“Addie, it’s almost midnight,” Paul said. “You should be sleeping.”
She was sitting up in bed, notebook propped on her knees, pencil in hand. “I know, Daddy, but I’m working on my New Year’s substitutions.”
“Your what?”
“You know. Like you and Mommy made. I heard you say you want to lose a few pounds, and Mommy said she wants to read more, especially her Bible.”
Paul chuckled and adjusted the beanie that had slid too far forward on Addie’s bald head. “Oh, I see, your resolutions.”
“Uh huh. That’s what I said.”
“Well, how about if I unplug your Christmas tree lights now so it’s darker in here so you can sleep. You can work on your resolutions tomorrow.”
“Do you want to see what I wrote?”
“Maybe tomorrow, honey. You need to sleep.”
He put her notebook and pencil on the bedside table, and she snuggled down under her covers.
“I’ll go to sleep, Daddy, but please leave the tree lights on. I wish we could leave the decorations up until Valentine’s Day!”
He kissed her forehead. She felt warm.
Please, Lord, not neutropenia again and another trip to the ER.
He took her temperature. It wasn’t yet to the point the oncologist ordered ER visits.
“You come get Mommy and me if you start feeling sick.”
“I will, but I feel fine! Daddy, does your angel whisper to you before you fall asleep?”
He shook his head.
“You do believe in angels, don’t you Daddy? Because my angel whispers to me.”
If she wants to believe an angel whispers to her, and that gives her comfort, let her believe it.
He kept back sobs until he got to the living room where Jenna folded him in her arms.
“Let it out, honey. I’ve been crying most of the day. I’m not sure the treatments are working, and the oncologist gives such vague answers. And he’s always in a hurry and never smiles. It’s hard talking to him.”
Paul wiped his eyes. “He doesn’t have an easy job, honey. He isn’t God; he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want us to lose hope.”
He felt her tremble. “I’m not losing hope, Paul, but I’m scared. It’s so hard having to take a seven-year-old for chemotherapy. Last week a little three-year-old was next to us. She sobbed the whole time, until Addie asked if she wanted her to tell her a story. Addie told her a beautiful story about how her guardian angel whispers to her a bedtime. She told the little girl she had an angel too, and she should listen right before she falls asleep, and maybe the angel will talk to her about heaven or even sing to her. That little girl of ours has quite an imagination.”
Paul turned on the gas fireplace and they sat on the couch in front of it. “I’m not so sure it’s her imagination. I think she really believes it. She told me tonight her angel whispers to her.”
Jenna looked at him. “Do you think it’s possible?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? The Bible says children have angels.”
Jenna put her head on his shoulder. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this tired, body, soul, and spirit. She usually took down Christmas decorations on New Year’s Day, and here it was the third, and she couldn’t even think about beginning the chore. She told Paul how she felt.
Paul said, “Addie said she wished we could leave decorations up until Valentine’s Day. Why don’t we do that for her. Just in case…” He cleared his throat. “You know what she was doing tonight? She was working on what she called her New Year’s Substitutions.”
Jenna sat up. “Her what?”
“You know, substitutions. Resolutions?”
“Oh!” Jenna laughed.
“What were they?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t look.”
“Do you think she’d mind if we sneak in there and take a peek?”
Paul shook his head. “She wouldn’t mind. She tried to show them to me earlier. I want to check on her anyway. Her temperature was up a little.”
Jenna groaned. “Not again!”
Addie’s room glowed with the soft lights from her tree. Jenna went to her bed and softly kissed her forehead. Her temperature felt normal.
Thank you, Lord.
Addie smiled in her sleep. Jenna checked to be sure her bucket was next to her bed, just in case she got sick during the night, a frequent occurrence.
Paul was reading the notebook and tears were running down his face.
He took Jenna’s hand and led her back to the living room couch. He handed her the notebook.
Jenna read what Addie had printed:
My New Year Subtatoshuns
Help kids not to cry
Help nurses not to be sad
Help doctur to smile
Help mommy and daddy not to be afrade about if I dye becuse Jesus will take care of me
It took quite awhile before Jenna could speak. “She knows we’re afraid.”
Paul nodded. “She’s a smart kid.”
“We can do better that this,” Jenna said. “I have a New Year’s substitution of my own. How about if we try to practice what we believe? Why don’t we face the future with faith instead of fear? Yes, we may lose Addie this year, but let’s not let fear spoil the time we have left with her!”
Paul smiled. “Well look at me. I have a smart daughter, and a smart wife.”
He hugged Jenna tightly. When she came up for air she asked, “What do you think that angel whispers in her ear every night?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he tells her that whatever happens, it’s going to be okay.”
The End
***
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole
Kat touched Johnny’s shoulder. She didn’t reach for his hand; he was gripping the steering wheel and staring out at the snow whipping across the country roads. He was used to city driving in Chicago, not backroads like these.
“Oh, the things you do for love, Johnny Dryden,” she said.
He gave her a quick smile. “Hard to believe it’s been a year and a week since I found you in your grandparent’s room at Riverside Assisted Living and Memory Care. I grabbed your hand that day and haven’t let go since!”
“You aren’t holding it now.” She teased.
“In just a few hours you’re going to be Kathleen Dryden and I’d like you to be able to say your vows in one piece. This storm is something else! At least it might keep some party goers off the road. Tell me again why we decided to get married on New Year’s Eve?”
“Because, after all the tears of this year, we wanted to begin next year with joy.”
Kat’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of the agonizing pain Grandma had suffered for weeks before she died, and the heart attack that took Grandpa a few hours after she went to be with Jesus. And then just a month after Mr. Ken had their joint memorial service, he joined them in heaven. Losing her grandparents and then her dear older friend had sent Kat spiraling into a deeper grief than she’d ever known.
She could barely choke out the words. “Johnny, I’m glad God took Grandpa before his beloved Corners Church in Wisconsin burned to the ground after the lightning strike. He would have been heartbroken to hear the small congregation disbanded. And somehow it seemed to me like the end. The end of so many things….”
Johnny took one hand off the steering wheel and reached for hers.
“I’m sorry, Kat. I loved your grandparents and I’m glad they didn’t have to know about the church. They suffered enough this year. The year wasn’t all bad though; they had some wonderful times. We all did!”
She laughed through her tears, and Johnny smiled at her.
If Mom and Dad were still alive, they’d love this woman I’m marrying.
“Wasn’t it amazing, Johnny, the way Mr. Ken and Grandma and Grandpa found each other again after all those years? Only God could do that! And they were inseparable after they were reunited last Christmas.”
Johnny nodded. “Remember last June when we brought your grandparents to your apartment? And your grandma insisted on making pancakes for all of us? Kat! I can understand burning one or two pancakes, but how does someone burn an entire two dozen of them? We had to open the windows so we could breathe!”
“Well, Johnny, you may have noticed I’ve inherited Grandma’s cooking talent.”
He laughed. “Good thing for you I love to cook. Good thing for me too!”
“Johnny, I’m glad you proposed to me when we were with Grandma, Grandpa, and Mr. Ken. It was so sweet.”
“It was supposed to be a little more romantic, but when your grandma said, ‘So I see you’ve finally decided what your intentions are toward my granddaughter. You may now hold her hand!’ we all laughed. So much for romance.”
“Laughter’s very romantic, Johnny. I love to laugh. But remember how happy Grandpa was? He said he wished we could get married at Corners Church and he could officiate. And we told him we’d try to make it happen.”
A small sob escaped. “But Johnny, you did the next best thing. I still don’t know how you found a church for our wedding that’s so much like Grandpa’s was. Internet?”
“Nope. I told our pastor you felt sad about not being able to get married in your grandpa’s little country church, and he told me he knew a man who’d once pastored a church in Chicago, one even larger than ours. The guy left and became pastor of a country church in Michigan. It sounds a lot like your grandpa’s church. It even has the same name, ‘Corners Church.’”
Suddenly, their vehicle slid, spun out, and came to rest in a snowbank on the lonely country road.
“Are you okay, honey?”
“I am, but I’m afraid we’re going to be late to our own wedding.”
He glanced at the dashboard and saw the time. They had only a half-hour left to make it to the church by five. Johnny had a great sense of direction and had memorized the route, but to check how much travel time they had left, he punched the church address into his phone.
“Oh great. No cell service. So, no GPS. And I don’t have a shovel.”
“Johnny! We have another problem. I forgot the marriage license!”
“No, you didn’t. I grabbed it off your table on the way out. It was great how the county clerk let us apply for it virtually, so we didn’t have to make this trip twice.”
“Yeah, the trip from Chicago to here that was supposed to take three hours? We’ve been on the road five already. What are we going to do?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, grinning, impossibly blue eyes holding her gaze. “We could panic or pray. You choose.”
“Can I choose both?”
He laughed and reached for her hands. He was still praying when someone knocked on his window.
“Looks like you folks need some help.”
“Are you an angel?” Kat asked.
The man laughed. “I’m not often called that. I’m Davey, and this is my son, Reece. The rest of my family is in the car. You don’t look too badly stuck; I think we can dig you out in no time.”
And they did. Johnny offered pay, but Davey shook his head. “Just have a safe and happy New Year, and God bless. Anything else I can do for you?”
“You wouldn’t happen to know how far Corner’s Church is, would you? It’s a white frame building on the corner of….”
“Two dirt roads.” Davey finished. “My family and I are on our way there now. You wouldn’t happen to be getting married this afternoon, would you?”
As Johnny followed Davey’s vehicle down dirt roads Kat began worrying.
“Johnny, didn’t the pastor say the church auditorium would be empty and available for us to use? Why are these people going there?”
Her heart sunk even more when they arrived, and the parking lot was full. The simple wedding of her dreams was evaporating. Had that pastor—what was his name—J.D.—gone and invited his entire congregation to her wedding that was supposed to be just her, Johnny, and the required witnesses?
Johnny was already in his suit. Kat took her satin dress with its fur cape from the backseat, and they walked into the auditorium. She caught her breath. It looked so much like Grandpa’s church. And it was decorated with beautiful simplicity, white lights on two real pine trees and on a garland strung across the front.
A gorgeous, tiny woman with red curls came toward her, smiling. “I’m Trish, J.D.’s wife. Let me show you where to change. Would you like some help?”
“I’m Kat, and I’d love some help. I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage the zipper, and I didn’t want to have to ask Johnny to help me with it when I got to the front of the church!”
Trish laughed. Kat thought it sounded like bells. She noticed Trish walked with a pronounced limp and wondered what had happened to her.
“J.D. and I got married here last Christmas. I decorated the same way for you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? It’s perfect!”
“And for my wedding a dear friend whose heart’s the only thing bigger than his bank account ordered flowers from overseas for me. When he heard we were going to have another Corner’s Church wedding, he did the same for you. Do you like lilacs?”
Fresh tears ran down Kat’s face. “They’re only my favorite flower.”
Trish left and returned with a box of tissues and a beautiful bouquet of purple, lavender, and white lilacs. She put the flowers into Kat’s hands, wiped her tears with a Kleenex, and said, “It’s time. Go meet your happily ever after.”
Trish stood in the back of the auditorium.
There are only a couple of people here. Where are the rest of them?
She heard the back door close, and her heart sunk. Were they all coming in now? It was only Reece, the teen who had helped shovel them out. He reached up, and pulled on a long, thick rope. The beautiful sound of a bell echoed over farms and fields.
How can it sound just like Grandpa’s church bell?
Kat whispered a thank you. Reece smiled and left.
The wedding march began. Kat took a few steps and stopped, suddenly feeling lonely and wishing she had someone to walk her down the aisle. As if by magic an older man appeared at her side and offered his arm.
“I’m George. May I?”
The ceremony was perfect, though Kat had a hard time concentrating because Johnny’s eyes kept promising he’d love her beyond forever.
When they signed the marriage license, she and Johnny used their matching antique Christmas pens. She had her grandpa’s, and he had Mr. Ken’s.
“J.D. uses an antique fountain pen too, but yours are unusual,” Trish said as she signed her name.
Kat said, “These pens have quite a story. They’re the Christmas pens. I wish I had time to tell you about them.”
“Oh, you have time. Our church people wouldn’t hear of you not having a reception. Do you smell that amazing sauce? I hope you like spaghetti because our Edna makes pasta you’ll never forget!”
“That’s so kind, but it’s a long drive back to Chicago, and this storm, and….”
Johnny laughed and hugged her. “We aren’t going back to Chicago tonight, honey. J.D. and Trish checked with me weeks ago. They’re giving us a wedding gift, two nights at a nearby log cabin bed and breakfast.”
The reception was wonderful, and Trish was right; she’d never forget Edna’s pasta, or the bread fresh from the oven, or the table full of pies people had brought. There was even a small, perfect wedding cake topped with a lighted country church.
Everyone wanted to hear the story of the Christmas pen. There were a few tears when Kat finished telling it.
Kat tried to keep names and faces straight. She hadn’t been hugged by this many people since she’d been at Grandpa’s church so many years before. A sign in the fellowship hall said, “Live, Love, Laugh.” These people sure knew how to do that, and how to share God’s love too.
Finally, an old man pounded his fist twice on the table. Kat jumped and Trish laughed.
“Don’t worry; that’s just Uncle Cyrus being Uncle Cyrus.”
The old man stood. “I say it’s getting late and we let this here sweet bride and groom head on out. We’ll meet again sometime, Lord willin’ and if the creek don’t rise.”
Kat and Johnny tried to express their gratitude, but it got swallowed up in more hugs.
Later, at the bed and breakfast, Kat asked, “Do you want to hear my crazy idea? I’d like to move here. I haven’t felt this much at home since I was a kid.”
Johnny laughed. “I’m always ready for adventure. A physician’s assistant can find work anywhere, but what are you going to do? I doubt there’s going to be a job here for a biomedical engineer.”
“Maybe I could work virtually.”
Johnny pulled her to the window that overlooked a field covered with snow. The clouds drifted apart, and a full moon glistened on the snow.
He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
“Let’s pray about it, Kat. And let’s make a lifetime of beautiful memories because life goes way too fast. Someday memories are all we’ll have. But for now, we have each other, and I don’t think anything could be more perfect. Do you agree?”
Her kiss answered his question, and the angels smiled.
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
All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole
“Aren’t you at least going to rinse the dinner dishes, Kat?” Mr. Ken asked.
She shook her head. “No time.”
She tried not to look impatient while he took his overcoat from the hall tree and put it on. His hands trembled over the buttons, and he nodded gratefully when she offered to button it for him. Then he knotted the red and green plaid scarf around his neck, tying it just so. And it seemed to take forever for him to pull on his leather gloves. Bent almost double, he tapped his gold tipped cane twice and smiled up at her.
“Aren’t you ready to go yet? What are we waiting for?”
Kathleen laughed. “Oh, Mr. Ken, some things are worth the wait. That’s what my grandpa always said.”
Ken almost fell when he slipped on the ice as they waited for a taxi. She caught him.
“Do you think a walker might be safer?”
“Maybe? Do they come with gold tips?”
Even in the cab he kept shivering. “Where are we going?” he asked, teeth chattering.
“I know you’d rather be under a warm blanket enjoying your Sunday afternoon nap, but I’m taking you for a Christmas surprise. Don’t ask questions.”
“Oh, Kat, old men are happiest at home. I don’t need anything I don’t already have there.”
“Don’t you, though?” she asked, giving him a mysterious smile.
He groaned when they pulled into the winding driveway of the Riverside Assisted Living and Memory Care.
“Kat! Just because I slipped on the ice once or twice! Have you arranged a tour here for me?”
She laughed. “It’s Christmas Day, remember? I don’t think they do tours on Christmas.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Just ride along with me.”
He gave her a sharp look.
“That couple I told you about who took me in when I was a tough street kid? Bill and Sheri? He used to say that to her when she tried to be a backseat driver. ‘Just ride along with me.’ She didn’t like it much. He knew it too. But they just looked at each other and laughed.”
Kathleen saw tears in his eyes behind his half glasses. He took off a leather glove, fished a handkerchief out of his pocket, and blew his nose.
“They were the kindest people God ever made, taking in a tough kid like me, giving me a place to live, and telling me about Jesus. I told them I’d never believe in Jesus, and I’m sure they thought I never did, after the way I left, stealing from them, and destroying Sheri’s Bible. I’d give anything to apologize and tell them they changed my life. But we don’t live looking in the rearview mirror. We aren’t going that way. Always go forward. You remember that Kat.”
“I will, Mr. Ken, but we can’t go anywhere if we don’t get out of this cab.”
The lobby was beautifully decorated, and a group of children was singing Christmas carols. Mr. Ken smiled and waved at them. Kathleen steered him down a hallway.
“Do we have to walk far?” he asked, leaning hard on her arm.
She shook her head. “Just a few doors.”
She stopped at a door decorated like a Christmas tree. It had a sign, “First prize for door decorating.” Ken looked for a name, but it was covered by the tree.
“Who are we going to see?” he asked.
She smiled and guided him inside.
“Grandma and Grandpa, I brought you a Christmas present.”
A tiny, fragile looking lady with white curls protested, “Kat, no gifts! You promised!”
A man Ken judged to be even older than himself chuckled. “You know our granddaughter, Sheri! She has a mind of her own, just like her grandma. So, what’s the present, kiddo? Let’s have it. I hope it’s chocolate!”
“Bill!” The old lady laughed. “You’re incorrigible! And you probably should let Kat introduce her guest before you start begging for candy.”
Bill? Sheri?
It couldn’t be. Ken’s mind struggled to keep up.
Kathleen led him closer to the older couple. “Grandma and Grandpa, this is my dear friend, Mr. Ken. He’s a retired pastor and an old friend of yours, but you knew him as Sam.”
She glanced at Ken’s face and lowered him into the armchair behind him just before he fell.
Sheri put one hand over her heart and struggled to catch her breath. “Bill! Honey? The scarf he’s wearing! It’s the gift I got you long ago, the one missing from under the tree when Sam left us on Christmas, the day we found my new Bible ripped apart and thrown under the tree…”
The angels congregated to hear the tears, laugher, and conversation that followed, and they whispered to each other, “Look. It’s another Christmas miracle.”
Two taps sounded on the door. Kathleen was the only one who heard it. She opened it and stared into the brilliant blue eyes of Johnny Dryden.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m the volunteer chaplain here. I come here every Sunday to get advice from Bill and Sheri, and they pray with me. What are you doing here?”
Kathleen’s grandpa hollered, “Hey, Johnny, come in! I want to introduce you to my granddaughter and tell you a story you aren’t going to believe!”
Johnny grinned. “I’ve already met your granddaughter, and I can’t wait to hear your story. He took Kathleen’s hand and guided her to a love seat under the window. They sat down, but he didn’t let go of her hand.
Kathleen’s grandma stared at her and raised an eyebrow. Kathleen shrugged.
“Young man, what are your intentions toward my granddaughter?”
Johnny looked at Kathleen and smiled. “To be determined.”
“Then perhaps you should let go of Kat’s hand while you work out the to be determined part.”
His face flushed. “Yes, ma’am.”
But he didn’t let go of her hand.
Kathleen laughed. So did her grandparents.
Mr. Ken said, “I’ve been expecting this.”
The three older people began reminiscing again.
Johnny said quietly, “I still want to get to know you, Kat Jones. What do you do in your spare time?”
“I’m writing a novel based on the years my grandparents spent at their country church.”
“I’d love to have you read it to me.”
“Maybe you could come for dinner sometimes. We could invite Mr. Ken too. He’s terribly lonely.”
He smiled. “I’d like that.”
Ken said, “My hearing’s pretty good for an old man. I better warn you, Johnny, she’s a terrible cook.”
“Yes,” Sheri said proudly, “she gets that from me.”
“I’ll bring takeout,” Johnny said.
“Wise decision,” Ken said, laughing.
“Oh, Grandpa, I almost forgot,” Kathleen said. “I want to show you how all this started.”
She tried to reach into her purse.
“Johnny, you’re going to have to let go of my hand.”
He flushed again.
Kathleen pulled out the antique red pen. “Mr. Ken fixed the pen you gave me.”
Ken nodded, pulled from his shirt pocket the pen that matched it, and showed it to Bill.
Bill’s eyes filled with tears. “You kept that pen I gave you all these years?”
Ken choked on the words. “I never forgot you. I kept the pen to remind myself of the man I was before your love and the love of Jesus changed me. Can you ever forgive me?”
“Forgive you? That happened on a long-ago Christmas afternoon when we got home from church, noticed the missing gifts, and saw the torn Bible under the tree. Sheri and I dropped to our knees and told God how much we loved you. We’ve prayed for ‘our Sam’ every day since.”
Kathleen went and hugged Ken who was crying. “It’s no wonder I loved you almost as soon as I met you. From the time I was a tiny girl, I’ve been praying for Grandma and Grandpa’s ‘Sam.’ And here we are, all together, because of the Christmas pen.”
Next, she hugged her grandpa. “Here,” she said, handing him the pen, “this belongs back with you, Grandpa. It’s a great reminder prayer can mend broken things. Even broken hearts.”
Kat sat on the loveseat and took Johnny’s hand. The sweet talk of the older ones flowed around them like a warm blanket until suddenly it became very quiet.
Johnny chuckled. “Look. They’re all sleeping. Do you think you should take Ken home so he can get a real nap?”
“I will soon,” she whispered, “but tell me. How did a Physician’s Assistant become a chaplain?”
“Well, I came here often to visit my grandpa who’s in heaven now. He was in the room next door, and one day I came into your grandparent’s room by mistake. Your grandpa was cleaning his collection of fountain pens, and I was intrigued. We got talking, and one thing led to another. He told me he’d been praying for someone to be a volunteer chaplain and. . . .”
The three old ones kept napping. The two younger ones kept talking. Outside the snow kept falling. And the angels kept listening to another Christmas miracle just beginning.
“Third Sunday in a row we’ve had snow,” Kathleen said to herself, as she closed her computer. She liked her job as a biomedical engineer, but her real passion was writing. She’d been working on her novel in snatched minutes of time for almost two years and sometimes got so engrossed in the story she lost track of time. Like now.
“Wow, I’m running late!”
Kathleen detested being late for anything, but the prelude was well underway when she slipped into her pew at Christ Calvary Cathedral for the Christmas service. Mr. Ken smiled at her. She felt uneasy about the elderly man; he was still wearing his overcoat and red and green plaid scarf and looked pale. It was plenty warm enough in the building.
Is he sick?
“You okay?” she whispered.
He nodded and patted her hand. His gloves were still on too.
The program started. Without words, accompanied only by the orchestra, children in tailor-made costumes acted out the manger scene.
The production was beautiful, but Kathleen had to stifle a giggle. She couldn’t help remembering the year at Grandpa’s country church when there weren’t enough boys and she’d had to play Joseph. She’d been upset; she’d wanted to be Mary or an angel. And then the bath towel someone had wrapped around her head had fallen off halfway up the aisle and everyone had laughed. She hadn’t thought it was funny then, but it was one of her favorite memories now.
The perfectly dressed children exited, and the choir sang the beautiful song by Ron Hamilton, “Born to Die.”
“On the night Christ was born, Just before break of morn,
As the stars in the sky were fading,
O’er the place where He lay, Fell a shadow cold and gray,
Of a cross that would humble a King.
Born to die upon Calv’ry
Jesus suffered my sin to forgive
Born to die upon Calv’ry
He was wounded that I might live.”
As the choir finished, a hush fell over the auditorium. Two teenage boys dressed like Roman soldiers came up the aisle carrying a big wooden cross. They took slow, deliberate steps in the silence. When they got to the large, decorated Frasier Fir in the front, they raised the cross and dropped it with a loud thud into a stand that had been set up next to the tree. The boys stood quietly, looking at the cross. Then the younger of the two fell to his knees and began crying. It obviously wasn’t part of the script. The older boy looked around awkwardly for a minute; then he knelt next to the younger boy and put an arm around his shoulder. He whispered something and the other boy nodded. They stood, both crying now. They faced the congregation, raised their right arms high, fists clenched, then tapped their hearts.
The boys shouted in unison, “Jesus is Lord!”
Kathleen reached in her purse for a few tissues. Mr. Ken needed one too. She heard sniffles all around her.
The pastor stood head bowed. Finally, he said, “My sermon today was titled, ‘The Perfect Tree,’ but I don’t need to preach about the cross. These boys have done a far better job than I could ever do.”
To the soft music of “Silent Night,” the congregation filed out quietly.
Mr. Ken sat in the pew, head bowed, praying. Kathleen waited for him.
Finally, using his gold tipped cane, he struggled to his feet, smiling at her through the tears on his face.
How can I love this old man I’ve only known a few weeks? But I do. Even his smile reminds me of grandpa.
“Aren’t you feeling well?” she asked.
Mr. Ken chuckled. “Just an old man who can’t get warm. Am I still invited for that awful dinner? You said you’re a terrible cook.”
She laughed. “You are and I am.”
Once again Johnny Dryden was waiting to help them into a cab, and Kathleen’s eyes widened when Mr. Ken invited him to her apartment for lunch.
Johnny’s incredibly blue eyes met hers and he laughed. “You’re safe. I have to get to work.”
She nodded. “I guess physician’s assistants have to work Christmas Sunday?”
“It’s my other job. My volunteer one,” he said, as he helped Mr. Ken into the cab. “But Kat Jones, I still want to get to know you. What did you think of the sermon?”
“Best I’ve ever heard.”
“Same.” He smiled and waved as the cab pulled away.
As promised, Sunday dinner was terrible. Kathleen sighed. “This is the first time I’ve goofed up spaghetti.”
Mr. Ken laughed. He took another bite of the undercooked pasta covered with the too salty sauce. “It’s not that bad, Kat. It’s nice to eat with someone. This more than repays me for fixing your grandpa’s pen. It should work for many years now. The one I have just like it wrote love letters to Ruth and thousands of sermons, and it’s still working.”
“How did you become a pastor, Mr. Ken? I have to leave at three o’clock, but we have time for your story.”
He took a crunchy bite of the too dark garlic bread, coughed, and grabbed his water. “It’s a long story. What do you say you keep eating and I’ll tell it? I’m kind of full myself.”
He’d barely begun talking when Kathleen’s face paled and she pushed away her own plate. He’d been a runaway, hated his abusive parents, hated the church that knew what was happening but did nothing to stop it, and hated God. Then he decided there was no God. A confirmed atheist at the age of sixteen, he’d lived on the streets, a tough kid who’d do anything for food or a bed. Then he got sick.
“It was a bitter cold winter, a lot like this one. I intended to mug and rob whoever answered the door that night, but I was too weak to even knock. I guess I made a lot of noise falling into the door, because a woman opened it. She called her husband to help her, and they half-carried me inside.
“I could see right away they were poor, and I cursed my dumb luck for not stumbling into a place where I could take something worthwhile. They asked my name. I was sick and half out of my mind, but street smart enough not to give my real name. I told them my name was. . . ”
Kathleen interrupted him. “Sam.”
Her mind was racing.
How did I not see this before? The pen. The phrases he uses. The scarf!
He raised his white bushy eyebrows and stared at her. “How’d you know that? Lucky guess? Anyway, they took me to a walk-in clinic that night and got me some antibiotics. I heard Bill, that was his name, tell Shari he was sorry he’d had to use some money he’d been saving for Christmas to pay for it. She hugged him and said she didn’t care; he’d given her a gift she’d never forget by helping me.
“I thought they were a huge joke. Like people from another planet, you know? How could they be for real? They said I could stay with them as long as I wanted. They fed me. She was a terrible cook, and I didn’t let them know it, but I enjoyed every meal. They gave me a warm bed. But they kept talking to me about God, and every time they did, I got mad. I told them there was no God and no good people either. Everyone had an angle, and I’d figure out theirs sooner or later.
“Sometimes I’d hear Bill and Sheri praying for me late at night, and that made me angry too. I didn’t think I needed their prayers. They said they’d always pray for me.
“Bill was a seminary student. He was going to be a pastor somewhere when he graduated. I told him it was a fool’s job.
“I’d been with them about a month. It was Christmas Day. They begged me to go to church with them, said we’d open gifts after we got home. I refused. I’d had it with their God talk. As soon as they left, I raided the gifts under the tree. Sheri had wrapped a gift for Bill, a scarf. I took it. I wear it to this day to remind me of what I was before God saved me. Bill had wrapped a gift for me, the red fountain pen you see me write with. His gift for Sheri was a Bible. I tore pages out of it, left it under the tree, and hit the streets.
“After a few more years of alcohol, drugs, and street life, I was a mess. I ended up in the Rescue Mission. I’d never been able to forget Bill and Sheri and the love and kindness they’d shown me. They’d made God seem real to me, and I hated what I’d done to them. When I finally understood God’s love in sending His Son and asked Jesus to save me from my sin, I looked for them to thank them and ask forgiveness, but they were gone. They probably forgot all about me, but I never forgot them.”
Kathleen had to clear her throat twice before she could speak. “Mr. Ken, we’ll eat dessert later. It’s almost three o’clock. There’s somewhere I have to go, and I’d really like you to come with me.”
“Old men need afternoon naps, Kat.”
He looked at her pleading eyes.
“Okay. Let me get my coat.”
She smiled. “And your scarf, Mr. Ken. Be sure to wear your scarf.”
The End
Be sure to come back for The Christmas Pen Part Four
***
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
All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole
Kathleen had wondered about Mr. Ken a few times during the week.
Has he been able to fix the pen? Did he even remember to take it out of his overcoat pocket?
He’d said she could come up to his apartment and get Grandpa’s antique fountain pen he was supposed to be repairing for her, but she’d felt funny doing that. After all, he was practically a stranger, even though, in some strange way, she felt close to the old man.
You must be desperate for human connections, Kat.
Wait. So, now I’m calling myself “Kat,” my childhood nickname, the name I never use but gave to Mr. Ken for some unknown reason?
She thought back to their taxi ride home from church the previous Sunday. Ken had told her she reminded him of someone.
“A granddaughter, maybe?” she’d asked.
“No, Ruth and I never had any children.”
“So, Ruth was the love of your life?”
“Ruth and Jesus! But Ruth would say it was Jesus who came first!”
Not for the first time he’d reminded her of Grandpa. That’s what Grandpa had always said about Grandma. “The loves of my life, Grandma and Jesus.”
And sweet little Grandma had said, “Tell it like it is, dear. You know I come second. It’s always Jesus first with you. And that’s okay with me. Like you say, ‘a Christian marriage is a triangle, two people and Jesus. Keep Jesus at the top, and the closer the two people at the sides of the triangle move to Jesus, the closer they get to each other.’”
Kathleen suspected maybe it was because Grandpa loved Jesus best, he had so much love to give to others.
“Who do I remind you of if not a granddaughter?”
“It’s your smile. You remind me of a friend I had once.”
“You remind me of someone too. My grandpa.”
“Tell me about him.”
But they were back at the apartment building by then. She’d helped him out of the cab and to the elevator. They’d parted ways when she got off on her floor.
Kathleen didn’t know if she’d see Ken at church on Sunday. She had no idea if he attended often. But when she slipped into the pew where she always sat, there he was.
“You’re here! And sitting right where you sat last week,” she said.
He chuckled softly. “I’ve sat in this same pew far longer than you’ve been attending church here. I’ve been sitting next to you for five years now.”
Her face flushed. “Would you believe I never noticed?”
He chuckled again. “I’d believe. You’ve probably never noticed the handsome young man who sits two pews ahead and sometimes glances back at you.”
What handsome young man? The only man I see in that pew has a bald spot on the back of his head.
But she couldn’t ask Mr. Ken about it now; the prelude was beginning, and the pipe organ’s swelling music reached the rafters. “O Come, Let Us Adore Him.”
Kathleen forgot about Mr. Ken, her grandpa’s pen, and the supposedly handsome young man as she worshipped the Lord Jesus, the One she’d learned to love long ago when she’d been a little girl in Grandpa’s country church.
During the sermon Mr. Ken once again took copious notes with his antique fountain pen, the one that matched her grandpa’s broken one.
Kathleen’s mind wandered during the sermon. How did I not notice the person sitting next to me for five years? Well, he sits to my right, and I always go left to exit the pew, but still….
She remembered something Grandpa had taught her to pray, “Love through me, love of Jesus.” She had a feeling Jesus wouldn’t sit next to someone for five years and never notice them. Had she really let a decade ago broken heart make her that cold toward people?
Well, he’s never said anything to me either. Or has he? I don’t remember. Pay attention to the sermon, Kathleen.
“What can you give the Lord this Christmas?” the pastor was asking. “He said whatever we do for the least of His children we do for Him. I’m asking you to leave your comfort zone and do something you’re unaccustomed to doing in this church. I’m going to stop talking for sixty seconds. Look around you, to your left, your right, in front of you, and behind you. Who do you see that might need a smile, a helping hand, a meal, a friend this Christmas?”
Sixty seconds can seem a long time. Kathleen knew she wasn’t the only one who felt uncomfortable. Uneasiness hung thick in the air. In this beautiful, professionally decorated cathedral, something like this just wasn’t done. She stared at her folded hands in her lap.
Okay, Kathleen, it’s not like he asked you to go on a yearlong mission’s trip.
She looked up and smiled at the woman in furs to her left. The woman didn’t smile back. She glanced at the people in front of her. The man with the bald spot looked directly at her and grinned. His eyes were the brightest blue she’d ever seen. She forced herself to look away and glanced at Mr. Ken. He was smiling.
Invite Mr. Ken Fisher to dinner next Sunday. It’s Christmas, and no one should eat alone, including you, Kat Jones.
She pushed aside the thought. She was a terrible cook. No one should have to eat her food; she could barely stand to eat it herself and ordered take out whenever possible.
When the service ended, Mr. Ken took forever to struggle to his feet. Bent nearly double, he craned his head, looked up at her and smiled.
“Would you like to share a cab again?”
This week the foyer wasn’t empty when they finally got there. The young man with the bald spot and incredibly blue eyes was waiting there.
“Pastor Fisher!” He bent down and hugged the older man. “I don’t expect you remember me, but you baptized me the last year you were pastor here.”
Ken smiled. “Of course, I remember you. Little Johnny Dryden. You were nine years old. You probably go by John now.”
The man laughed. “Nope. Johnny Dryden, physician’s assistant, at your service. How do you remember me after all these years?”
“Because,” Ken said, “I’ve prayed for you every day, you and all the others I’ve baptized.”
Johnny’s eyes filled with quick tears. “You’ve prayed for me for twenty years?”
Kathleen did the math. Johnny was the same age she was. But he wasn’t here to talk to her; he hadn’t said a word to her.
The next thing she knew her hand was in his two warm ones. “I’m glad to finally meet you. I’ve been trying to catch you to talk to you for a long time, but you usually hurry out and are gone before I can get out of my pew.”
She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Ken laughed.
“Johnny Dryden, meet Kat Jones. She’s my neighbor, and we’re just about to share a cab home. Don’t suppose you’d care to join us?”
“I wish I could,” Johnny answered Ken, still looking at Kat, “but I have a deacon’s meeting. It’s probably already started. I’m late, but I’m going to be later, because I’m going to help the two of you get a cab.”
Johnny helped Ken get his overcoat from the rack and waited patiently while he buttoned it and knotted the red and green plaid scarf around his neck, tying it just so. Johnny acted like he had all the time in the world as Ken slowly struggled into his leather gloves.
Johnny linked one arm into Ken’s and the other into Kat’s and walked them out into the snowstorm. This Sunday, one cab was left from the long line that always formed in front of the large church. He helped them into it.
Before he shut the door he said, “Kat Jones, I’d like to get to know you.”
She smiled. She still hadn’t said a word. Her thoughts were reeling. After a few minutes she turned to Ken.
“Mr. Ken, you were a pastor? Here at Christ Calvary Cathedral?”
He nodded. “I was. I retired twenty years ago.”
“But last Sunday you told me you didn’t know many people here anymore.”
He sighed. “I don’t. The congregation now is mostly newer people, and the ones who were here when I was a pastor seem to have forgotten me now.”
“Johnny Dryden remembers you.”
He raised white, bushy eyebrows and smiled at her.
“That young man doesn’t seem like the kind likely to forget anyone who matters to him.”
“Mr. Ken, would you like to come to dinner next Sunday? I’m a terrible cook.”
He laughed. “I had a friend long ago who always said that. She really was a terrible cook too, but I enjoyed every meal I ever ate in that house. I’d love to come. And I should have your grandpa’s pen fixed by then. I had to order some parts.”
“Oh! I’ll pay you!”
He waved one hand. “No, you fix me a terrible dinner and we’ll call it steven-even.”
She caught her breath. “Grandpa always said steven-even instead of even-steven.”
He smiled again. “Did he now?”
The End
Be sure to come back for The Christmas Pen Part Three
***
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
All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole
It was the second Sunday of December, just two more until Christmas. Kathleen settled into the plush cushion on the pew and listened to the trained choir sing its classical arrangement of Christmas medleys. She admired the white flocked garlands of cedar and fir that hung from the vaulted ceiling. The company Christ Calvary Cathedral hired to decorate for Christmas had outdone themselves this year. Kathleen felt like she was sitting a in winter wonder land.
She was contented with the big city church she’d called her own for the last five years; the preaching was wonderful. Even her grandpa would have approved.
Grandpa. Her eyes stung with tears, remembering the little country church where she’d grown up. Grandpa had been the preacher there, and it had seemed childhood would last forever. That white frame building on the corner of two dirt roads had been a far cry from this beautiful cathedral in Chicago. And the Christmas decorations there?
Kathleen grinned, comparing the two. Corners Church’s only Christmas adornment each year was a straggly cedar cut from a farmer’s field. Some years the tree was more brown than green. Propped in the corner of the platform, its only ornaments were a tinfoil star and construction paper handprints cut by the children each year and tied with red and green yarn to its branches. Each handprint had a child’s name and the words, “I love Jesus.” Since the practice had continued for more than sixty years, Kathleen’s own handprint was still hanging on the tree this year; she was sure of it.
Do I? Do I still love Jesus?
Of course she did. What else would bring her out of her warm apartment to hail a taxi on this bitter cold, snowy day, when it would have been so much easier to stay home and work on her book in her pajamas?
She didn’t come to church for fellowship; she had no friends here. She knew it was partly her own fault, but it wasn’t easy to get to know people. At almost thirty years old she’d tired of singles groups. And no one stood around talking after services like they had at Grandpa’s church long ago. People had talked so long there sometimes meals had dried out in ovens before families got home to eat them. Here you might exchange a polite nod with a stranger as you left by one of the several doors.
Am I just an introverted unfriendly person? Is it me?
As the music in the cathedral continued Katherine’s thoughts wandered to her job. She didn’t have any friends there either. True, the job was by nature self-isolating. A biomedical engineer, she, along with her co-workers, researched things like ways to make MRI’s even stronger. The rest of the engineers were mostly men; the few women were married with families. No one seemed to want to socialize. And the one romantic relationship she’d had in her life had ended in tears a decade ago.
Why am I thinking like this? It must be Christmas. The best time of the year—allegedly. It’s the best time for single, lonely people to feel depressed.
She shook off the feeling. Christmas was more than a time for families and friends to socialize, it was the time to celebrate Jesus, the Light of the world, who’d come to die for the sins of mankind and make a way home to heaven. She’d focus on that. Still; it hurt, being so alone.
The sermon started. Great. The pastor was preaching on “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” He even played the old song, unusual for this church’s formal form of worship. She could see her grandpa doing something like that though.
Home for Christmas? What about those of us who have no home left to go to?
Tears stung her eyes and Kathleen swallowed past a lump in her throat. She reached into her purse to get a Kleenex and noticed the elderly man sitting next to her in the pew. He was taking notes on the sermon in a little notebook and using an antique fountain pen. It looked just like Grandpa’s, the one she always carried in her purse.
He must have felt her staring at him because he glanced up and smiled. She nodded and looked away, a flush creeping into her cheeks. People didn’t look at each other during the sermon, not in this church. But she’d like to ask him if he knew why Grandpa’s pen wouldn’t write anymore.
When the sermon ended the older man used his gold tipped cane to help him struggle to his feet. Instead of exiting the pew, he turned to Kathleen, smiled, and said, “I’m Ken. Ken Fisher.”
She shook his outstretched hand. “I’m Kat. Kat Jones.”
Why did I say Kat instead of Kathleen? No one’s called me Kat since I left home for college years ago.
He smiled at her, brown eyes twinkling over half glasses.
“Would you know what’s wrong with my grandpa’s pen?” she blurted.
He looked puzzled.
Kathleen laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m not really crazy. I noticed you writing with a fountain pen. My grandpa used one just like it, and I always carry it with me to remind me of him. I’d love to write with it, but it doesn’t work.”
She dug around in her purse, pulled it out and showed it to him.
He looked surprised. “That’s a very old pen. I didn’t know anyone but me still had one like that. I fix pens as a hobby. Would you like me to take this and see what I can do?”
She hesitated. She wasn’t a sentimental person, but that pen and a few of Grandpa’s books were the only material possessions she had that mattered to her.
“Would you bring it back next Sunday?”
He laughed. She liked the sound.
“I can do better than that. I can bring it downstairs to your apartment, or you can come upstairs to mine and get it. We live in the same building. My window faces the street, and I sit in a chair there to read my Bible. I see you hail a cab at the same time every morning.”
Stalker? Creepy old man? Someone to fear?
She studied him. She wasn’t good at guessing age, but he had to be close to ninety and was bent nearly double. His suit coat hung loosely on a small frame that had obviously once been larger. He smiled, waiting for her answer.
“Mr. Ken, would you like to share a cab home?”
He smiled. “Yes, Miss Kat, if you don’t mind the slow pace of a hobbling old man.”
She didn’t mind.
Maybe I’ve found a friend. Grandpa always said, “When it comes to friendship, age doesn’t matter.”
But she didn’t give him the pen. She slipped it back into her purse.
He hadn’t been kidding about the slow pace. Kathleen helped Ken get his overcoat from the rack. She almost offered to button it for him; it took him so long, but she didn’t know him well enough for that. Then he knotted the red and green plaid scarf around his neck, tying it just so. And it seemed to take forever for him to pull on his leather gloves.
By the time they got to the street the usual line of cabs in front of the church was long gone. Ken lost his balance as they waited in the wind for another, and she grabbed his elbow.
“Does anyone usually wait here with you until you get a cab?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know many people here anymore.”
She sighed. “Looks like we both could use a friend.”
“I could use one,” he said. “And when it comes to friendship, age doesn’t matter.”
He’d lowered his head against the wind, so Ken didn’t see the quick look she gave him.
A pen like Grandpa’s and Grandpa’s saying too? It must be a Christmas coincidence.
It was hard getting a hold of the pen with her bulky red mittens on, but she found it and held it out to him.
“I would like you to take a look at this, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”
He took it carefully and slipped it into a deep pocket of his wool overcoat.
“I don’t mind at all. It will give a lonely old man something to do.”
The End
Be sure to come back for The Christmas Pen Part Two
***
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
All of Donna Poole’s books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole
The house was quiet except for John’s soft snoring and the white noise whirring of the fans in our bedroom. My pillows were soft, the covers cozy, and the midnight sky dark. Everything was perfect for sleeping, except for one thing. I was high on steroids and bouncing off the proverbial walls.
Legit steroids—the kind they give you to counteract the cancer treatments. They work well unless you want to sleep. I needed sleep. This was day five of steroids and very little sleep, but we don’t always get what we think we need.
So, I prayed. I read some in the book of Revelation. I played spider solitaire. I came this close to waking John and asking if he wanted to watch a Christmas movie with me. And then I did what I’ve often counseled others not to do when tired, discouraged, and sleep deprived. I started thinking.
It’s a good thing the Lord came along and asked if I’d like to talk to Him while I meandered down a dangerous backroad where tree branches twisted ominously overhead and threatened to tangle in my hair.
“I’m not going to write anymore, and that’s final,” I told the Lord.
“Okay. It’s your gift. I gave it to you; you can do as you wish, but I thought you wanted to tell generations yet to come about me?”
“See, that’s just it. Who do I think I am, trying to give people a glimpse of Your tenderness, Your beauty, Your greatness, Your love? I’m a sinner. You know it; I know it.”
“Let’s take a detour,” Jesus said to me.
He touched my elbow, and the country road with the too dark trees disappeared. We stood on huge boulders and wild ocean waves smashed against them. The ground shook. I was cold, wet, and terrified.
“Please, can we leave this place?” I asked.
“In a minute. I want to show you something.”
Jesus pointed down. “Look.”
He held me so I didn’t fall, and I looked down, down into a whirlpool that sucked the water furiously into itself and seemed to plunge into infinity.
“What’s in there?” I asked.
“Your sins. I died for them, remember? I forgave you and promised to bury your sins in the depths of the deepest sea. I told you I’d forget them. Do you want to dive in there and bring them up?”
I pushed back into the safety of His arms and shook my head.
“Then never again mention to me the sins you’ve already confessed. Do you understand? And I don’t want you to think of them yourself. I paid a terrible price to throw them into that hole.”
I clung to Him in gratitude.
The Lord touched my elbow, and we were back on my walking together on my country road again. But the moonlight was shining softly through the branches now, and they didn’t look ominous at all. They wove an intricate design against the sky, almost like poetry. I could write about them, if…but no. I could write no longer.
I didn’t have to use my words. He knew.
“What’s your other reason for wanting to quit writing?”
“Lord! You need Michelangelos who can paint Your picture with words! I’m a child with a fat crayon. I’m clumsy at this. What if I use the wrong colors? You know I never was any good at staying in the lines! I’m afraid. I could mislead someone. I might paint a picture with words less than true.”
“Do you remember when your granddaughter printed her name for the first time and gave it to you? She printed the “C” backward. Did you throw it away?”
He smiled. He didn’t need the answer. He knew I’d kept that scrap of paper on my refrigerator until the paper turned yellow, and then I’d tucked it into a drawer to keep.
“That’s how I feel about what you write about me. But it’s good you’re afraid. It means we’re finally getting somewhere after all these years. How about if you let me put my hand over yours and guide that fat crayon and see what happens? But didn’t I teach you this lesson long ago? Perhaps you’re just so tired you’ve forgotten it.”
I stopped, right in the middle of the road. Now I remembered my forgotten lesson. I looked up at the stars; for a second I thought I could see the millions of galaxies beyond. Jesus had created all of this with the breath of His mouth; who knew what He could do with me and a few fat crayons?
“Lord! Do you think I could ever graduate to a paintbrush? Could I maybe someday be a Michelangelo with words and write a masterpiece about You?”
He chuckled. “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. You may never get beyond your box of five colors on this earth, but creative work continues through all eternity. Who knows what might happen there? But for now, steroids or no steroids, I think you should probably try to get some sleep.”
“So, don’t wake John and ask if he wants to watch a Christmas movie? Or maybe go have a cup of coffee and look at our beautiful Christmas tree?”
“No.”
“Could you explain the book of Revelation to me? I have a lot of questions.”
“Some other time.”
“Okay, but before I go to sleep, I’ve always wondered what Your plans are for the billions of galaxies up there in outer space. Could You tell me something about that?”
“Goodnight, Donna. Go to sleep. I’ll leave your box of crayons on your night table. Draw me a picture in the morning.”
***
These blogs are now available in eBook and paperback on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Solomon, the wisest of men, wrote, “To every thing there is a season…A time to be born, and a time to die…A time to weep, and a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to dance.” –Ecclesiastes 3
Sometimes the laughing and crying, the mourning and dancing all come in the same week, and oh the conflicting emotions! I call them the roller coaster weeks.
Roller coaster are fun if you get on them because you want to. Our brother-in-law, Bruce, was a roller coaster aficionado! He knew his coasters; he loved his coasters, and if you wanted to ride them with him, you better be prepared to run, not jog, from one to the next. Bruce was at the half- century mark when he and Eve, my sister, treated extended family to a day at Six Flags Great America in Chicago. I love amusement parks and especially roller coasters, so I was excited about going, but I was also forty years old and expecting our last child.
“You better ask the doctor what you can ride,” my sister Eve advised.
“Oh, he’ll let me ride everything,” I assured her. “I’ve been jump roping 1,200 times every day, and he said that was fine because I’ve been doing it for years.”
I wasn’t too happy with my doctor’s reply, “Don’t go on anything that goes around or up and down. Except the merry-go-round. You may go on that.”
So, when we got to Six Flags, I hung out with my sister Ginny, and we enjoyed talking and watching her youngest have fun on the rides for the littlest ones. The rest of the family disappeared, and those wanting to ride the roller coasters took off with Uncle Bruce. He might have been fifty years old, but the teenage boys soon found out it wasn’t easy to keep up with him when he had a gleam in his eye and a coaster in sight!
I didn’t ride the roller coasters that day, but I did many other times, and had a wild, fun, exhilarating time, unlike some others on the rides who were crying, begging to get off, or, worst of all, puking.
I never wanted off a roller coaster ride. But sometimes I’ve had enough of life’s roller coaster extremes of laughter and tears, mourning and dancing, and I’d like a plain, old, ho-hum boring merry-go-round.
Last week was a roller coaster. John and I were heading home after buying more paint for a room he and Kimmee, our daughter, were furiously painting, trying to finish before Thanksgiving. They didn’t have time to run out of paint, but they did. We were almost home when Kimmee called. I knew by her voice something was wrong. Through tears she told us that her sweet calico cat, Peggy, was dying.
Peggy, like all but one of Kimmee and Drew’s cats, showed up uninvited but found two of the best people to love and care for her.
Kimmee has been loving stray cats since she was old enough to walk outside and gather them into her lap. And she has been crying over them for just as long. Peggy was older when she found Kimmee; we think she must have been someone’s house pet before they dropped her off to make her own way in life. She was a funny little thing, walked like an old lady, followed Kimmee everywhere, and had the most gorgeous eyes. She almost always kept her tongue out.
When we got home, we could see Kimmee was right, Peggy was dying.
Kimmee and her husband, Drew, brought Peggy into the kitchen, wrapped her in towels to warm her up, and put a little electric heater near her. Peggy seemed to perk up for a few minutes, but then she had a seizure and was gone. God took her wherever He takes animals. You do know, don’t you, who sits beside every dying sparrow? The Bible answers that, and if God cares about the dying sparrow, He’s also there for every sweet Peggy.
Just a cat? Some might say that, but not God. Think, for just a minute, of the incredible creativity God used to make each of His creatures, and they all say something to us about Him. And the way we treat the animals He created says something about us to God. A godly person is kind to their animals (cf. Prov. 12:10).
No one is kinder to animals than Kimmee. The grief Peggy left behind was deep. Kimmee’s heart once again crumbled, because love anything, and you’ll get your heart broken.
But is it worth it to love? Through tears Kimmee returned the very next day to doing what needed to be done, finishing the painting. The day after that she made wonderful desserts for the family who was going to join us for Thanksgiving. But her hurt showed on her face, and my heart broke for her.
After two days in the kitchen, the day we’d been preparing for finally arrived, and family joined us. Because of the two nasty C’s—cancer and Covid, this was the first family Thanksgiving we’d had since 2019.
Love and laughter filled our house. We feasted on the roast beasts—turkey and ham and all the fixings. We welcomed a new family member; a great niece’s husband joined us for the first time and fit right in. We talked about Thanksgivings past, and how Bruce would have scolded us for having too much food.
I heard young cousins talking about one of their Thanksgiving traditions. Apparently, they bring Walkie-Talkies and send out distress calls no one pays attention to. It warmed my heart to see the kids making memories of their own they’ll talk about someday when they’re older and hopefully still celebrating the holiday as a family.
Yes, part of my heart was still mourning, not just because of Peggy. We’d lost someone too that week, a wonderful pastor friend, Clyde Wonders. John would be preaching his funeral on Saturday. Not only did I love Pastor Wonders, I love his family, and my heart hurt for them, knowing they were having their first Thanksgiving without him. And yet, a mourning heart can still dance. My heart was doing both.
I looked around the tables at the people, smiling, talking, eating, laughing. Love was there, and love is everything.
Our oldest granddaughter, Megan, is heading off to school in the spring to become a physician’s assistant. I don’t know if she’ll be here next Thanksgiving. We never know, when we sit at any table, who will be there when next we gather, so we love fiercely, we love with all the strength we have, even though we know that someday our hearts will be broken, because that’s the way it is.
Megan hugged me when she left. “Grandma,” she said, “that was spectacular.”
Yes, Megan, it was. Love is spectacular. It’s also a roller coaster. And we don’t really want to get off before we must. I’m grateful for the ride.
***
These blogs are now available in eBook and paperback on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Life is usually crazy busy for us. I imagine the same is true for many of you.
The past few weeks have been especially over the top with ministry and writing obligations, home repairs, and a health crisis. I’ll spare you the nitty gritty. On top of it all we’re supposed to be getting ready to host twenty-two of us here for Thanksgiving dinner, something we’re really looking forward to even as we hope the paint on the room will be dry.
As I watched my husband, John, and daughter, Kimmee, hard at work painting quite late one night, I reminded them of an old favorite joke of mine. A family had invited a large group to eat dinner with them, and the dad asked his little boy to say grace.
The little boy was feeling shy. “I don’t know how.”
His dad encouraged him. “Sure, you do. Just say what you’ve heard Mommy say.”
The little boy shrugged. “Okay, Daddy.” He took a deep breath. “Dear Lord, why in the world did I invite all these people?”
We’re glad we’ve invited all our people and can’t wait to see them, but we aren’t ready for them yet, so we’ve been working pretty much non-stop, especially Kimmee who’s doing most of the peeling, scraping, and painting. That’s why I was a little surprised when we left church on Sunday, and she asked me if I wanted to take the long way home.
We both had work to do at home, writing, painting…so much work. But did I want to take the long way home? It had just snowed, and our backroads were beautiful. Oh, yes, I did want to take the roads less traveled!
We’ve taken those backroads home often after church, Kimmee and I, since my cancer diagnosis. I used to stand at the door with John, shake hands, hug, and talk to each one of our church family as they left. My heart misses that, but my oncologist team won’t allow it yet because of my practically non-existent immune system. I’m supposed to avoid contact, so Kimmee and I slip in late, sit in the entryway because I’m not allowed in the auditorium, and leave during the last prayer. But in my heart, I’m still there, laughing, talking, crying, and praying with people I love. Taking the backroads home with my sweet daughter eases the ache for me between what was and what is.
And you know? The “what is” must be pretty good, because it’s God’s choice for me right now. Without the cancer and the enforced isolation, I would have been too busy to write these blogs or my books that hopefully mean something to somebody.
Without cancer I’d never have taken the roads less traveled home from church and seen at slow pace the changes in every season. We’ve marveled, in spring, over every sign of vibrant new life. Then came summer wearing its riot of wildflowers and next fall styling her coat of many colors. Sunday our backroads wore mink coats and looked lovely and elegant in white. And peaceful. They looked so peaceful. In a few places, on those backroads, ours were the only tire tracks.
We needed peace. We ignored, for a few minutes, the demands calling us to hurry home, enjoyed God’s beauty, and felt thankful.
There is a time, the Scriptures say, for everything under the sun. Whether I kick Morticia out of my lung, relearn my adult manners, and rejoin my church family in the auditorium, or whether I leave this world, as we all will someday, Kimmee and I know we won’t have forever to meander home down the backroads. Perhaps that’s what makes us all the more thankful for today.
Happy Thanksgiving, dear readers, to you and yours, and I hope you make time now and then to get off the interstate and take a backroad with someone you love.
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These blogs are now available in eBook and paperback on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Saturday was the day, a monumental day at the Poole Hall.
It snowed! Huge, lazy flakes drifted down, and they whispered it was time for music.
I’d been wanting to play Christmas music for a while, but tradition must be observed. Poole Hall Rule: We do not play Christmas music until it snows.
However, some of the younger generation who grew up in the Poole Hall have wandered from the old paths. I’ve heard tell of three of our offspring playing Christmas music long before the first snow; yea, verily, upon one occasion, I witnessed the terrible transgression with my own ears.
I admit, I did enjoy hearing that too early Christmas music played in the home of one son who’d departed from his upbringing. I even suggested to John we also break with tradition and listen early, but he didn’t go for it. He did compromise a bit and say if it hadn’t snowed by the Friday after Thanksgiving, we’d start listening then.
I’m glad we didn’t have to wait that long.
When it started snowing Saturday, we put the phone where we could both hear the music and turned it up loud. John was studying for his Sunday sermon, and I was in the kitchen making desserts for the Community Thanksgiving Dinner.
I was definitely feeling thankful. Just a few days earlier I’d barely been able to walk because of the side effects from cancer treatment, but Saturday was a better day, and the music helped.
I hummed along in my usual off-key voice to the eclectic mix, “A Tennessee Christmas,” “Silent Night,” “White Christmas,” and then… I hollered.
“They’re playing my song!”
That’s not what John heard. He thought I’d yelled, “I cut my thumb!”
He came running to the kitchen. After we laughed and he returned to his studies, I hummed along with a tune I love, one Bing Crosby made famous, “Silver Bells.”
“City sidewalks, busy sidewalks,
Dressed in holiday style,
In the air
There’s a feeling
of Christmas.
Children laughing,
People passing,
Meeting smile after smile,
and on every street corner
You’ll hear
Silver bells, silver bells.
It’s Christmas time in the city.
Ring-a-ling, hear them sing,
Soon it will be Christmas day.”
I was two years old when Bing Crosby first recorded that song with Carol Richards on September 8, 1950. I grew up loving that tune, and I grew up loving bells. My favorite bell is the one at our old country church where John has been pastor for a long time. This will be Thanksgiving number forty-nine for us there.
Some people complain that Thanksgiving gets lost in Christmas and we should wait until we finish the one before we begin celebrating the other. We have a Poole Hall family tradition about that too; the Christmas tree and decorations go up the weekend after Thanksgiving.
But if people want to start celebrating Christmas early, why not? Why not ring all the bells and let all the lights shine? I wish bells rang on every street corner all year and people passing each other always met smile after smile.
If Thanksgiving and Christmas collide and twine around each other, let them hug. We can never be too thankful that Jesus Christ, God the Son, came to this dark world to light the way Home for us. And He did it by love. He loved us so much He died for our sins. All the lights and bells in the world aren’t enough to celebrate that!
We heard handbells ring Sunday night. Their sound makes me think of angels. We bundled up to attend a hymn sing at a church about forty-five minutes from home. It was a bitter cold night, but we felt warm and happy inside Bethel Church. Some of you may know my oncology team doesn’t want me to go into auditoriums, but I’m allowed to sit in entryways. This delightful church has an entryway larger than our entire church sanctuary, but the kind pastor and people make it feel country church friendly.
John and I sat in the entryway where we could see and hear everything; we didn’t feel isolated. We joined in singing the old hymns. We loved the special music, the handbells, the piano player who had, I believe, at least six hands, the vibrant youth worship team, and the quartet.
Ah yes, the quartet. “The Four Friends Quartet” used to sing often. The tall tenor is our son, Dan. Life became impossibly busy for the four friends, and they seldom sing together now. I smiled and cried my way through their songs. Who knows when I’ll hear them again?
Who knows when anytime may be the last time? A few days ago, we were talking about Christmas, and I was rattling on about something I hoped we could do. Kimmee, our daughter, just looked at me and smiled.
“What?”
“Mom, you’re still here!”
I grinned. “I know.”
This is the third Christmas I’m surprised to still be here. Maybe I’ll still be around when I’m one hundred years old. But when it’s my time to go, I hope I see lights and hear bells ringing. Maybe, just before I leave the people I love here, I’ll sing them the Bill Gaither song the quartet sang last night:
“If you want more happy than your heart will hold,
If you want to stand taller if the truth were told,
Take whatever you have and give it away.
If you want less lonely and a lot more fun
And deep satisfaction when the day is done,
Then Throw your heart wide open and give it away.”
Or maybe I won’t sing it. They don’t need to hear it. We already have so many givers in our family, so many wonderful people I love and admire, even the ones who transgressed tradition and played Christmas music too early. I think I’ll join them next year.
There really isn’t enough time to ring the bells, to string the lights, to play the music. We can’t give this dark world enough smiles or share too much hope.
Next year I might start a new tradition. It will be a monumental day at the Poole Hall when I play Christmas music on September first.
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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
This is NOT how it looked Saturday. We haven’t had enough snow to measure yet this year.
