When life revolves around waiting rooms, infusions, clinical trials, tests, procedures, and doctor visits, you make your own fun.
I do it every time a medical person asks me the question they always ask. Said medical person has my records and has already been introduced to Morticia, my lung tumor.
“Do you smoke, Mrs. Poole?” They ask this elderly woman with cancer.
“Not yet.”
I wish I had photos of the shocked expressions. Then I laugh, they laugh, everyone laughs. Except John. My husband has heard it a few too many times, and he didn’t think it was funny the first time. I, however, find it more hilarious every time I say it.
Not yet!
I don’t always use that phrase in a humorous way.
“Do you want a wheelchair, honey?”
John looked at me with concern and motioned to the row of wheelchairs ready and waiting outside of the Rogel Cancer Center at University of Michigan Hospital. I was already short of breath and leaning hard on his arm, and we’d only walked from the parking lot to the entrance. We still had a long way to go to get to Star Ship Enterprise where I’d have my high-resolution chest CT scan.
I looked at the maize and blue wheelchairs and hesitated, tempted. Then I shook my head.
“Not yet.”
I didn’t have to say more; John knew what I meant. This “not yet” wasn’t joking.
I want to walk when I can as long as I can.
As usual, I regretted my decision half-way there, and there was no Scotty to beam me up. My legs felt like cooked elbow macaroni, and my vision blurred. I’m not sure why I’m so stubborn about the wheelchair, but I cling hard to the things I can still do.
With unspoken gratitude to the person who’d invented handrails along hospital corridors, I finally arrived at my destination and collapsed into a chair.
How many times had I been to this room?
I was losing count.
In two years, I’d had twenty-six CT scans and twelve PET scans, but this would be my first high resolution CT. I fell in love with high resolution the moment I found out I didn’t have to drink the wonderful Kool-Aid—AKA barium. Not only that, but I didn’t even need a needle poke for contrast dye. This wonderful machine, in about three minutes, did a Dr. Leonard “Bones” McCoy worthy examination on my lungs. It saw things in minute detail a regular CT can only dream about.
The examination completed; we began making our way back to the parking lot. Stopping to catch my breath, I leaned against a handrail. A tall man with dark curly hair hesitated behind us. He was pushing a shiny metal cart with some boxes on it. He paused and looked at us with concern.
“You can go around us.” John laughed. “We’re slow.”
He nodded and steered his cart by us. When he got even with us, he stopped. Above the hospital required mask, the man’s blue eyes locked with mine.
“I hope everything will be okay,” he said.
His voice carried so much compassion. I looked at him, startled.
Are you an angel?
He was everyman. He was every good man and good woman who stops to show compassion to a stranger. Just six words, but tears stung my eyes, and still do when I remember him.
A dozen hardboiled eggs, a pound of cooked elbow macaroni, whatever sweet pickle relish is left in the jar, as many sliced green olives as you can find in the fridge, a can or two of tuna, a few shakes of onion powder, a couple of scoops of Miracle Whip and mayo, and a good squirt of mustard.
There you have it. The macaroni salad John and I threw together. I forgot to mention we peeled the eggs before we added them to the salad.
John would rather I forgot the eggs altogether, and I really wish we didn’t have to add the gag-a-maggot tuna!
I was vigorously stirring the macaroni in the colander to get the last drops of water out when two noodles flew into the sink.
“Well, there you go,” I said to John. “Now the salad is like me. Two noodles shy of a full box.”
He laughed.
“Do you still love me even if I am two noodles shy of a full box?”
He assured me of his love. John would love anyone who would put tuna in his macaroni salad.
“How many noodles shy can I be and still have your love?”
He gave the ridiculous question about as much thought as it deserved. “You,” he declared, “may be four noodles shy of a full salad, and I will still love you.”
I’ve been to a neuropsychologist for testing a few times; if they send me again, I’ll be sure to ask him how to tell if I’m three noodles shy, so I’ll know when I’m pushing my limits with John. On second thought, I won’t ask him. That man has no sense of humor.
My neurologist sent me to him for testing after a stroke, craniotomy, and multiple seizures affected my brain. Don’t ask me how they affected it; I can’t remember. Kidding. They combined to give me what the neuropsychologist called mild cognitive dysfunction. I think basically that means I get to forget whatever I don’t want to remember, and no one can blame me for it.
I say the doctor has no sense of humor because on my first visit with him I told him a joke. He looked at me unsmiling with wide, fixed eyes.
“It was a joke,” I said, rather lamely.
“Oh,” he replied. Not even a hint of a smile.
I got the sense we weren’t going to be the best of friends.
I wish I could remember the joke I told him. Maybe it was this one. I went to a psychiatrist, and he told me I was crazy, so I told him I wanted a second opinion.
“Okay,” he said, “you’re ugly too.”
It wasn’t that joke. But I honestly can’t remember the one it was. And forgetting that joke bothers me more than not being able to recite Psalm 1 anymore.
See what I mean? A couple noodles shy of a full box.
I had a full box when John married me. Not to brag, but hey, why not? The Apostle Paul bragged, so I guess it’s biblical. I’ll get to my bragging. I used to be queen of multitasking. I never forgot anything. I had so much energy the Energizer Bunny came to me by night for secret lessons before he made his first commercial.
But life has a way of changing things and people. When John married me, I didn’t have gray hair either. I didn’t have cancer and didn’t need to go to the University of Michigan Hospital for treatments more than I go to church. I certainly didn’t need help making a simple macaroni salad.
But, like the Paul said—he wrote some good stuff when he wasn’t bragging—or rather, God wrote it through him: “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.” –I Corinthians 13:7-8
Love eats hardboiled eggs in macaroni salad.
Love eats tuna in macaroni salad.
Why, you may wonder, don’t we each make our own salad? John could have his without eggs; I could have mine without tuna. That, my friend, is a logical question.
I give to you an illogical answer: “Because. Then it wouldn’t be our salad.” We’ve grown to like it just like it is, even when it’s two noodles shy of a full box.
Readers who know me in person probably guessed that fact already by the wrinkled collars and cuffs our steamer couldn’t quite smooth out. Finally, I gave in and ordered the cheapest iron and least expensive tabletop ironing board I could find from Walmart.
Saturday morning I used the new equipment and discovered to my delight I despise ironing as much as I ever did. As I stood in our steamy kitchen wrangling stubborn shirts, I remembered Mrs. Denton. She’s the reason ironing is an anathema to me. I don’t cuss, but if I did, “GO IRON!” would be one of the worst curses in my vocabulary.
I agreed to iron for Mrs. Denton one miserably hot summer of my junior high days. The payment was one dollar a bushel basket. That was decent money; $1.00 in 1962 equals $9.29 now. But every time I showed up for my ironing job the basket of clothes was piled higher until one day it was twice my height. That might be a slight exaggeration.
I was no expert in ironing when I started working for our neighbor. We Piarulli girls were the cleaning troops who suffered through white glove inspections from General Mom complete with barked orders of, “Do it over!” but I don’t remember ever ironing my own clothes.
Thomas Sears invented the steam iron. In 1938 the Steam-O-Matic sold for ten dollars. Pretty pricey when adjusted for inflation—it would cost $193.61 today. Perhaps that’s why I remember Mom in the 1950s, when steam irons were still $10.00, sprinkling our clothes with water and rolling them up, leaving them until they were damp clear through, and then ironing them without steam. Perhaps she did get a steam iron later; I seem to remember the devil’s hiss.
I didn’t quit ironing for Mrs. Denton that summer. The summer of my discontent.
“Piarullis don’t quit,” Mom said.
Sorry Mom, in all my adult years I’ve never ironed a thing I didn’t have to. Had I not been raised in the strictest sect of fundamentalist Baptist, I would have thrown away any clothing that came out of the dryer wrinkled, but that upbringing sticks with you like super glue. I’m pretty sure discarding usable garments breaks some biblical commandment, perhaps one in Hezekiah.
Which reminds me. Someone gifted me with an ugly, faded brown, hand-me-down circle skirt when I was in fifth grade. It had embarrassingly large brown buttons all down the front, bigger than I’d seen on any old lady’s moth ball scented church coat. In the next five years I grew many inches taller but no wider. Unfortunately for me styles in that same time grew shorter. I wore that ugliness from the time it touched just above my ankles until it reached the middle of my knee. Mom probably would have made me continue to wear it, but I was still growing taller, and that strictest sect of fundamentalist Baptist frowned when skirts reached the middle of the knee; to go higher might risk excommunication.
To be fair to Mrs. Denton, we never specified in our original unwritten contract how full the basket should be. And she did have a lot of children. I can’t remember how many. I do remember I thought Kenny was the nicest of them; he was my age, and I considered it kind of him not to point me out at school as his laundry maid.
That ironing took hours that seemed to stretch to days, weeks, months, and years. I entered the Denton house to iron when I was thirteen and left when I was ninety. I survived ironing days only by knowing when I left there I was heading straight for the waters of the Nanticoke Creek. I didn’t care how muddy it was; I was going in! Or, if it was raining, I’d bury my nose in a book!
Time is not the steady, reliable creature some imagine her to be. She’s capricious. Don’t trust her. A minute is not always a minute; an hour is not always an hour.
Don’t believe me? Compare an hour in a doctor’s waiting room to an hour at the lake. See what I mean?
As I ironed Saturday morning, I thought about how time wraps some things in softness and gives them a smile they never had at the time. I smile now at that short girl standing at the tall ironing board dreaming of swimming in the creek. I didn’t know she’d grow up to be me, the woman who still finds creeks and books fascinating, still hates ironing, and still questions the fickleness of time.
Why can’t some hours last longer?
Last Monday, Independence Day, we went to Dan and Mindy’s where we enjoyed a delicious summer meal with them and four of our grandchildren, Megan, Macy, Reece, and Ruby. Mindy’s parents, Mike and Julie were there too. Mike had prepared smoked brisket; it was delicious. I’d never had it before. Shh, don’t tell my oncologist Mike and Julie were there. I’m only allowed to see family, but I figure the family of my family is my family—right?
After we ate, we sat around a blazing bonfire. Perfect is a strong adjective, but that’s what it was. We talked to Megan about her future plans. Macy entertained us with tales of her volunteer work at King’s Cupboard. Reece passed out sparklers, and Ruby shared her glow sticks. The crackling fire kept mosquitoes away and dreams close.
The huge bonfire began to dwindle, and Mindy, our mighty but tiny daughter-in-law disappeared into their woods. All we saw was a speck of flashlight. She returned dragging huge branches under both arms and threw them on the fire.
Once it was totally dark, Dan and Reece went to the back of their property and set off twelve beautiful fireworks. And then we talked some more. Who knows how long we would have stayed around that fire if it hadn’t started to rain?
Those four wonderful hours were much shorter than any four hours I’ve ever spent ironing, and no one can tell me differently.
I wonder what time will be like in heaven? Maybe this gives us a hint.
“One day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day.” –2 Peter 3:8
I think I understand that a little bit…. Once, when I was around thirteen or fourteen, I spent a day ironing for our neighbor, and it took me a thousand years.
Independence Day weekend 2022 is almost history; soon it will be a fading memory.
As soon as my husband John finished his Sunday sermon, Kimmee pulled out of the parking lot of our old country church. As always, I took a wistful look back at the door; family and friends were inside laughing and talking, and I wished I could be with them. But parking lot church is good too, and I counted my blessings.
We took the long way home, down two dirt roads, and Kimmee stopped often to take pictures of wildflowers for me.
We got home, but instead of pulling in the driveway, Kimmee asked me, “Do you want to go to the bridge?”
Oh, the bridge! Memories came flooding back. How many times had I walked to the bridge with Kimmee when she was a little girl? I was the fast one then; she had to hurry to keep up with me.
One September day during homeschool I taught her about Rosh Hashanah, the festival for the Jewish New Year, as we walked to the bridge. I can’t remember how old she was, perhaps third grade.
Rosh Hashanah begins with the blowing of the shofar, a hauntingly beautiful sound. A neighbor blew one for us once. That sound marks the following ten days of penitence that end with Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement.
On that long ago homeschool day, I told Kimmee that on the afternoon of the first day of Rosh Hashanah Jews went to a river, lake, ocean, or anywhere with water. They turned their pockets inside out, shook out any crumbs, and recited Scripture. It symbolized casting away sins to start the new year with a clear conscience, a fresh start. Kimmee and I got to the bridge over the small stream that becomes the large St. Joe River.
“I’m glad Jesus died on the cross and took our sins as far as the east is from the west, but let’s do what the Jews did. Let’s shake out our pockets over the water and pretend we’re shaking out our sins.”
Kimmee objected. “I don’t have anything in my pockets.”
“I don’t either, but let’s do it anyway. Maybe it will help you remember this.”
She shrugged, looked at me like I was part alien, and shook out her empty pockets.
I think she was about the same age when she begged me to stop acting out her history lessons. “I think I’m old enough now so we could just read the book.”
And here I’d thought I was an entertaining actor! Apparently, only one of us was amused. Still, Kimmee grew up to love drama and acted in many productions in college; I take credit for that!
Yesterday’s Kimmee, now in her thirties, took more wildflower pictures for me at the bridge. I wanted to get out of the car and listen to the water. She came running and helped me stagger to the railing before I cast myself, sins and all, right into the water!
That evening Drew, Kimmee, John, and I went to the fireworks. We parked a distance away from the fairgrounds. Because I’m still in my required cancer bubble, I stayed in the car while the three of them hiked to the fairgrounds to buy the traditional food; can it be the Fourth of July without Fiske Fries?
Life passed by me as I sat in the car in my bubble. I saw young couples with baby strollers, groups of teens, older couples, and a single man with headphones hurry by on their way to the fairgrounds. Most people wore shorts and t-shirts or sundresses; the thermometer said it was warm. I sat wrapped in my long, below the knees winter sweater and chuckled at how I must look. Perhaps like an old lady with cancer?
Family and food arrived back at the car, and we sat our chairs outside, away from people—my oncologist would be proud. The fireworks display was amazing, one of the best I’ve seen. I looked up at the sky and thought about all my family and friends in heaven. I smiled at the thought of being with them forever. I looked to my left, and John smiled back at me and took my hand. I looked to my right.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Kimmee asked.
I thought about all my other wonderful family, not with us at the fireworks, but always nearby if I need them.
With pops and whistles the grand finale was over. I struggled to get out of my chair as John helped haul me up.
“When I don’t move, I forget I’m not normal,” I whispered to him.
When we got home, Drew had a surprise, a box of fireworks.
Sidebar: Today our son John sent his dad this text: “You know you’ve bought the right fireworks when the salesmen gives you a high four.”
Drew let me pick out which one I wanted to see. I chose one called “Summer Vacation.” It was beautiful. After our own fireworks display, we went inside to eat the pies Kimmee and I had baked.
If I told you the pies were perfect, it would be a lie. The berry pie was runny and had clumps of sugar you could chew. Still, it was tasty. It was kind of like life; not perfect, but good enough. More than good enough. I’m grateful.
Gratitude is, don’t you think, the secret to a good life?
I went to high school with Mary; I don’t know if she’d want me to use her full name, so I won’t. She’s a grateful person, even though she can no longer glance over at her husband, Jerry, and have him take her hand. Today I read a Facebook post of hers that touched my heart. She wrote about going to a concert with Jerry and asking Vance Gilbert to sing “May I Suggest” by Susan Werner.
Mary posted, “When I listened to it today, the song had a totally different meaning of the words, especially the last part. It has more meaning now than it ever did before. Thank you, Vance Gilbert. I miss you Jerry, thanks for the great memories we had.”
Here’s the song.
May I suggest May I suggest to you May I suggest this is the best part of your life May I suggest This time is blessed for you This time is blessed and shining almost blinding bright Just turn your head And you’ll begin to see The thousand reasons that were just beyond your sight The reasons why Why I suggest to you Why I suggest this is the best part of your life
There is a world That’s been addressed to you Addressed to you, intended only for your eyes A secret world A treasure chest to you Of private scenes and brilliant dreams that mesmerize A tender lover’s smile A tiny baby’s hands The million stars that fill the turning sky at night Oh I suggest Yes I suggest to you Yes I suggest this is the best part of your life
There is a hope That’s been expressed in you The hope of seven generations, maybe more And this is the faith That they invest in you It’s that you’ll do one better than was done before Inside you know Inside you understand Inside you know what’s yours to finally set right And I suggest And I suggest to you And I suggest this is the best part of your life
This is a song Comes from the west to you Comes from the west, comes from the slowly setting sun This a song with a request of you To see how very short the endless days will run And when they’re gone And when the dark descends Oh we’d give anything for one more hour of light
May I suggest this is the best part of your life
Tonight, we’re invited to our son and daughter-in-law’s home, where we’ll be loved by Dan and Mindy and four of our wonderful grandchildren. I think there might even be a bonfire.
The loved ones lost this past year remind me I may not always have my family and friends to love. For the ones I still have today, I’m grateful. This is my hour of light with them; this is the best part of my life.
Of my earthly life, that is. Because of Jesus I can say and believe with all my heart, the best is yet to be. No sins to cast out of my pockets, darkness gone forever. After the darkness comes light.
We wouldn’t have been caught off guard if we’d just looked under the hood. She gave us fair warning.
But we didn’t look.
Follow closely. This gets complicated.
Kimmee was second shooter for a wedding last Saturday; that’s second photographer for you uninitiated. John had agreed to drop her off. He was running a bit late, but they still had time to make it—barely. John and Kimmee loaded all her equipment into our 2000 Toyota Avalon, a gift from dear friends. We love that car. It’s always dependable. They jumped in, turned the key…click… silence. They reloaded everything into our not so dependable 2009 Chevy Uplander and raced out of our driveway.
Here’s where it gets complicated. Sunday comes after Saturday. Wait, no, that’s not the complicated part.
If you’ve followed my blog perhaps you remember that John is a pastor, and my oncologist hasn’t allowed me to go inside our church for two years. Kimmee drives me to what we call parking lot church. Our church transmits services over the radio, but the signal reaches only as far as the parking lot. That’s not the complicated part either.
Here’s the complicated part. Our vehicles are too old to pick up the signal; at best we get static and an occasional muttering voice that sounds like someone speaking in tongues. We know it’s definitely not coming from our quiet, country, Baptist church. We can tune in a great country music station though! To solve the problem of no signal, Drew takes our Avalon to work, and Kimmee drives me to church in their Kia. We can hear the sermon just fine, and we only switch to the country music station if we’re bored. Just kidding; we’re much too spiritual to do that, or maybe we don’t switch because Kimmee hates country music.
Perhaps because it was made it Canada, I don’t know, but the Uplander seat won’t slide back far enough to accommodate Drew’s very long legs. He’d have to drive their Kia to work on Sunday.
I looked mournfully at the Avalon. “It was kind of you to break down right here in the driveway instead of leaving someone stranded far from home, but did you have to pick Saturday?”
It wouldn’t kill me to miss church the next day, but I really wanted to go.
John returned from taking Kimmee to work and drove into the driveway much slower than he’d driven out of it. He checked under the hood, looked at the Avalon’s battery, and laughed.
“It says ‘five-year battery.’ And it’s dated June 2017.”
Well! We couldn’t say the old girl hadn’t warned us. The battery worked right up to its expiration date. Five years to the month.
“I’m going to town to see if I can find a new battery,” John said. “I’m pretty sure that’s all that’s wrong with this car.”
And off he went to the auto parts store.
John hooked up the new battery, and Sweet Avalon hummed her way to life. Vacation over, she took Drew to work on Sunday, and I was grateful to go to parking lot church.
I kept thinking about that old, dependable battery. It didn’t quit working in 2021 or even in March or May of 2022. It worked right up to its expiration date, June 2022.
When I turn on my old, dependable hp computer, also a gift from the dear friends who gave us the car, a black and white picture pops up on the screen. A man is riding a mountain bike down a steep, rocky hill and it looks like he’s heading right into the ocean. Doomed. Expiration date any second now. I liked the picture when I first started using the computer. It spoke of courage and adventure. I hated the picture when I was sick and weak from chemotherapy. It spoke of despair and death. I didn’t want to see someone plunge into the ocean to his demise. I enjoy the picture again now. It says adventure once again. I like to imagine there is a path that curves to the left just out of my sight that the cyclist will take when he gets to the bottom of the cliff.
As you may have guessed, I’ve identified a bit with the cyclist, and with the battery and its stamped expiration date. I don’t know my expiration date; you don’t know yours, and we don’t often think of it. But the date is circled on God’s calendar, rather we think of it or not.
Someone said the two things it’s hardest to get people to consider are these: the shortness of time and the length of eternity. Being a cancer patient changes that. I consider it.
If time is short, and we know it is, and eternity is forever, and the Bible tells me it is, I better be ready.
“It is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment.” –Hebrews 9:27
I can either face that judgment on my own or flunk it more royally than I did Latin II, Chemistry, and Missions, or I can let someone else take the exam for me. Thank God, Jesus already took the test and paid for it with His life. On the cross my sin was condemned so that I would never be judged for it. The entire New Testament tells me this is beautifully, breathtakingly true.
I don’t know my expiration date, but because of the love of Jesus, I’m ready. Like the battery, I’d like to stay useful right up to the end. When I can no longer talk, fix a meal, or write a story, perhaps I can still pray. I’ll breathe in a thought of those I love and breathe out a name in prayer. I’d love for my last breath to be a prayer of blessing.
But until then, there’s work to do, and I plan to keep doing it. True, this old battery named me needs a jump start now and then, and the Rogel Cancer Center at the University of Michigan Hospital is doing a good job of keeping me going.
Like the cyclist heading down the rocky cliff, I don’t know what I’ll find at the bottom. If it’s the ocean, I’m not going to be afraid, because the same Jesus who loved me enough to die for me also promised never to leave me to face anything alone.
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.” –Isaiah 43:2
Will the path curve left and take me down a level path with years of beautiful seashore views?
I’m hoping for the level path. I’ll take my hands of the handlebars and my feet off the pedals and yell “Wahoo!” like I did when I was a kid.
But I’m thinking that for all of us who are heaven bound there are joys ahead no “Wahoo!” can even come close to expressing. So, let come what may, whatever it be, I’d like to say, let’s keep walking each other down these backroads until we see the lights of home.
I’ll be there for you; you be there for me, and that’s not complicated.
When Reece, our grandson, was a little boy with golden curls he used to say that to us when we said goodbye. “Last morrow” was yesterday or any time past, and “next morrow” was tomorrow or any day in the future.
Sometimes we still use those two sweet phrases in our house just for the nostalgia of it because we hold close in our hearts those little boy days too quickly gone. Time gives; time takes away.
What is time, really? Our understanding of time and eternity is so limited. Past, present, future; what are those terms but just words? They are nothing to our God who holds them all in the palm of His hand as one. The Bible says to God a day is as a thousand years and a thousand years as a day.
To an author crafting a novel, time is relative. She knows what happened to her characters in the past; she writes about what they’re doing in the present, and sometimes she knows what they’re going to do in the future, although they often surprise her and do their own thing. When it comes to her novel, an author also holds past, present, and future in the palm of her hand. Time is a relative term; it’s of no consequence. Unless she has a deadline, and then time quickly goes from abstract to concrete!
Perhaps in heaven we’ll view time as God does, and a thousand years will be but a day, and we’ll no longer be slaves to time. But when we’re still walking the earth as mere mortals, there is a past, present, and future; time is very real, and sometimes it hurts.
We love someone dearly; as Erasmus said, “We had but one soul between us.” Suddenly, time is up. The train whistle blows, and our loved one is gone down the tracks, out of sight, into infinity. We can follow them only with our hearts, not our eyes. We have the memories of last morrow, but no next morrow to ramble a backroad together here on this earth. If we both knew Jesus as Savior we have the promise of eternity together, but eternity can seem a long way off to a mourning heart.
A dear pastor friend of ours said, “Death is a defeated enemy, but make no mistake, it is still the enemy.”
It’s the enemy because it tears apart the fabric of hearts knit together, and though time may mend, the scars remain. A song, a scent, a familiar shape turning a corner, and a tear comes.
In the past eight months death has claimed five people dear to us, our sweet friend Amber Jones, only twenty-two, our friend Pastor Don Harkey, my faithful friend, Chris Albee, our dear brother-in-law, Steve Post, and now, our beautiful friend Lois Pettit Trippet.
Each of these lovely people showed us a glimpse of Jesus. People said about Frances Ridley Havergal that when she came into a room you had a sense of two people coming in, her, and the Holy Spirit. When Jesus lives in us, we should bring the smile of spring into a room, the fresh scent of the Other Land we’re traveling to, and these five people did that for us. We grieve their loss.
Lois was an accomplished musician with piano, flute, and voice. Even her laughter sounded like music. We fought cancer together, and she was a song of hope to me. I don’t think either of us expected cancer to win; we thought God would heal us, but God took her Home. I won’t hear that melodic laugher again on this earth; I’ll never again see her beautiful face or lovely smile.
I wipe away tears but smile at the memories.
Lois was a wonderful piano teacher; I was her only failure in all her years of teaching. It took her from late summer until Christmas to teach me to play “Silent Night,” one finger of the right hand on the melody, and left hand doing a few simple chords. She was so patient with me.
Somewhere along the line we decided we were destined to be soul-mate kind of friends, not piano teacher and struggling student. I quit lessons.
I have so many memories. Lois laughing, singing, playing her flute, talking so seriously about the Lord she loved. Lois, still in her twenties, panicking at my surprise fortieth birthday party when she saw someone arrive she was interested in but hadn’t expected to see there, grabbing my hands, and asking me what she was going to do. Her hands were like ice, and her big blue eyes looked like a little girl who’d been suddenly told she had to sing the national anthem in Yankee Stadium. I laughed and told her she was going to be her usual charming self. And she was. Lois at our house having dinner the night I went into labor for our fourth child. I finished eating even though I knew I was in labor because I’d made a special meal; that was a decision I regretted later. After John and I went to the hospital, Lois spent the evening with our kids and helped them make a “Welcome Baby” banner to tape over the archway.
Lois married and moved out of state. I think the last time we ate together was at DJ’s, a cozy little restaurant in Pittsford. Mark, Lois, John, and I sat in front of the big window, talked and laughed, and the years we hadn’t seen each other evaporated like steam from a cup of tea.
Lois and I haven’t seen each other the last two years. My oncologist won’t let me have visitors, and sweet Lois kept wanting to come sing outside my window. When I heard she’d flown like a songbird to heaven, that’s what I cried about the most, that I hadn’t made that happen.
One of the last things Lois did before she couldn’t do anything but wait for Jesus to take her Home and end her suffering was write us a note and send a gift. That’s the kind of friend Lois was to us. Her life was a song; the echo lingers.
Lois, dear friend, I’ll see you next morrow. Amber, Pastor Harkey, Chris, Steve, see you next morrow. And to all my dear ones loved and lost to me now but known to Christ, see you next morrow!
We three couples laughed, cried, and adventured together. We solved the world’s problems while enjoying coffee in our living rooms warmed by a wood burner or kerosene heaters. We sat in camp chairs pulled close to crackling campfires and watched the stars appear. We enjoyed countless meals together. John dearly loved our friends, La-Follettes, and Potters, and never got upset with them.
Except for that one time.
The phone rang. “John,” Audrey Potter said, “Marvin and I are at a garage sale. There’s a dryer here for $75.00. Either you’re buying it for Donna, or we are, but one way or another, she’s getting this dryer!”
A clothes dryer wasn’t on our list of must haves, and the must haves far outweighed the income. It’s probably a good thing Audrey couldn’t see John’s face.
“Where is it?” he asked. “I’ll come get it.”
I have no idea where John got the money, because back then we were lucky to have an extra five dollars!
I’d never had a dryer. We lived in the country, and clothes lines strung between trees worked just fine. Unless it rained, or snowed, or a bird pooped on the sheets, or everything got fly spots, or the laundry smelled like manure from the neighbor’s cows.
Did you ever get out of a hot shower, bury your face in a towel that smelled like manure, and come up gasping for fresh air? No? You should try it sometime!
Home came the dryer. John was even less thrilled when he found out the dryer was set up for natural gas and he had to buy a converter so it could attach to our LP gas. But finally, we got the old girl up and running.
Like our other old appliances, the dryer worked great, most of the time. When she didn’t, John learned a lot about repairs. And when the work needed was beyond him, he called Brad, our appliance guy.
Brad is a genius at finding old parts and fixing ancient appliances. We got to know him well, just as we did our furnace repair man. When people replaced old furnaces, he saved parts off them because he knew we’d be needing them. We have good people in our lives.
About a month ago the old girl started warning us. Towels that usually dried in one hour took two. Finally, she said, “Enough is enough; I need a rest.”
We weren’t worried. John tore her apart and thought he knew what the trouble was. He called Brad. Brad confirmed John’s diagnosis of the patient’s illness and added another John had missed; she was terminal.
“I’ll try, but I really don’t think I can get parts for this anymore, John. This dryer was made in the late 60s or early 70s.”
“Do you have anything second hand available?”
Brad nodded. “I do, but it’s electric. I’ve gone over it, and it works well. I’ll tell you what though, with the price of LP gas as high as it is, you’re going to spend as much to run a gas dryer as you will an electric one.”
Audrey, you’ll be happy to know John is buying Brad’s dryer. You don’t have to threaten to come back to Michigan from Tennessee where you live now and buy it for me if he doesn’t. It costs a little more than $75.00, but it’s very reasonable.
I’ll miss the old girl. I wish I could remember how long we’ve had her, maybe twenty-five years? She gave us a good run for the money, and I’m sorry she’s a goner.
You know what I miss more? I miss the days when three young, then three middle aged, then three older couples cried, laughed, and adventured together. I miss solving the world’s problems while enjoying coffee in our living rooms warmed by a wood burner or kerosene heaters. I miss sitting in camp chairs pulled close to crackling campfires and watching the stars appear. Gone are the days of sharing countless meals together.
Those days will never really be a goner because they’ll live forever in our hearts. We’ll fellowship again someday around the Big Table when we all get Home to heaven. Pastor Potter is there already; we don’t know which of us will go next. There will be no problems to solve there, no tears to dry, but the love and laughter will last for eternity. And I can only hope for a crackling campfire, cups of coffee, and the sweet voices of my beloved friends.
Time is a precious commodity right now, so John sighed when he realized we were out of a necessary medication and had to make a trip to town. He needed every one of his June minutes to accomplish his tasks, and an extra trip to town wasn’t part of the plan.
I knew I wasn’t going to see much of John this month, so I closed my computer. “I’m riding along with you.”
“Do you have time?”
“No, but I’m going anyway.”
On the way to town, I tried to sing, “Precious and few are the moments we two can share.”
I say “tried” because, as usual, the melody lost itself between my heart and my mouth.
We decided we’d enjoy what little time we had together and make the ride back home a mini date, so we stopped at Arby’s to get a favorite drink, a value size Jamocha Shake.
What! Four cars ahead of us at the drive-through? We definitely didn’t have time for this.
“Let’s skip it,” I said to John.
We hesitated, almost left, but stayed. The wait was only a few minutes, but the looming deadlines made it seem longer.
There always seems to be a reason to rush, doesn’t there? At those times, even fast food doesn’t seem fast enough.
Kimmee, our daughter, and I were sitting in the parking lot at church today, listening to John preach over the radio, when he mentioned restaurant food. He was talking about the Apostle Paul being imprisoned in Rome, chained to two guards, in his own rented house.
“There he was in Rome, Italy,” John joked, “and he couldn’t even go out to a restaurant for spaghetti.”
I laughed then remarked to Kimmee I didn’t think there were restaurants in Italy in Paul’s day.
“Mom,” Kimmee said. “They discovered food stalls in the ruins of Pompeii, and Pompeii was destroyed after Paul died. They had food stalls in Rome too!” She texted me some links to research.
I found out the Pompeii food stalls didn’t offer Jamocha shakes, but duck, goat, pig, fish, and snails were on the menu.
I suppose you could call those food stalls the first fast-food restaurants.
Did the people in line at a food stall in Pompeii sigh about the four people in line ahead of them? I wonder if people then forget as we do now that life is short and sweet? One midsummer day, August 24, 79, A.D., Mount Vesuvius blew its top and buried the city under thirteen to twenty feet of volcanic ash and pumice. Buildings, skeletons, and artifacts lay intact under that ash until archaeologists discovered the city in the mid-1800s. In recent excavations, archeologists found the remains of two people in a food stall. Had they been enjoying the August morning, or had the pressure of preparing food made them in too much of a hurry to notice the day?
I wonder if mankind has been in a hurry ever since God banished Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. That reminds me of a joke Tom told me today.
Despite his own physical pain, Tom loves to make people laugh. He told me the problem in the Garden of Eden wasn’t the apple in the tree, it was the “pair” on the ground!
Come to think of it, Eve was in a hurry when she grabbed that forbidden fruit. Satan had promised her it would fast track her into more knowledge.
Eve was just plain in too much of a rush. If only she’d waited to talk to God, or Adam, or even to have a chat with herself, the outcome might have been different.
Slow down, Eve; “you move too fast. You got to make the morning last.”
But Eve didn’t slow down; the morning didn’t last, and midnight came all too soon.
I wonder how many mistakes I’ve made when I’ve been in too much of a hurry. What precious things have I sacrificed? I do know that being too busy makes me forget to take the long look. I don’t remember two important things: the shortness of time and the length of eternity.
Yes, we must keep moving; some deadlines are non-negotiable. Life itself has an expiration date. But if we’re too busy for each other, too busy to worship, too busy for God, we’re too busy. If we feel frustrated by four cars ahead of us in a fast-food line; it’s time to slow down.
John and I did slow down…for a few minutes. We drove home from town a little slower. We noticed the wildflowers and remarked about the unusually beautiful day, sunny, and warm. The humidity hit a desert like low that afternoon, four percent. Was this really even Michigan? We enjoyed being together, and we enjoyed the Jamocha shakes.
Yes, make your deadlines. But slow down a bit now and then. Take a backroad.
Next time you’re in too much of a hurry, remember Eve. And ask yourself this: who was the first one in a big rush to leave the Last Supper? Talk about bad decisions!
Kimmee drove by the silver van parked on the backroad as we traveled home from parking lot church today. “That same van was here yesterday, and there’s a sign in the window.”
“I wonder what it says. Want to stop and see?” I asked.
Kimmee checked it out. “It says not to tow the vehicle because the owner is hiking on the North Country Trail and will return. What’s that trail?”
“I don’t know; I’ve never heard of it.”
Thank you, Safari search; before we got home Kimmee and I knew the trail is 4,800 miles long, the longest in the National Trails System. It extends across eight states from North Dakota to Vermont and includes Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York.
Our section of the trail in southern Michigan goes from the Kalamzoo/Barry County line to the Ohio/Michigan state line. Northcountytrail.org says, “Southern Michigan hosts a mix of forest and farm country that primarily follows multi-use pathways and temporary road walks. Hike over lush farmland and tramp the back roads of a part of Michigan where there are so many lakes they are referred to by number.”
“Tramp the back roads;” I like that. How have I lived here so long and not known about this amazing trail? Now I know why I’ve seen the occasional hikers on our gravel road, backpacks on, walking sticks in hand, looking half-dead!
I read more, wishing I could hike the amazing trail that “traverses through more than 160 federal, state, and local public lands, including 10 National Forests, four areas of the National Park Service, and over 100 state parks, forests, and game areas. It winds along three of the Great Lakes, past countless farmlands, through large cityscapes and vast prairies, and the famed Adirondacks.”
I’m ready to hike; who’s with me? Grab your walking stick!
There’s one tiny problem. Two years ago, before Morticia my lung tumor rearranged my life, I refused to go to bed until I’d walked my 10,000 daily steps. Pedometer in pocket, I kept walking the hall or around the living room every night until I hit the magic number. Back then, I was ready for a hike. Now I stagger from home to car to Rogel cancer center back to car to home to bed. That’s a slight exaggeration, but sadly, I no longer stagger down trails. That’s not to say I won’t hike again someday. I don’t plan to stagger either; I intend to walk the way I used to walk if I can only remember how!
Can you imagine the adventure of hiking the entire 4,800 miles of the North Country Trail from start to finish? Do you know how people accomplish that mighty feat? With their feet. Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Feat, feet, get it?
They hike those many miles one step at a time.
According to my research, if you’re an able bodied moderately active person, you’ll walk much farther than 4,800 miles in your lifetime. If you stay active until you’re eighty years old, you’ll walk 110,000 miles; that amounts to walking the circumference of the earth five times! Walking around the world five times sounds exhausting and impossible.
It happens one step at a time.
My husband, John, saw the lone hiker whose car had been parked on the backcountry road. She drove by us late this afternoon. I wish I could have talked with her to ask why she’d wanted to spend Memorial Day weekend hiking alone and how much of the beautiful North Country Trail she’d hiked. Was she a beginner? A seasoned traveler? Had the hike been difficult? I wonder if she found unexpected beauty, perhaps a fawn sleeping in a hedgerow.
I remember hiking a trail once I thought was going to kill me. The day was too hot for hiking; we were too tired, and we were probably too old, but we tackled it anyway. Down it took us into a steep ravine until leg muscles screamed. Up it forced us to the top until lungs panted and begged for mercy. Just when we thought we’d made it and were getting out alive, it took a cruel sharp turn and plunged us down again. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; both took too much needed energy. I suggested to John he carry me or call 9-1-1. He nixed both ideas; he said he couldn’t carry me so I’d have to keep walking, and he couldn’t call for help because we had no cell service.
When we finally emerged from the wilds into civilization, we saw two hikers about to begin that trail.
“Don’t do it!” I warned them. “It’s the trail from hell.”
They laughed.
“I’m not joking. It’s horrible. We barely got out alive.”
They laughed again. Down the trail they went. Poor souls, we never saw them again.
We did escape that terrible trail though. How? One step at a time.
In our metaphorical journeys we sometimes find ourselves on trails we never chose, expected, and don’t particularly like. We may even feel like calling them the trails from hell. But we aren’t walking alone.
We have a Guide who always comes when we call for help. And when we get too tired; He’ll carry us and point out beauty along the way. We may even see a fawn sleeping in a hedgerow. As soon as our Guide knows we’re strong enough to continue, He’ll set us down and tell us to keep walking. If we complain the day is too hot for hiking; we’re too tired, and we’re probably too old, He’ll tell us to get going anyway because that’s how our spiritual muscles become strong.
When I’m not especially fond of my trail, I trust my Guide and keep walking, because I know these byways, happy and sad, are leading me Home.
But if it’s all the same to my Guide, I wouldn’t mind hiking a little of the beautiful North Country Trail before I walk His streets of gold. Either way, I’ll keep walking. One step at a time.
“A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.” –Proverbs 16:9
Fifty-four years ago this evening was unforgettable, but the story actually began in April, so I’ll have to turn around and walk back up the road a piece.
Mom and Dad Poole, Mr. and Mrs. Poole to me back then, were traveling from cold New York State to beautiful Georgia where spring was already smiling. They were taking their son, John, and a family friend, Hope, and they invited me to go too.
I’d only been to New York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and the Canadian side of Niagara Falls, so that trip was a wonderful adventure to me. The views were spectacular as we drove through the mountains, and every time we stopped, the air was softer and warmer. I felt like we were driving right into heaven.
It was heavenly to be with John, too. We’d been friends since before kindergarten and had dated about a year. We were nearing the end of our second year of college, and at the age of nineteen, felt quite grown up and ready to conquer the world.
During our freshman year of college John had told me he loved me. That terrified me; we hadn’t known each other nearly long enough for that. I responded to his declaration of love with something less than he’d hoped.
“How,” I’d asked, “does a person know something like that for sure?”
John had even proposed to me, more than once, always as a joke. Once I’d almost taken him seriously until he brought the ring from behind his back and presented it with a laugh. It was in a clear plastic egg; he’d gotten it from the bubble gum machine.
Georgia was everything I’d hoped and more. I loved John’s sister Lonnie, warm and funny, and her kind southern gentleman of a husband, Truman. One day during our visit they took all of us to visit Stone Mountain. From the flat land around it, the quartz mountain, more than five miles in circumference at its base, juts 825 feet into the air. The 360-degree view from the top is incredible. You can see downtown Atlanta, the North Georgia mountains, and on a clear day, you can see sixty miles in all directions.
John asked me if I wanted to go to the top of the mountain, and I did. We took Hope with us. When we got to the top, I was exclaiming over the amazing view. Hope was just a few steps ahead of us when John asked, “Will you marry me?”
I gave him a quick look. I knew him. He wasn’t going to propose when he couldn’t kiss me, and he for sure wasn’t going to propose and kiss me with a friend along. That was totally unromantic. This was another of his jokes.
I laughed. “I’m not going to fall for that again!”
He wasn’t joking. He’d planned that proposal for months.
As I may have already told you, we were nineteen and oh, so mature. So, John responded as any mature man would; he refused to speak to me the rest of the morning. Or the afternoon. Or the evening.
Awkward!
Mom Poole noticed; everyone noticed; how could they not? His face looked like a storm cloud and his silence shouted volumes.
“What did you do to Johnnie?” Mom Poole asked.
I told her. I don’t remember her response.
I do remember wishing I could be back in the cold state of New York where the atmosphere would be a lot warmer than it was sitting next to the guy who refused to say a word to me.
Very late that evening we ended up in a room alone together, and the storm cloud spoke. “Do you want to marry me or not, and this is your last chance!”
I laughed. “Yes, of course. I want to marry you!”
He didn’t yet have the ring; I didn’t realize it, but he was giving a little of each paycheck to a jewelry store in Ithaca, New York, where my beautiful diamond was on layaway.
Let’s leave April and Georgia behind now and walk ahead to 24 May 1968. Between college classes and work—I did both full time—it had been a long day. You know that feeling you get when you need sleep as much as you need air? I got home from work and almost cried when I saw John’s car at Mom and Dad’s. Yes, I loved him; I adored him, but I needed to sleep.
I went inside and managed a smile.
“I thought you might like to take a ride out to the airport!” he said.
“Oh, honey, I’m exhausted. Could we go another time?”
“No, I’d really like you to come with me tonight.”
I sighed.
“Donna,” Mom said, “If Johnnie wants to take you for a ride, you should go with him.”
That didn’t help my mood one bit. She always did like him better. Ever since I’d been a little girl my mom had been telling me when I grew up I should “marry that nice little Johnnie Poole.”
I’d told her on repeated occasions, when I was a little girl, that I would NEVER marry that “nice little Johnnie Poole.”
As I may have already told you, we were nineteen and oh, so mature. The drive to the airport was totally silent. John had his feelings hurt because he knew I hadn’t wanted to come with him. I had my feelings hurt because I thought he should have noticed how tired I was.
John parked where we could see the planes take off and land. Neither of us said a word. Finally, John spoke. Four curt words.
“Open the glove compartment.”
“What’s the matter, did you break your arm? You want the glove compartment opened, open it yourself.”
“Open the glove compartment.”
With an exaggerated, dramatic, and oh so mature sigh, I opened the glove compartment, and the light inside came on. There, in a box, sat a beautiful diamond solitaire in a tiffany setting.
“I could have gotten a bigger one for the same price,” John said, “but the jeweler had me look at both diamonds through his glass. The bigger one had lots of black specks. This one didn’t have any. He said this one was almost perfect. I thought you should have the perfect one, because it reminded me of you.”
Perfect? Had he already forgotten the way I’d behaved just minutes before?
“Love,” as the Scriptures say, “covers a multitude of sins.”
Our love has covered a multitude of sins for many years now, and it grows sweeter as we get older.
People can cherish their memories of fancy proposals made in five-star restaurants or on romantic cruises. I’ll take my two memories any day. “Do you want to marry me or not, and this is your last chance!” “You want the glove compartment opened, open it yourself!”
I remember, and I laugh. And then I thank God for all the love and laughter we’ve shared since.
John Poole, when you read this blog, and I know you will because no matter how busy you get you always make time to read what I write, I want you to know this. There’s no one I’d rather ramble the backroads of life with more than you. Happy engagement anniversary. You’re still outside putting siding on the porch at 6:41 PM and I’m still writing. We haven’t been together more than a few minutes today. If you want to take me for a ride to the airport tonight, I’ll open the glove compartment.
