him. Their shared laughter could wait until morning. She whispered it so she’d hopefully remember it tomorrow. “What mouse was a Roman emperor? Julius Cheeser.”

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

Do you ever feel invisible, like you could disappear and no one would notice? I felt like that a lot. Oh, they’d notice if my work wasn’t done. If they showed up at church on Sunday and the floor was still littered with grass and leaves people had tracked in the week before, they might have questioned why I hadn’t done my job. But I wondered if anyone even knew my name.

Maybe it was my fault. I’m quiet and kind of an introvert. I tried not to get in anyone’s way. If people happened to be in the auditorium while I was working, I steered clear of them and let them chat, or practice their special music, or do whatever it was they were doing. But not once in all those years did anyone say, “How’s it going, Rosie?” No one thanked me for the work I did so faithfully, and it took me hours every week to do it.

I kept my thoughts to myself. It was better that way. I didn’t want to get bitter. I was glad I had a job. I tried to be grateful for what I had instead of sad about what I didn’t have.

The church had a sign out front that welcomed visitors. It said, “Come inside and find a friend.”

Well, I cleaned the church for four years without finding a friend. I don’t suppose it was their fault. It was me. I tried so hard to stay out of everyone’s way and be invisible I practically was. They probably didn’t notice me because I worked hard at not being noticed.

Please forgive me for whining. I promise I’m not usually like this. Normally I’m cheerful, I even hum to myself while I clean. But August makes me melancholy. It’s that kind of month. Have you noticed the birds aren’t singing so loudly in the mornings? And the cicada’s song says to anyone who listens that fall is just around the corner.

One August I was feeling especially blue. Fall was just around the corner for me too. I was an old lady, with no family to take care of me. I wondered, when I can no longer clean, what’s going to happen to me? It seemed just yesterday I was young and all my life stretched before me. The seasons pass so quickly, don’t they? This wasn’t how I expected to spend my golden years. I’d hoped to be surrounded by a family who loved and appreciated me, but life doesn’t always give you what you want.  

So, now you know the truth; I was an unwanted old lady without family or friends, and my work was all I had. You’re going to think this is ridiculous. Depite facts to the contrary, I still woke up every morning with the feeling something wonderful was going to happen. The reality of my lonely life and dismal looking future couldn’t stop this feeling. My commonsense logic and the talking I gave myself did no good.

Rosie, grow up. It’s about time you started living in the real world. You could die tomorrow and no one would notice or care. Why do you persist in this ridiculous hope?

But do you think I listened to myself? I did not. I blamed this on my mother. She told me so many times, “Rosie, there is always a reason to hope.”

On melancholy days I talked in my thoughts to mom who had been long gone. You were wrong, Mom. There isn’t always reason to hope. I’m tired of hoping. I hope every morning and go to bed disappointed every night. I wish I could stop hoping. It would be easier that way.

But would it, really? Would it be easier? I heard the birds sing even in the rain and their song said hope.

If someone had asked, “Rosie, what is one thing you hope for before you die?” I would have answered, “I wish I had just one person who cares.”

I guess that’s the wonderful thing I hoped for when I woke up in the morning. Perhaps this is the day I will find a friend. Maybe today I will find a family!

Ridiculous, I know, right? But that’s how I was.

One cleaning day I started on the left of the auditorium, the way I always did, when suddenly I noticed someone else cleaning on the right side. If I’d been younger and still able to skip for joy, I would have. Perhaps this other cleaning lady would be the friend I’d hoped to have for years! I called her but couldn’t get her attention. She was half my age and zipping in and out of the pews with a speed I barely remembered having.

I’d been so focused on the new cleaning woman I hadn’t noticed the kids in the auditorium. Then I remembered; they were coming to practice a song for Sunday. I felt myself scooped into the arms of a little boy.

“Timmy! What do you think you’re doing! Put that thing down at once!” his mother scolded.

I saw two big tears run down his cheeks. “I want to keep her. She’s my friend!”

The pastor chuckled. “Let the boy have her. Old Rosie was going into the scrap heap today anyway. Robotic cleaners last only four to six years, and Rosie has been moving so slowly lately. We got a new one.” He nodded at my replacement who was moving up and down through the pews.

Timmy’s mom chuckled. “Well, if you’re sure, Pastor. Thank you. Timmy has been really struggling to find friends since we moved. Perhaps Rosie can help him.”

On the way home I heard more words from that little boy than I’d heard in my entire life. He told me all about his old friends and how sad he was about the move. His mother dusted me off with a soft cloth when Timmy insisted I had to sleep with his teddy bears next to him in his bed. When his mother turned out the lights at night, he made up the most wonderful stories and told them to me.

Perhaps you think Timmy outgrew me when he made new friends, but that’s not what happened at all. Timmy, who became Tim, and then Tim O’Reily, a famous up and coming young author, never stopped talking to me. He said I was his muse. I now live on a shelf in his study. Sometimes a little boy, Timmy Junior, comes into the study and whispers his secrets to me. I think I’m always going to have a family.

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

“Sissy, wake up!” Debby shook Molly’s shoulder. “It’s a homemade blackberry pie kind of day!”

Molly groaned and pulled her sheet over her head. “What time is it? And why are you whispering?”

“I don’t know the time, but the sun is up. I’m whispering because I want to surprise Ma. Let’s go pick blackberries so she can bake us a pie! But we’re going to have to sneak out, because she’s already in the kitchen. I smell waffles.”

Molly could smell them too. Her stomach rumbled. “Maybe we could go berry picking after breakfast?”

Debby shook her head. “It will be way harder to get out then without Ma seeing us. Hurry! You know how hot it gets outside this time of year!”

“What if Ma doesn’t know how to make blackberry pie?”

“I’m pretty sure all mothers know how. Our other mom made delicious ones.” She sniffed and swiped a hand across her eyes.

Molly hated to see her sister upset. She jumped out of bed but hesitated in front of her closet.

“Just grab a pair of jeans and a t-shirt,” Debby hissed. “If you don’t hurry up, it’s going to be lunch time before we get there!”

“What will we do for lunch?” Molly asked. “Our other mom always packed us one.”

“Don’t lets keep talking about our other mom. We’ll both cry. We can eat berries for lunch!”

Molly nodded. “Okay. You go wake up Jennie, and I’ll get dressed.”

Debbie returned without Jennie. “I couldn’t wake her. She’s really sleeping. It’s probably better this way. She doesn’t like berry picking. She’s so little, and her legs are too short, and she get sunburned, and…why are you wearing that? You can’t pick berries in that!”

Molly patted her blue and white checked sundress. “I’m wearing it. And you better be quiet, or Ma is going to hear you, and we won’t be going berry picking! I hope Jennie won’t feel bad. We should at least leave her a note.”

“Do you think I’m a total nincompoop? I left a note. Now, let’s go! And don’t complain to me when your legs get all scratched and sunburned.”

“I won’t.” Molly flounced ahead of her, saying, “Some of us like to look nice. I bet you didn’t even brush your teeth.”

Debbie didn’t say anything, not because she’d decided to quit arguing, but because she had, indeed, forgotten to brush her teeth. She ran her tongue over them and shrugged. Oh well. I’m missing two on the top and two on the bottom. Maybe the rest of them won’t stink too bad. It’s only me and Molly anyway.

The two of them slipped silently out the door into the sunny summer morning while Ma was bent over the waffle iron. Once outside, they giggled like only sisters heading on an adventure can do. They trudged down the town sidewalks until they came to open country. They were too tired to talk much; Jennie wasn’t the only sister with short legs.

Molly broke the silence. “Are you sure we’re going the right way, Debby? I don’t remember it taking this long before.”

“It didn’t used to take this long because our old house was closer to the hills.” She heard sniffles and turned to look at her sister. Sure enough, Molly was crying.

“I know you miss our old house, and Mom and Dad, and life like it used to be, Molly. I do too. I don’t like our new place very much. But we have lots to be thankful for in our new house.”

Molly sniffed and rubbed her eyes. “I am thankful. But you know our new Ma won’t make blackberry pie as good as Mom’s. And she doesn’t love us as much as Mom did either. You know it’s true, Debby!”

Debby nodded. “I know. But I feel sorry for her. She does have an awful lot of kids to take care of. and some of them aren’t too nice. Billy took my oatmeal at breakfast yesterday and ate it. I was hungry.”

“I’m sorry, Sissy. I wish you’d told me. I would have given you half of mine.”

“I know you would. Do you think one blackberry pie will be enough for all of us?”

Debby looked worried. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we’ll find enough berries for a lot of pies. These baskets I found will hold lots!”

“Where did you find them?”

“In the kitchen before Ma got in there. They had knives and forks in them. I dumped out the silverware and borrowed the baskets.”

Molly giggled. “Good thing you just borrowed them. Our first mom wouldn’t like it if you stole something.”

By the time they climbed the foothills and found a blackberry patch the cool morning had turned hot. Both sisters took off their matching sweaters, the ones that had patches embroidered with “Sweet Water Home.” They tied them around their waists and got busy picking, ignoring the scratches made by thorns, and keeping a wary eye out for snakes who like to hide there.  When small rodents and birds come to snack on the berries, they become snacks themselves for the snakes.

“Yikes,” Debby screamed as a snake slithered over her hand. “Good thing Jennie isn’t here. She’d want to head home right now. I miss her though.”

“I do too. She’s been so tired all the time lately and hasn’t wanted to do anything. She’s younger than we are. It doesn’t seem like she should be so tired. You don’t think she’s sick, do you?”

Debby thought for a minute then shook her head. “I think if she was sick Ma would tell the doctor when he comes to the home once a week. Speaking of tired, I’m exhausted. How about you?”

“Our baskets aren’t even half full,” Molly objected. “We can’t go back already.”

“We could eat some berries for lunch and then nap in that grass.”

“We should sleep one at a time. Someone has to look out for bears. Remember our other mom always told us to do that.”

“Okay. You sleep first, and then I’ll wake you up and I’ll sleep. I’m so tired from climbing the hill and picking the berries. My left arm hurts, and that’s funny, because I picked berries with my right hand.”

“Mine too!” Debbie exclaimed. “Maybe after our naps, we’ll feel better, and we can pick more berries before we go home. But first, lunch!”

They sat in the soft grass and stuffed themselves with berries, laughing at each other’s purple lips. Then Molly rolled up her sweater, put it under her head, and was instantly asleep.

Debby fought hard to stay awake. It was too much of an effort to sit upright, so she rolled her sweater and did just as Molly had. Her last waking thought was I’ll listen for a bear while I’m lying down. And I don’t think one will come. Molly’s loud snoring would keep anything away.

***

Back at Sweet Water Home the place was in an uproar. When Jennie didn’t show up for breakfast, no one thought anything of it. Meals in the dining room were optional; residents could opt out or eat them in their rooms, and Jennie often skipped breakfast so she could sleep in. These last months she’d needed much more sleep than usual. When she didn’t show up and sit at her usual table for lunch, they were concerned. They went to check on Jennie and found her still in bed, covered up, with the same clothes she’d worn the day before.

It wasn’t that Jennie wasn’t breathing because she was. But she was breathing celestial air.

Two nurses were getting her ready for transport, and both were crying. “Sweet Jennie,” one of them said to the other. “She was my favorite here. Her heart failure was congenital. Both her sisters have it too. We’re going to have to tell them. This is going to break their hearts.”

The second nurse picked up the note and gasped. “Do you know what those two have done? This says they’ve gone berry picking. They wanted to take Jennie with them, but they thought she was sleeping. Where do you suppose they’ve gone, and how did they get out of here without being noticed?”

“We got that text message last night that the alarm system was down and to be especially watchful. Their dementia is pretty advanced, isn’t it?

“Yes, but in a delightful way. They think the cook is their mother and call her Ma. They call each other sissy and think they’re little girls. Every night at dinner they sing “Jesus Loves Me, This I know.” Then they recite a Bible verse, John 3:16. They have many of the other residents doing it with them. They are well-loved around here. I hope they’re okay. I have no idea where they might have gone berry picking. They’re pretty spry for 90 and 92. It’s probably going to take the mounted police to find them here in the foothills of the Adirondacks. God only knows where they are.”

God and two park rangers knew where they were. When they found two old ladies sleeping in the field, they didn’t even try to perform CPR. It was obviously way too late for that.

“Look how peaceful and happy they look,” the one commented.

The other one chuckled. “Look at the berry stains on their mouths and hands. They look like little girls. I don’t mind telling you Bill, I wouldn’t mind going out like that when it’s my turn, rather than locked away in that stuffy old folks’ home they’re from.”

“Old folks’ home? How do you know that?”

“Look at the patches on the sweaters.”

“Well, let’s call the police first, and then the home. I imagine someone is looking for these two by now.”

***

Molly and Debbie arrived at heaven’s gate within a second of each other. Delighted, they looked at a man leaning on the gate.

“Are you Saint Peter?” Molly asked. “Do we get to come in? We haven’t always been good, but we love Jesus.”

He laughed. “I know you love Jesus. You taught me ‘Jesus Loves Me’ and ‘John 3:16’ at Sweet Water Home. I’m Pete Smith. Don’t you remember me? I hate to disillusion you, but Saint Peter doesn’t stand at the gate up here and let people in. He has better things to do. Well come on in, then. Someone wants to see you!”

“Sissies!” Jennie squealed, throwing her arms around them. “What took you so long? I might have the shortest legs, but I got here first! And Mom and Dad and so many others are here too. Best of all, Jesus is waiting to see you. He wants to hear us sing “Jesus Loves Me.”

“Sing for Jesus?” Debby gasped and tears ran down her cheeks. “I could never!”

“Sure, you can,” the sweetest, most loving voice the sisters had ever heard replied. “Who do you think you’ve been singing it for all these years?”

They fell on their knees, looked up, and started to sing. Suddenly, Mom, and Dad, and a heavenly chorus of angels joined in.

When they finished, Jesus said, “Welcome Home, children. Do you have any questions?”

“Yes, Lord Jesus,” Molly answered timidly. “Do you serve homemade blackberry pie up here?”

Her sisters were a bit horrified, but Jesus laughed. “You’ll have to wait and see. But it sure is a homemade blackberry pie kind of day, isn’t it?”

The end.

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

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

by Donna Poole

“Always remember, it’s simply not an adventure worth telling if there aren’t any dragons.”

You probably thought J.R.R. Tolkien said that about dragons, didn’t you? Most people do, but most people would be wrong, and I should know, because I’m a dragon, and I pay close attention to all things said about my kind. Sarah Ban Breathnach wrote it. Wise comment, I say. My breed of dragons is called, “The Keeper of the Stories,” and I do love to tell a good tale.

But where are me manners? I forgot to introduce myself, and I should have done that first. My mother would be that ashamed! My name is Dani and it means “God is my judge,” so please don’t be judging me before you get a chance to know me. It’s easy to judge people and creatures by appearances or reputations, isn’t it?

Once an older man and his wife were out for a long walk on a deserted country road. It was an idyllic place to walk and not too far from their home, but recently there had been a breakout of crime in that lovely country setting, so much so that neighbors had formed a neighborhood watch. So, even though the couple had walked that road safely for years, today they were a bit uneasy.

They hadn’t seen a vehicle for fifteen minutes when a beat-up car with a loud muffler came roaring down the road. They moved over to the grassy edge. The car slowed and almost stopped, and the driver stared at them and frowned. They looked back at him. Long hair. Tatous on most visible body parts. Lots of piercings. No smiles or waves were exchanged, unusual in the country. The wife could taste fear. She heaved a sigh of relief when the driver stepped on the gas and raced up the road.

But wait. “Honey, he’s backing up fast,” she whispered.

“I know.”

They froze in place. No use running across the open fields; they could never outrun a strong, young man. There were no homes to flee to for help, nowhere to hide.

When he got next to them, the scary looking man slammed on his brakes and rolled down the window.

“You folks okay?” he called. “I was going to just keep driving, but then I thought I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t check on you.”

The old couple thanked him and assured him they were fine. When he left, they reminded each other that they were too old to jump to conclusions about people! I’d like to tell you how old I am, but you’d instantly label me a liar like the most infamous of my kind, the old dragon, that father of lies. I am nothing like him and can’t wait until he is chained in the bottomless pit. I will tell you that my age is counted in centuries, not in years.

I live in Ireland, that great green land carved out by the Lord God himself. I know, you thought Saint Patrick had driven all the snakes and dragons off the island. According to story, he did get rid of most of my kind. When the monstrous Oillipheist heard Patrick was coming he didn’t wait around to fight. Instead, he threw a hissy fit of dragonic proportions and hightailed it out of the country. On his way he carved out a ginormous trench that filled with water and became the River Shannon, my country’s longest river. We’d be lost without that, so don’t you see? Dragons can do some good, if only by accident!

God created all creatures good, including dragons, but man’s sin changed all that. Still, even though sin ruined everything, not all dragons became fire breathing man eaters.

My ancestors were dragons of the land. The ancient Celtics respected our kind, because instead of hoarding gold like the wicked dragons, we protected the land and helped keep it healthy.  

None of us ever breathed fire; we had no desire to destroy. We could fly short distances and swim if necessary. We desired only to do good, but few of us survived the dragon slayers. Prejudice against my kind was universal. “There are no good dragons; kill them all,” was an accepted slogan by the kindest of Christians and the gentlest of pagans alike. Hatred of us was one thing they agreed on. Baby dragons cried in the night hearing the chants, “Save Ireland! Kill all the dragons!”

Even one of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table travelled to Ireland to hunt a dragon. And the legendary warrior Fionn mac Cumhaill and his band of fighters, the Fianna, tracked down and killed the largest of our kind, hacking to bits any smaller ones they saw as well.

We are so few now. There must be others, but I’m the only one of my kind I know who is left. ‘Tis a lonely life, to be sure, but I do what me mither trained me to do as a child; I help others. I can only help the wee ones now; the grown ones would kill me on sight.

A wee little boy with red curls was picnicking with his family the other day when he fell in the River Shannon. I was hiding under the banks so as not to be seen and saw the whole thing happen. Before he even had a chance to cry out his little head was under the water.

Soaking wet, he ran back to his family, laughing. “Mither, I fell in the river and couldn’t breathe! But a little dragon pulled me out and put me on shore. I love her, Mither! Can we take her home? Can we keep her, please?”

“Tommy, you’re four years old now, old enough to stop telling these tall tales. There are no dragons left. And even the ones in books were wicked and cruel. They never helped people. You must stop telling these lies! Now, how did you get wet?”

“I told you! I fell in the river, and a little dragon saved me!”

“Let him be, dear,” the dad said, chuckling. “He’ll outgrow this soon enough, or he won’t, and he’ll grow up to be another W. B. Yeats!”

He grabbed the tablecloth they’d used for the picnic and began to dry Tommy. “So, what did this dragon of yours look like?”

“She wasn’t as big as me, and she was green and yellow and had purple eyes and wings and a really nice smile and she said her name is Dani. And she told me not to judge people by ‘pearances.”

The father laughed. “She did, did she?”

“Dad, why won’t Mither believe me? And who is that Yeats person you said I might grow up and be like?”

“Oh, he wrote a lot of tall tales and got paid for it.”

“Did he believe in dragons?”

“Probably.”

“Okay, then I want to be like him when I grow up.”

It was getting dark, and the family headed to their car. Tommy turned and hollered, “Bye, Dani! When I grow up, I won’t judge by ‘pearances!”

I smiled as I burrowed into my hiding place to get a nap. Tommy was the third child I’d helped that month and only God knows how many in my long life. I could only hope they’d all grow up with open hearts and minds, people who knew there could be good in the most unlikely looking of creatures. I’d be so disappointed if any of them thought the world was divided into the “good guys” and the “dragons” and wanted to get rid of anyone who was different.

Suddenly, I realized I was unusually tired. It was getting darker, but I saw a bright light in the distance and heard a far-off voice say, “Well done, my creature, Dani.”

 And for the last time from the earth, I whispered, “Praise the Lord.”

***

Genesis 1:21: “And God created great whales, and every living creature that moveth, which the waters brought forth abundantly, after their kind, and every winged fowl after his kind: and God saw that it was good.”

Psalm 148:7: “Praise the Lord from the earth, ye dragons, and all deeps:”

Author’s note: I know the word in Psalms and elsewhere in the Bible is not always translated “dragon” and am aware of the debate. Remember the title. A Fairy Story or Not.

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

“You’ve still got it, girl!” Devin shouted to herself.

Dad couldn’t hear her over the sounds of motor, wind, and waves. He looked back, questioning her with a wiggle of his white eyebrows. She laughed, gave him the thumbs up sign, and signaled to go faster.

The wind whipped her hair as she zipped in and out of the wake. She glanced at the dock to see if Calvin was watching and snorted. First, he’d flatly refused to try skiing. Then he wouldn’t even get into the boat and ride along with her dad. Now he lounged on the dock, a large straw hat shadowing his face, reading one of his books. Calvin was seldom without a book. His idea of a great vacation was staying home, sitting on the patio, and you guessed it, reading. Devin had insisted they accept her dad’s invitation to visit him at the cottage where she’d spent many happy childhood days. She’d learned to ski almost as soon as she’d learned to ride a tricycle; she’d mastered a ski board at three years old and solo skied at five.

At breakfast that morning Devin had begged Calvin to let her dad give him swimming lessons. “You’re missing a world of fun. You wouldn’t hate watersports so much if you’d learn to swim. There’s no reason to be terrified of the water. Honestly, I’m surprised you’re not terrified of the bathtub.”

Calvin had looked hurt but hadn’t said anything.

“People have different likes, Devin,” her dad had said. “Good thing for you Calvin enjoys cooking.” He’d flashed Calvin his irresistible grin and Calvin looked a bit less uncomfortable.

“And honey,” Dad had added, “you need to eat more of his good cooking. You’re getting too skinny.”

“Don’t go there again, Dad,” Devin snapped at him. “You know I’ve always been thin.” But then she’d hugged him. She couldn’t stay upset with Dad, especially not now that he was all alone. Mom had been gone less than a year.

But flying around the lake now, Devin was still miffed at her young husband. How does he know he can’t swim or ski? He won’t even try anything new. It’s a miracle he’s not scared to sit on the dock.

She signaled to her dad she was heading in. He shook his head and motioned back, “Too fast.”

But Devin knew she could do it; she’d done it before. The boat wasn’t going too fast for her. Dropping the tow rope and “skiing it in” was an exhilarating experience, one she’d done hundreds of times. Her dock finishes were flawless—but not this time. One second, she was skimming over water. The next she woke up in the hospital. She learned Calvin had jumped into the waist deep water after she’d crashed into the dock and had supported her until help had arrived.

Devin had spent three days in the hospital. They’d stayed several more days at the cottage with her dad until she was able to travel back to their apartment. The pain in Devin’s broken left shinbone and right forearm felt excruciating. Casts protected the plates, screws, and healing bones. It was killing the athletic Devin, who usually ran ten miles a day, to barely be able to get to the bathroom without help. And the doctor said it would take six to twelve weeks before she could put full weight on her leg. And it might be six to twelve months before she could ski again?  Devin was furious with herself, so nothing Calvin could do was right. She yelled at him when he tried to help her and when he didn’t try. She even snapped at her beloved dad.

“Here, honey,” Dad said when he kissed Devin goodbye. “I want you to take your mom’s cookbook. She handwrote all the recipes and referred to them often.”

“Mom’s cookbook?” She laughed for the first time in days. “Dad, in all my growing up years, you were the only one I ever saw in the kitchen. Mom was wonderful at many things, but like me, cooking wasn’t one of them.”

He smiled. “She wrote and loved this cookbook. Take my word for it.”

Several weeks into recovery Devin felt like she was losing it. X-rays showed slower than normal recovery, “delayed union,” the orthopedic doctor called it. He’d given her other bad news too. She’d been irritated when he’d started asking what seemed like irrelevant questions.

“Yes, I’m always cold. Yes, I struggle with fatigue. Irritable? Ask Calvin.”

Calvin cleared his throat.

“Yes, I’ve been an athlete since junior high. Okay, I guess you could say I’m a little obsessive about my running and clean eating. I like to stay thin.”

More questions and blood work had followed before the doctor diagnosed her with RED-S—relative energy deficiency in sport. “You’ve been using more energy than you’ve been putting back into your body for far too long,” he said. Your low estrogen is one sign. And because of RED-S your bones will heal more slowly than normal from this injury. You need to eat better, and that includes more calories. I’m referring you to a sports medicine doctor who is also a dietician.”

Devin spiraled after that. Stuck in the small apartment except for physical therapy, unable to run or visit the gym with her friends, she took every ounce of frustration out on Calvin. She sat in bed or the recliner and didn’t do even the little she was able. Occupational therapy had taught her how to care for herself, so Calvin was able to go back to work, but there was so much to do at home when he got back, he was exhausted.

Devin berated him when he couldn’t stay awake to watch their favorite Brit detective program. “You know, Calvin, if you ever did anything physical to stay in shape, you wouldn’t be so exhausted. Your body would have strength and energy for things like this. You might even have enough muscles to carry a bigger stack of books home from the library!”

Her spiteful tone shocked even herself. Calvin rolled over and turned off the lamp on his night table.

“Why do you even stay with me?” she asked in a small voice.

His voice was tired. “I promised you, remember? And I promised God.”

“Do you still love me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you still like me?”

Long silence. “I still love you.”

That wasn’t a fair question. I don’t even like me.

The next morning Calvin fixed Devin an omelet, her favorite kind, cooked to perfection. She ate in silence. He poured steaming coffee into his Stanley and left for work. It was the first time in their eleven months of marriage he hadn’t said “I love you” before he walked out the door.

Devin finished her physical therapies exercises and wasn’t as tired as usual. She knew she was getting stronger every day.

Fatter too. I hope that doctor is happy with my pudgy self the next time I see him.

Her body fat wasn’t yet nearly fifteen percent, far from pudgy, but that’s how she felt.

Restless, Devin wandered over to the bookcases lining the wall. Calvin kept his books dusted, so she’d never really looked at them before. Magazines and Facebook were the extent of her reading. She’d read on Facebook recently you could learn a lot about a person by their books.

What do these books say about you, Calvin?

She studied the titles. Westerns? Calvin liked Westerns? He had shelves of books by Louis L’Amour and Zane Gray. She tried to picture her studious, quiet Calvin on horseback and chuckled.

His glasses would probably fall off. If he likes reading these so much, why haven’t we watched any on television? Probably because I chose all the shows.

She sighed and continued perusing the books, shocked by the variety. “Biography, philosophy…why so many theology books? Oh, that’s right. Calvin told me he almost went into the ministry.”

Then Devin spotted her mom’s cookbook, neatly tucked in with Calvin’s collection of them. Bemused, she pulled it out and hobbled to the couch.

“This I gotta see. Mom’s recipes?” Devin chuckled. She didn’t think her mother even knew how to turn on a stove.

She ran her fingers over the homemade blue and white cover, and a sudden tear ran down her face.

 “Mom, I miss you. I wish I could talk to you. Calvin and I aren’t getting along very well, and you and Dad had such a beautiful marriage. I wish you could tell me your secrets.”

Devin opened the cookbook. Inside the front cover her mom had printed, “Recipes for a Happy Marriage.”

Underneath she’d added a verse from the Bible, Proverbs 14:1: “Every wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands.”

Devin had to read the prayer that followed twice before she realized that her sweet, kind, loving, funny mother had written it. It sounded like it had been written by a stranger, someone she’d never met. She noticed the prayer was dated—five years before she’d been born.

Dear Lord, I’m a mess. I need help. Travis gave me this verse written on a card this morning and asked me to think about it. We had another one of our ugly arguments last night. Well, I was ugly. Travis didn’t say much. But you already know that. Not only am I the image of my mom, I have her temper too. Sarcasm is my native tongue, Lord, and I’m sorry. I’ve cut Travis into pieces so many times he could be a jig saw puzzle. I don’t build. I tear down. Building is hard work, and I don’t like hard work. Mom always said I was selfish and didn’t know how to love. I guess I can’t build this marriage without real love, and Mom was right. I don’t have real love for Travis, not the kind that wants his happiness more than I want my own. Will you help me learn to love?” Amen

Devin skimmed through the rest of the book; it was way too much to digest in one sitting. The recipe titles were catchy. Some of the ideas for how to build were her mom’s; others were quotes and verses.

One recipe caught her attention: How to Make Delicious Love Soup When You Have Nothing.

“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

Door Dash was right on his heels when Calvin arrived home from work. “What smells so delicious?” he asked.

“Cowboy Burgers and thick cut fries. Hurry and wash up. I’ve got a movie cued up on the living room TV.”

“Okay.” He grinned, delighted by the smile on his wife’s face. “You find a new Brit mystery?”

“Not exactly. You ever hear of the Sacketts? It’s a miniseries based on some books Louis L’Amour wrote.” Devin laughed at the look on Calvin’s face that said who are you and what have you done with my wife.

When Calvin fell asleep halfway through the movie, Devin began to understand how exhausted he really was. She watched the rest of the show alone as he snored softly on the sofa next to her.

It was very late when she woke him. “We should get to bed, honey. Tomorrow night do you want to watch ‘Crossfire Trail?’ And when I get better, do you think we could take riding lessons?”

“Riding lessons? Like…get on a real horse?”

“Unless you’d feel safer on the kids’ one you put a nickel in at the grocery store.” She bit her lip, remembering a verse she’d read in her mom’s cookbook, “In her tongue is the law of kindness.”

Devin sighed. “Sorry, honey. I’m going to work on my sarcasm.”

He kissed her cheek. “Maybe keep a little of it. And I’m going to work on something too. When you get better we’ll take riding lessons. But I’ll probably break a leg.”

“Probably. But I’ll take care of you, and we can watch lots of Brit mysteries. Sound good?”

“Sounds delightful.”

And they went to bed laughing for the first time in a long time.

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

Grace was early today, not like the first time. She leaned her head back against the headrest of her shiny new to her Buick remembering fifty years ago like it was yesterday.

Grace had been late, pulling in the parking lot of this old country church and had tried to squeeze her ancient Pinto between two trucks. The crash had been loud enough to bring a couple of identical teenage boys running toward where she stood outside her car, sobbing and using every curse word she knew. And she knew plenty.

One boy bent over, rubbing a tiny scratch on the bumper of his truck. The other one patted her arm. “Sorry ‘bout your Pinto. Me and my brother can probably bang out the dents. You didn’t do much harm to our truck, though. Did she, Billy?”

He glared at the other boy. “Billy?”

Billy remembered his manners, stood, and awkwardly patted her other arm. “You didn’t do nothing to our truck, and Bobby and me can fix yours almost as good as it was. But call the cops if you want, so you can report it to your insurance.”

“I don’t have any insurance!” she blurted, still sobbing. “And I lost my baby, and my husband left me, and I’m about to lose my house, and I haven’t eaten anything since Wednesday, and…”

The twin boys looked helplessly at each other.

“Stay here, ma’am. We’ll go get our mom!”

Grace had waited, swiping at her tears with the back of her hand, and staring dully at the plowed field that bordered the church. It was empty. Dry. Ugly.

Just how I feel. Empty. Dry. Ugly. Worthless. No wonder Mack beat me, I earned it too, for pushing his buttons. But what did our unborn baby ever do to deserve what happened? If Mack hadn’t kicked me so hard, I might be holding my baby girl in my arms right now. Maybe I’ll be able to forgive Mack someday, but I’ll never forgive myself.

Deep down Grace knew it wasn’t really her fault; there’s never an excuse for a man to beat his wife. She couldn’t stop her sobs, ones that had been a long time coming. She felt herself pulled into a hug.

“Oh, honey, honey. The boys told me. We’ll work it out. God will help us find a way.”

The woman held Grace until her sobs stopped, and then they went together into the little country church, the woman she’d come to call Aunt Ruthie holding tightly to her hand.

Grace never forgot the sermon she heard that day. The title had been “Grace for Grace.” She knew it couldn’t have been directed at her; there was no way anyone could have known she’d be coming, but it captured her heart. Grace for Grace? Grace for me?

She’d listened intently when the pastor explained grace means God giving good things we don’t deserve, like sending his Son, Jesus, to die on the cross for our sins, and then filling our hurt, empty places with all we need to live lives to please him and bless others.

“Grace for grace means grace that keeps on giving,” the pastor said. “Like the ocean waves, grace keeps on coming. It never runs out. Grace transforms. We all saw the empty dead looking field outside of church today, but it won’t look that way for long. Soon lovely corn stalks will sway in the breeze. God can take our emptiness and make it fruitful with his grace. Don’t say you’re too messed up; there’s nothing he can’t forgive. And if God forgives you, people, you better forgive yourselves, or you’re saying you’re holier than God!”  

The pastor paused. It seemed to Grace he was looking right at her. Then he continued. “I love what Pastor Virgil A. Kraft wrote long ago. ‘Spring shows what God can do with a drab and dirty world.’ He smiled. “And spring shows how God’s grace can transform us if we give confess our sin and need of a Savior.”

Grace caught her breath. That day she turned to Jesus and a new life chapter began. It wasn’t easy to get rid of false guilt, to stop blaming herself for things not her fault, or to forgive herself for things that were. It wasn’t easy to let go of bitterness. It was a process of learning to accept grace for Grace, but it was one she embraced despite tears. And every Sunday she looked at the field next to the church, admiring what God was doing in all seasons.

It hadn’t been easy rebuilding her life either, but Aunt Ruthie and her new church family had given her support every step of the way.

Grace stopped reminiscing, lifted her head off the headrest, opened her car window, and looked outside. Corn stalks were swaying in the warm breeze. What a beautiful summer morning! Aunt Ruthie would have loved today.

She wiped a few nostalgic tears. Aunt Ruthie had been in heaven many years now, and her twin boys were grandfathers.

About time to head inside, Grace said to herself. She began gathering her Sunday school material. She’d taught a Sunday school class for more years than she could remember, “Grace’s Girls.”

The parking lot had filled as Grace had been reminiscing. A sudden crash jerked her head backward. She rubbed her neck and got out of her car, leaning heavily on her cane. A teenage boy stood behind her car surveying the damage his old Dodge pickup had done to it. He didn’t even notice her at first, he was too busy swearing. Grace hadn’t cursed like that in fifty years, but it was interesting to see the swear words hadn’t changed much.

Suddenly the kid spotted her. His face reddened. “This your car? Just my luck to run into it. I should have known better than try to come to church today.”

Grace nodded. “It’s mine. Shall we call the police so you can file an accident report?”

Stuttering replaced the swearing. It took Grace a few minutes, but she finally figured out the kid had no insurance, had been kicked out of his home by abusive parents, and was working at minimum wage for an area farmer. He was trying unsuccessfully to make it on his own.

Grace looked at his old truck. “Doesn’t look like much damage done to your vehicle.”

He let a couple more four-letter words fly. “But yours? I can’t pay for that. My landlord is about ready to toss me out of my apartment. I’m two months late on rent.” He swiped angrily at a tear.

Grace put a hand on his arm. “I know a couple of guys who own an automotive repair place, B & B Body Shop. They’ll give me a good deal, and I can afford to pay for it. These guys are getting older and are looking to hire a young man. The pay is good, and a small efficiency apartment attached to the garage is part of the salary. You have any interest in that kind of work?”

Two older, identical looking men, one using a cane, walked toward them. One of them laughed. “Grace, do you plan to make this a habit every fifty years or so, smashing up your car in the church parking lot?”

Grace laughed. “Billy, Bobby, I might have found you that employee you’ve been looking for.”

“That so?” Bobby smiled at the young man and said, “How about if we take you out for a steak dinner after church and talk about it? That sound good to you?”

“I haven’t eaten since Thursday,” the kid blurted.

Bobby put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll fix that soon as church is over. Let’s hope it’s not a long sermon. Right, Billy? Billy!”

Billy had been bent over examining the damage to Grace’s car, but he stood and put a hand on the young man’s other shoulder. “Haven’t eaten since Thursday? Guess we better get you a real big steak!”

The kid took a step backward. “Hey, dudes, you too ma’am, you don’t know me. You don’t know the stuff I’ve done.”

Grace chuckled. “I felt the same way my first Sunday here. Let’s just go inside and see what happens, okay? And what’s your name?”

“Shane.” And he took another step backward.

“Steak dinner.” Billy said, grinning.

“Maybe a job,” Bobby said, wiggling his white eyebrows.

“Will you help me walk into the church, Shane?” Grace asked. “I could use an arm.”

Shane hesitated only a moment longer, then offered her his arm. The four of them were late. When they walked into the auditorium, the congregation was singing, “Grace, grace, God’s grace.”

And in the field outside the church the corn grew tall.

“And of his fulness have all we received, and grace for grace. For the law was given by Moses, but grace and truth came by Jesus Christ.” –John 1:16-17

The end.

***

Past 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