Author: gettingofftheinterstate

by Donna Poole

Lola, the little monarch larva, curled up inside the milkweed leaf and tried to make herself invisible, but Alan found her. He always did.

“Are you crying and hiding again? Come out and enjoy this beautiful Florida sunshine. You’re wasting prime eating time. Are you going to eat that leaf you’re hiding in or not? Because if you’re not, I am!”

“Go away!” Lola sniffed and a tiny tear dripped onto the leaf. “You fat old caterpillar! How can you even think of eating after what happened to Betsy yesterday? You saw that nasty bluebird bite her in half and eat both halves of her. We could be next!”

Alan looked around. “No bluebirds in sight. It’s safe to come out. You can’t hide forever!”

“Oh yes I can. I’m staying right here in yesterday. Yesterday I escaped with my life. Who knows what might happen if I come out into today? I might die!”

Lola shuddered and crawled deeper into the leaf, hard to do since Alan was eating holes all around her.

“It’s today whether you come out or not. And if you come out, you might not die. You might fly!”

“Alan, you’ve told me a hundred times your name means handsome and cheerful, but I think you’re ridiculous. Who ever heard of a caterpillar flying?”

“Grandpa Blythe told me. He said after we caterpillars hang in our J’s and go into our cages, we come out as beautiful flying creatures!”

“Did you ever see such a thing yourself?” Lola demanded. “Those cages are our tombs. No one who goes in ever comes out. Look around at all the cages of our friends! They’re all dead, Alan, dead! And you aren’t making anything better by living in your pretend world where we come out of our cages and fly!”

Alan kept calmly eating. It was infuriating the way that caterpillar refused to get angry. Finally, he mumbled with a full mouth, “You’re not making your life easier by assuming every change means disaster. Nothing wrong with having a little hope.”

“The world is full of trouble, Alan. Only one out of us ten eggs lives to grow up. Flies, wasps, parasites, viruses, bacteria, and…bluebirds can all get us! Hope is a lie, Alan!”

Lola started crying again.

Alan clumsily patted her head with one of his six feet. “Listen, Lola, I know the world is full of trouble, but it’s also full of survivors. Yesterday was terribly sad, but you survived. You might be one of the ten who lives, and you might even fly! But you’re never going to do it without eating. You better get chomping this milkweed!”

 And with that, Alan curled his chubby self into a ball and started softly snoring.

Lola looked at him sadly. He was the last friend she had left. He was getting so big; she knew soon he’d hang into a J, spin his death web, go into his cage, and die. Then she’d have no one. She missed all her friends, especially Sheri.

Lola looked at the milkweed plant next to her. That’s where she’d last seen Sheri, the place Sheri had hung in a J, spun her death web, gone into her cage and died.

What was happening to Sheri’s cage? It had turned transparent, and now a lovely creature was climbing from it. Slowly the creature opened and closed its wings, over and over, its beautiful colors catching the sunlight.

“Alan! Alan, wake up! You need to see this!”

But Alan kept snoring.

The beautiful creature climbed higher on the milkweed and looked directly at her. There was something familiar about it. It looked like…but it couldn’t be!

“Sheri,” she whispered, “Sheri, is that really you?”

Sheri opened and closed her wings a few more times, circled Lola’s head and then flew high into the sky.

Alan was right! There was reason to hope.

She looked for him, but he was hanging in a J shape and had already spun a web around himself. Could he still hear her?

“I’m going to be one of ten, Alan,” Lola hollered in her loudest voice. “I’m going to fly.”

Alan’s voice sounded so faint and far away. “Better get chomping then.”  

Yes. That was it. While waiting to fly she’d just do the next thing that needed to be done. In this case, it was stuffing herself with milkweed. Lola was going to miss Alan, but she had a feeling she might see him again.

by Donna Poole

Agatha raised herself on her elbow and gagged weakly into the bowl at her side. She heard the curtain to her room push back.

“Please, go away,” she whispered.

Mary and Dorcas heard her, but they did not go away. Dorcas dipped a cloth into cool water and held it to her forehead as Mary gently supported her shoulders until the rest of her breakfast left her body.

Tears ran down Agatha’s cheeks. She’d always been a strong, proud woman, and she didn’t want her friends to see her like this.

“Go, now, please,” she said.

Instead of leaving, they sat on the floor next to her mat.

“Jesus is back here in Capernaum,” Mary said with quiet excitement.

Dorcas nodded. “He can tell you what’s wrong with you, and He can heal you. You know He can.”

“Let us help you get to Jesus,” Mary begged. “You can lean on us.”

Agatha shook her head wearily.

“Just let me die in peace. I know what’s wrong with me. I’ve told you before. My father taught me that three-thousand years ago ancient Egyptians cauterized breast tumors with a tool they called the fire drill. Four-hundred years ago a Greek physician, Hippocrates, called tumors carcinos and carcinoma. And just in the last few decades the Roman physician, Celsus, translated the Greek word into the Roman word ‘cancer.’ I have cancer. It’s all through my body. Just look at me! No one can help me now, not even Yahweh!”

She closed her eyes and threw one thin arm over them. Agatha’s friends did look at her and then at each other with tears in their eyes. In the last year she’d lost a third of her body weight. Her soft snores let them know she was asleep.

“Mary,” Dorcas said, “sometimes I think her Greek father educated her too much for her own good. She has too much learning to have any room for faith.”

Dorcas shook her head. “I don’t think it’s that. I think she’s just too tired to have faith, so we’re going to have to have it for her. If she can’t remember the song of her heart, we can, and we’ll sing it back to her.”

“You speak in riddles. What do you have in mind?”

“Come,” Dorcas whispered, and the two friends tiptoed out of the house. As they walked down the dusty street, they made their plans.

“It might work,” Mary said excitedly. “We’d only need four good sized boys. She weighs barely more than a child.”

***

Agatha cried out in terror and woke from her dream. Let me die in peace I said to my friends, but there is no peace. My sins are like tormenting spirits haunting me waking and sleeping!

“Why did you name me Agatha, Father?” she whispered to his memory. “I am not a good woman. I have no sins of the flesh to confess, but oh these secret sins of the spirit eat at me more than the cancer. The envy, the spite, the selfishness in my heart! If only I could leave my sin behind when I die, I’d gladly die this minute to be free of it! But will it follow me into the great unknown? You taught me so much, Father. Why didn’t you teach me this? I’ve followed all of Mother’s Jewish customs, but were they enough? None of the sacrifices have set me free from myself!”

Agatha turned on her side and sobbed herself back to sleep. She was only semi-conscious when she felt her mat being lifted from the floor. Through tear-swollen eyes she squinted up at four smiling lads.

“Where are you taking me?” she cried in alarm.

“It’s alright,” Mary said, reaching for her hand.

Dorcas took her other hand. “We’re taking you to Jesus.”

“No!” She struggled to sit, but she was too weak. “He cannot help me. Please don’t carry me into the streets like this where people will see me.”

Her friends pulled soft coverings up to her chin and pleaded with their eyes. How could she refuse such love?

Through the streets of Capernaum they went until they came to the house where Jesus was teaching. It was one of the larger homes, able to hold about fifty people crowded closely together, but the crowd had spilled out of the door and stood deep around the windows, a quiet crowd, straining to hear every word of the Master.

“We cannot get through,” one of the lads said. “Shall we go back?”

“No!” Dorcas nodded at the outside staircase. “Carry her to the roof.”

The boys looked apprehensive but obeyed. Even Mary was alarmed.

“Dorcas, what do you have in mind?”

“Do you believe Jesus can heal her?”

“You know I absolutely do!”

“Then get ready to get dirty!”

Dorcas had to promise the boys they wouldn’t get into trouble with their parents, and she would pay for damages, before they agreed to help, but soon six pairs of hands were digging through the mud roof. Mud and debris began falling into peoples’ hair, and the crowd looked up in amazement. Jesus laughed.

As soon as the hole was big enough, two of the boys jumped down, while Mary, Dorcas, and the other two lowered Agatha on her mat. There she lay, in front of Jesus. He looked deep into her eyes.

“Welcome, Agatha. The Greek name meaning ‘good woman.’”

She shook her head, tears running unhindered down her face. Agatha was in the presence of pure goodness and had never felt her own sinfulness more. She groaned, and it wasn’t from the pain of the cancer. She looked away from Jesus. How could sin look at such holiness?

Jesus took her two thin hands in his two strong ones.

“Look at me, my daughter,” He said in a voice of love.

“Your sins are forgiven.”

Agatha could almost see them leave, those heavy condemning spirits, the ghostly chains of sins past, present, and future. She felt so light and free, so full of joy!

Agatha looked up through the hole in the roof at her friends. They were frowning. That is not why they’d brought her to Jesus. They were quite unhappy with this outcome.

Couldn’t they understand? She didn’t care about the cancer in her body anymore. Everyone died sometime. The cancer in her spirit was gone, and that was the true miracle! She was good now with a goodness not her own.

She could hear others in the crowd murmuring, some wearing the robes of the elite Pharisees.

“Who does Jesus think he is? Only God can forgive sins.”

Jesus nodded at Agatha. “Get ready,” He whispered.

Then with a commanding shout He ordered, “So they will know the Son of Man has power of earth to forgive sins, Agatha, good woman, take up your bed, and walk!”

Jesus stretched His hand down and lifted her up. She felt the cancers leaving her body and the strength of youth flowing into her.

“How?” she asked Him in a whisper. “How?”

Now Jesus looked sad. “You’ll know later when you stand at the foot of my cross. Go now. Live your life in joy.”

She’d never known, with all her learning, that holiness was just another word for happiness.

Agatha rolled up her mat and looked up at the roof. How was she going to get back up through that hole?

“You might try going out the door,” Jesus said. And He laughed. She laughed too, and then the whole room was laughing. The crowd parted, making a way for her to get through. People patted her back.

“Go with Yahweh, good woman!” Someone shouted.

That was exactly what she intended to do.

by Donna Poole

Growing up, we Piarulli kids never thought of ourselves as poor. We were like many other large families of the 1950s and 1960s when one paycheck had to stretch too far. It never occurred to us to wonder if other kids were still hungry when supper was finished; that was just how life was. It’s only in looking back and remembering snatches of conversations that I realize how hard my parents struggled financially. And yet, we were better off than many.

Somehow Mom and Dad managed to give the five of us children a wonderful Christmas every year. Perhaps my memory is tangled with stars and silver bells, but I recall most Christmas days as white with snow. Each strand of tinsel hung perfectly straight on our tree strung with lights, and the house smelled wonderfully of pine.

Carefully wrapped gifts, not many but more than enough, were piled under the tree, and for a few days of the year, everything was close to perfect.

Until the arrival of that hideous thing.

We came home from school one day, laughing, rosy cheeks, stomping snow off our boots, and stared. What was that?

Mom stood next to it, smiling proudly, waiting for our reaction. That hideous thing was a tree about three feet tall with skimpy, silver-colored branches. At its foot was a color wheel.

“Wait until you see this!” Mom plugged in the color wheel, and it rotated, turning the branches red, blue, green, and yellow. All ugly. All artificial. All hideous.

I wish we’d been more considerate of Mom’s feelings; she obviously thought she’d found a lovely treasure, but we hated it. And we said so. We disliked it more every year. There were no more real trees, no rooms filled with the scent of pine. The tree stood on an end table, not on the floor where a proper, real Christmas tree should stand.

True, as Mom pointed out, it didn’t drop needles and make a mess. We wished it would drop its needles, but it endured with the tenacity of Methuselah. It’s probably still alive in a landfill somewhere!

Christmas gifts were wonderful when I was a child. When we were very young, Mom always put two unwrapped dolls on the couch for Mary and me. The first one to the sofa got first pick. Aunt Mary, who owned a dress factory, gave each of us girls a beautiful thick sweater every year. One year Grandma gave Mary and me teddy bears we cherished.

When we went to bed at night, one of us would ask, “Does your teddy bear love my teddy bear?”

“My teddy bear loves your teddy bear if your teddy bear loves my teddy bear.”

Once it was settled that the bears and their owners loved each other, we slept, each holding close her bear. I don’t know what happened to my bear, but Mary had hers until just recently. Those bears were among our favorite gifts.

When I got a little older, I looked under the tree for a book shaped package and was never disappointed. My new Nancy Drew book was there, and I devoured it before Christmas Day ended. I loved those books.

One year Dad told us to come outside to see our gift, a lovely wooden toboggan. That was an amazing present!

My favorite gift didn’t come from Mom and Dad, Aunt Mary, Grandma, or any family member. It didn’t even come at Christmas. It came from someone who terrified me, Mrs. Green.

Mrs. Green was a fearful presence who ruled children’s church. I’m sure she must have been a nice person, but I couldn’t see it back then. Her stern persona and hawk like eyes made me shudder.

One Sunday Mrs. Green used a flannel covered board with flannel illustrations that stuck to it. We called them flannelgraph figures. She put up pictures of heaven and talked about how wonderful it would be. Next, she did something I don’t recommend for small children; she placed fiery pictures of hell.

“Boys and girls don’t think that because Jesus, God’s Son, came to earth as a baby, grew up. and died on the cross to pay for the sins of the world that you’re going to heaven. It doesn’t work that way. Don’t think that because your mom and dad bring you to church every Sunday, you’re going to heaven; it doesn’t work that way!”

She jabbed a bony finger at the flames.

What was she saying? I wasn’t going to heaven just because Jesus died for me, and I came to church every Sunday?

She had my attention. How was I going to get into heaven? Whatever it took, I’d do it!

Up went a picture of a cross, and the explanation that Jesus died for our sin. For my sin. Something stirred deeply in my young heart. What kind of love was this that someone would die for me?

Mrs. Green put flannelgraph gifts on the board. “Jesus died to give you salvation from sin and a home in heaven. But does just looking at a gift make it yours? No. You have to reach out and take it.”

So how did I take this gift? I had to admit to God I was a sinner. Well, God and I both knew that! I needed to tell Him I believed Jesus died for me and ask Him to save me.

Mrs. Green told us to bow our heads for silent prayer. “If any of you took that gift and accepted Jesus as your Savior, raise your hand. I’d like to talk to you.”

What? Talk to Mrs. Green all by myself?

I didn’t raise my hand. My heart was filled with faith and joy, but I saw no compelling reason to become a martyr for my faith on the first day I had it. Alone with Mrs. Green? That was worse than Daniel being thrown into the lion’s den!

I never did thank Mrs. Green for giving me the best gift of all! When I get to heaven, I’ll look her up and do it. Maybe. If she doesn’t still terrify me.

I read somewhere Patrick Henry said the gift he wished he could give everyone was his faith in Jesus Christ. I wish I could give that to you too, but you’ll have to accept the gift yourself. I hope you will.

Jesus grows sweeter to me every year, and He fills my heart with hope and joy that run clear and deep under the ice of life’s many storms. I’m still pondering the question my child’s heart asked so many years ago: What kind of love was this that someone would die for me?

It’s not just grace; it’s amazing grace, a grace that came to earth as a tiny baby who gave us a way Home to God

Merry Christmas, dear friends! See you at Home.

P. S. Mary, my teddy bear still loves your teddy bear, always.

by Donna Poole

Magic gently falls over our home like a blanket of snow each family Christmas. I can’t explain it, but even with thirteen grandchildren, no one ever gets sick. The twenty-three of us manage to gather every year without having to reschedule the date. The cousins play like the angels they are, and for just that one day, siblings don’t get frustrated with each other for invading personal space.

And the adults? The ten of us, who usually have twenty different opinions on almost everything, merge in a spirit of love and unity beautiful to behold. If people disagree, they smile and let it go. Not only do we love each other; we like each other. We like everything about each other because we’re family. After all, it’s Christmas.

Christmas carols play softly on someone’s phone, and the children wait quietly as each opens a gift in turn. It’s never too noisy. You’d hardly know thirteen children were here.

And then, we feast on the roast beast. Just for that one day, nothing burns or undercooks. As we gather at tables with only peace and love in our hearts, it’s not unusual for someone to say, “Look, Grandma! It started snowing!”

And if you believe that piece of fiction you just won GOTYA—gullible of the year award.

Let’s get real here. Getting the twenty-three of us together is a gymnastic feat not accomplished some years despite amazing contortions. Kids get sick and we try to reschedule, but sometimes we end up with two celebrations instead of one.

Kids wake up sick on family Christmas morning. Siblings remove each other from their personal spaces. And we ten adults? I know how to read faces. I’ve known these people a long time. I see the raised eyebrow; I can tell when someone is biting a tongue. And the kids’ noise? I love it, but I think next year I’ll put ear plugs in everyone’s Christmas stockings to prevent hearing loss.

One Christmas a little grandson started feeling not well and laid on the couch most of the time. He went home and threw up. Poor kid! We shouldn’t have laughed when we heard about the comment he made after getting sick, but we did.

“It’s still corn! How can it still be corn when I ate it!”

There was a Christmas John and I had to leave because a church member needed us.

There were two Christmases when a grandchild fell into the Christmas tree. The same grandchild. It’s one of my favorite memories. The same grandchild, when a bit older, told me at Christmas, “You’re getting really old, Grandma. I guess pretty soon you’ll be dead.” I adore him; he makes me laugh!

There was a not at all funny Christmas when parents had to rush a very sick child to the emergency room. And one when our fireman son had to leave. And one where a whole family of littles got sick because of germs caught at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

I could continue, but you get the idea.

I blame Mom and Dad Poole for starting the tradition of holiday trouble. Once Mom put dinner roles in the oven in a paper bag to warm them. The bag caught on fire, and she yelled for Dad. He came running in his underwear, grabbed the rolls, ran out to the back porch, and threw the burning mess into the yard. We all laughed about that for years, wondering how many of their neighbors laughed too. And my husband remembers the year of the famous seafood dip that gave everyone food poisoning.

We have enjoyed a few practically perfect Christmases when everything was like a storybook. But no matter what happens, they are all perfect for me, and here’s why.

As imperfect as the twenty-three of us are, we all really do love each other, and I love each one of them fiercely. I hold them in my thoughts, heart, and prayers always. I would do anything for them, and when we’re all together, no matter what happens, I catch my breath at the perfectly imperfect beauty of it all. Just having everyone together is magic for me.

And then the best part happens. Before we open gifts, a grandchild reads to us verses from Luke chapter two. Megan did it for many years. I think she was only four or five when she started. When she got older, we passed the honor down to her younger brother, Reece. When he began, he was so young he mispronounced some words, and anyone who snickered got a grandma scowl from me.

Reece is still our reader. John hands him the Bible, and Reece begins to read,

And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.

² (And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)

³ And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.

⁴ And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)

⁵ To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.

⁶ And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.

⁷ And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

⁸ And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

⁹ And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

¹⁰ And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

¹¹ For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

¹² And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

¹³ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

¹⁴ Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

¹⁵ And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.

¹⁶ And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.

¹⁷ And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.

¹⁸ And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.

¹⁹ But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.

²⁰ And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.

Yes, they are good tidings of great joy! When I hear my beloved grandson read those old familiar verses, the joy fills my heart and runs out of my eyes and down my cheeks. It’s Christmas. It’s not just practically perfect; it’s perfect in every way!

Come to think of it, the only perfect thing about the first Christmas was the baby born in the manger, born to die for our sins!

I leave you with a Merry Christmas from my heart, dear friends, and a thank you for traveling the back roads with me this year. Enjoy your imperfect Christmas! And now, please excuse me. The ham is drying out; the sweet potato casserole just caught fire, and someone, you know who, just fell into the Christmas tree.

by Donna Poole

There I was, enjoying the Fourth of July parade, when a freak snowstorm came from nowhere. Sometimes it rains on the parade, but snow? The first few flakes quickly turned into a white-out. As winds howled and the temperature dropped sixty degrees in six minutes, bystanders rushed for cars. The parade halted, and participants hurried to find the closest shelter.

Okay, so that didn’t exactly happen, but it’s true metaphorically speaking. There I was, enjoying the long, lingering summer of my life. Winter was far away, or so I thought, and the blizzard caught me unprepared, still wearing my summer flip-flops.

Are we ever ready to get old? Isn’t old always at least twenty years older than we are? That’s how I used to think. I’m still shocked at the little old gray-haired lady who stares back at me from the mirror, and then we both start singing, “The little old lady from Pasadena, go Granny, go Granny, go Granny, go!” And we laugh.

This is, I think, just the beginning of my winter; it could be the end. I don’t know. No one really knows how long a winter may last. When I was young, I planned this winter in my imagination. I’d be a briskly walking-still jump roping-up for any adventure-grandma. When I wasn’t having adventures with my grandchildren, I’d sit by a fire and read and write. I’d enjoy the short but sweet winter twilights and then smile myself to sleep with happy memories of yesterday and robust plans for tomorrow.

I didn’t imagine cancer, or what it would do to dreams of the kind of old lady I’d be. I still have adventures. It’s an adventure to get from the bed to the car in one piece! It’s an adventure to fit all the doctors and test visits into the calendar. Sometimes, when I’m feeling extra daring, I even take a shower…and skip the nap after!

This is not, however, the winter of my discontent. I’m not unhappy. I find happiness in different ways than I’d imagined. Today I woke from a nap to hear feet on the stairs. I don’t know which of the three people who live with me was going upstairs, but I smiled. It made me feel warm and happy to hear footsteps on the stairs and know they belonged to someone dear to me. Had I been the jump-roping-always-busy-grandma I’d imagined; I don’t think I’d have ever known how sweet it is to hear footsteps of a loved one on the stairs.

Small blessings bring grace to my heart and instant tears to my eyes. Today my sister told me my brother-in-law, who’s alone in a hospital in New York City and very sick, was out of an expensive skin cream he really needs. The hospital doctor, without being asked, went to a drugstore, used his own money, and bought the cream. When my brother-in-law tried to pay him, the doctor said, “Nope. We’re good.”

I’ve been thinking about that often today, the kindness of strangers, and how much more it means when someone is sick and hurting. God has many earth angels, and as someone once said, “Human kindness is Jesus showing His hands.”

I’m grateful for human kindness and hundreds of other small things I never thought much about before. Smiles. Waves. Hugs around the knees from a tiny granddaughter. A text from one of my adult kids or in-law kids. The changing slant of light with the seasons. The quiet, country view out of my bedroom window.

Yes, I’m sick. Yes, I’ve lost people dear to me. Yes, this is hard. But when I lie in my cozy bed, even when my sore bones don’t exactly let me get comfortable, the music starts. Under the ice of my storms, a spring stream flows, and it sings to me. It sings of grace and mercy. It hums of love and laughter. Sometimes lyrics run through my mind, as eclectic as I am: old hymns, Ron Hamilton, southern gospel, old time country, music from high school. Occasionally I sing along; “You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch.”

With each new medical test, I’m like the Grinch’s cartoon sleigh tipping back and forth on that impossible precipice of a mountain.

Which way will I slide? And yet, I’m at peace. I’m wrapped in a cozy blanket made of the kindness of family, friends, and strangers. The music grows faint sometimes, but it’s always there when I get quiet enough to listen. The winter winds howl, and everything freezes, but the spring stream flows under the ice, and I am contented.

These days the stream under the ice is lit with tiny white lights and sings Christmas songs to me.

The winter of Jesus’s life came when He was so young. The shadow of a cross fell over the manger; His birth was the prelude to His death. Yet what joy He found along the way, even though the road led to Calvary.

“Those who watched Jesus dying saw nothing but loss and tragedy. Yet at the heart of that darkness the divine mercy was powerfully at work, bringing about pardon and forgiveness for us. God’s salvation came into the world through suffering, so his saving grace and power can work in our lives more and more as we go through difficulty and sorrow. There’s mercy deep inside our storms.” –Timothy Keller

Oh, that’s for sure. There’s mercy deep inside our storms. And that’s why this is the winter of my content. God is at work, and all is well.

by Donna Poole

“Emma,” Mia whispered, “you still awake?”

“Yep. Just looking for a happy minute from today to think about before I fall asleep.”

“You do that every night. Well, you can stop trying to find your happy. I’ve got one for you. Mom and Dad are taking us to Alabama for Thanksgiving! We’re staying in an ocean front condo. But don’t tell Mom I told you. Maybe she wants to surprise you.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the ocean! What’s it like?”

“You know how much you love Lake Michigan? It’s like that only way better. And we’ll walk the beach and collect shells. We’re going to have so much fun!”

“Mia, you’re the best foster sister I’ve ever had!”

Mia laughed. “I think I’m the only foster sister you’ve ever had. Didn’t you say all those other foster homes had only boys?”

Emma shuddered at the memory of what had happened in some of those homes, things she’d never tell Mia. In her thirteen years she’d been in eight different homes, and this was the first place she’d felt safe. But she wasn’t going to think about those places now, not when she could imagine sinking her toes into white sand in Alabama!

Emma usually woke long before Mia and helped Nancy in the kitchen before everyone left for work or school. She’d long ago learned things went better for her in the foster homes if she made herself useful.

As she hurried to the kitchen, Emma wondered if Nancy would tell her about the trip. Thanksgiving was just a few days away.

“Sit down, Emma.” Nancy sighed.

Have I done something wrong? I can’t think of anything, but she looks so upset!

“Mia doesn’t know this yet. Her dad’s company has transferred him to Alabama. We’re going down there for Thanksgiving, and we’ll be looking for a home to buy. It’s going to be hard for Mia to leave her school, her friends, and you. We can’t take you out of state, Emma. I want to make this as easy as possible for Mia. I’m trusting you not to say anything to her; we’ll tell her when we’re in Alabama. You’ll go to the sitter’s when we leave for our trip. By the time we return, you’ll be in another foster home. I think it’s better for Mia this way. It’s going to break her heart, and that’s partly my fault. I’ve let her get too close to you. I thought she understood you were just a foster child, but I’ve heard her refer to you as ‘my sister’ several times lately. Can I trust you not to say anything to her?”

Emma nodded mutely, tears running down her face. Am I just a piece of furniture to be shoved aside or donated to someone else? Don’t you care about me at all?

Nancy raised surprised eyebrows. “Don’t take this so hard, Emma. You’ve been in more foster homes than I can count. Surely you didn’t expect us to adopt you?”

It was only when she heard the words Emma realized that was exactly what she’d hoped. Mia was like a sister to her, perhaps Mia’s parents would learn to love her too.

Now I’m gong to be alone again.

Emma remembered words she’d memorized as a little girl when someone had taken her to church. It felt like God Himself was standing next to her, lifting her chin, putting steel into her spine.

I will never leave you or forsake you.

She heard Mia coming downstairs. Nancy gave her a sharp, warning look.

Mia hugged Emma. “Good morning, sister!”

Emma’s heart twisted.

“You girls need to pack right after breakfast,” Nancy said. “Mia, you’re packing for Alabama, and Emma’s going to pack to stay with the sitter.”

“What! Emma isn’t coming with us? Then I don’t want to go.”

“Mia,” her mom said, “we need to spend some time as a family. Emma understands. We’ve talked.”

Mia was furious and crying. “Emma is family. She’s as much family as you and dad.”

Nancy’s lips tightened into a thin line. “This is exactly why we need to spend time as just a family.”

Mia knew when she’d lost a battle. She sighed. “Emma, I’ll bring you back lots of shells, okay?”

A few hours later two thirteen-year-old girls parted in the driveway, one to go on vacation, the other to go back into an overwhelmed foster system. Mia thought they were parting for a few days. Emma knew it would be for years, or maybe forever.

“Mia, I want you to remember something Abraham Lincoln said.”

Mia smiled through tears. “You can’t go on vacation with me, and you want to talk about Abraham Lincoln? Sometimes you’re too funny, Emma. Okay. What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.’”

“So that’s why you try to think of a happy every night before you go to sleep? You’ve made up your mind to be happy?”

“Enough goodbyes!” Nancy said. “We need to get going, and the sitter is here for Emma.”

Emma watched Mia and her parents get into the taxi. The last leaf fell from the Maple and danced its way down to the driveway. In her heart, Emma was the tree, lifting bare arms in mute appeal to heaven.

The sitter tossed Emma’s luggage into the car and backed out of the driveway.

“Will I be at your house for Thanksgiving?” Emma was surprised at how timid her own voice sounded.

“Sorry, Emma. Your case worker is picking you up tomorrow. I don’t know where you’ll be for Thanksgiving. I hope you’ll get a good turkey dinner wherever it is.”

Emma stared out of the window at the bleak November landscape. She thought for a minute about warm, white sandy beaches, Alabama sunshine, and collecting shells with Mia. She let herself feel how wonderful it would have been to be Mia’s adopted sister. Those dreams were gone, and who knew what else life might take from her. Well, no one was going to get her grateful heart. That belonged only to her and God. She was barely more than a child, but somehow, she knew her survival depended on keeping it.

“Open your hand,” the sitter said softly. She placed a tiny, beautiful shell into Emma’s outstretched palm. “I went to Alabama once and brought back a few shells. I want you to have this one.”

Emma whispered her thanks and stared at the shell; its pale pink center swirled into smooth pearl, fragile as a dream, beautiful as hope. Her hand closed around it.

by Donna Poole

It had been a glorious autumn day at the little church, the last day of October. The trees in the countryside were still wearing their best colors; their dress had never looked more radiant. Still, as the sun began to lower in the west, the little church on the corner of two dirt roads sagged on its foundation and began to quietly weep. Tears streamed out of its windows and traced paths through the dust on its white sides.

A man with a long black coat flapping below his knees walked rapidly down the road. His walking stick barely touched the ground as little clouds of dirt stirred up around him but didn’t seem to settle on him. His white hair touched his shoulders and made a startling contrast to the coat. He stopped suddenly, looked at the tears of the little church, and glanced up. Then he nodded, turned the corner, and sat on the church’s cement steps.

“Do you mind if I rest here awhile, my friend?”

“All are welcome here,” Little Church said, trying to keep from sobbing.

“I noticed your tears. What seems to be the problem?”

Little Church was used to solving problems for others, not telling others its difficulties. It studied the man sitting on its steps. He had kind, blue eyes above a neat, white beard. Little Church was sure he’d never met him before. Did he dare share his burdens with this stranger?

“Are you from around here?”

“No, my friend, I’m just passing through. I hold many secrets in my heart. Yours are safe with me.”

At that Little Church stopped trying to hold back its sobs. Out spilled its whole bitter story of better days, of days when little children filled pews, of days when there was barely enough room to hold all the people.

“Those were my better days. But there were so many things I couldn’t do that other, bigger churches could. I couldn’t have a variety of Sunday school classes. I couldn’t have wonderful programs and activities for each age group; I didn’t have the room or enough help. I couldn’t keep up with what the people wanted, and I’ve lost so many. They left for bigger and better. I’ve failed the Master, and I’m worried about tomorrow. We have so few children now; who will keep me going so I can be a light here on the corner until Jesus comes?”

“Why do you say the former days were better than these? Can you judge like our Master can judge? And as for tomorrow, like my friend Elisabeth Elliot once said, ‘Tomorrow belongs to God. Tomorrow is none of your business!’”

“Do you know Elisabeth Elliot?”

“Oh yes. We talk often.”

“You speak in present tense, but Elisabeth Elliot is dead!”

“And you are a white frame building, but we are talking, so there is that. Just remember, tomorrow is none of your business!”

The words were stern, but the merry laughter and the kind tone soothed the heart of the little church. Where had this wise man with white hair and long black coat come from?

“You don’t know which of your days will count most for eternity,” the man continued. “God isn’t finished with you yet. So, perhaps you should major on what you could do in the future instead of what you couldn’t.”

All was quiet for several moments. A soft breeze blew from the west where the sun was becoming a glowing, red orb. The very air around the little church seemed to hint of heaven.

The man spoke again. “When Jesus lived on earth, He walked dirt roads much like these. He didn’t have any big programs to entertain people. He had no involved children’s clubs that required many workers; He just took the children on His lap and blessed them. Jesus was a servant who taught with love. Can you listen each Sunday for the ‘whisper of His sandaled feet’ and follow Him? Can you teach, love, and serve?”

“I could. I can listen for Him. Teach, Love, and Serve—that has always been my song, but fear stole my words. Thank you for singing them back to me.”

“You’re welcome,” the man said. “I best be on my way before darkness falls.” He stood, stretched, and picked up his walking stick.

He headed west down the dusty road into the sunset.

“Wait!” Little Church called. “I want to always remember the man who put the song back into my heart. What is your name?”

In a voice that echoed like thunder, the man said, “You may call me Gabriel.”

The black coat turned brighter than the sun, and in a flash of lightning the man disappeared.

Little Church stood tall once more on its foundation and never again forgot what it could do. For some, it would not be enough, but Little Church would teach, love, and serve with joy. And it would remember that tomorrow was none of its business.

by Donna Poole

Her life was a song, and then—she was gone.

Amber was a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a friend, a writer, a poet, a lover of creation, and a lover of God. She knew her worth; she was God’s child, a Daughter of the Star Breather. Amber even wrote a book with that title.

“By the word of the LORD were the heavens made; and all the host of them by the breath of his mouth.” –Psalm 33:6

Amber liked driving back country roads with the windows down, music loud, and wind blowing through her hair. She also delighted in the quiet, listening for the first spring peepers, and watching stars and fireflies. She loved the changes in the seasons.

I first met Amber at church when she was two years old, blonde hair hanging to her waist, and a wide, sweet smile. When it was prayer time the rest of us stayed in our pews, but not Amber. She slipped out into the aisle, knelt, and put her forehead on the floor. I grinned to see her little backside high in the air, but tears stung my eyes at the sweet reverence in one so young. From the first, she refused to leave church without hugging me. That hugging tradition continued until cancer and my oncologist’s orders kept me from church. For almost twenty years Amber blessed me with her hugs.

Long ago, I had a kids’ club that met on Wednesday nights during adult prayer time. The kids got older and before I knew it, they were teens. School and sports’ obligations claimed them one by one until only Amber was left on Wednesday nights. For years the two of us met. We talked, laughed, cried, and prayed. Often, we leaned on the railing and watched the sun set over the fields west of the church. As she got older there were times when she would say something that made me wonder who the teacher was and who the learner. Near the end of Amber’s life, we were just two friends sharing what God was teaching us.

On the last night of her life, Amber went home, hugged her mom, and had cinnamon tea and cookies with her sister. Then the two of them laid out on the trampoline laughing, talking, and watching the stars. It was late when Amber went back to another sister’s house where she was living. She curled up in bed, and sometime in the early morning hours the Star Breather called her name. Amber went Home. Now she’s looking at the stars from the other side. Amber always wanted to know God better; now she does. But she was only twenty-two.

The rest of us still journeying Home are walking through Baca, a weary weeping place, the valley of tears. We’re happy for Amber but staggering with grief.

A pastor friend said, “Death is a defeated enemy, but make no mistake; it is still the enemy.”

And a cruel enemy it is.

Our tears aren’t without hope. Long ago Amber knew she could never be good enough to get to heaven. That’s an exercise in futility, right? It’s like trying to jump across the Atlantic; you might jump farther than I, but neither of us is going to make it. Even as a child Amber rejoiced in the relief that she didn’t have to be good enough to earn heaven because Jesus had lived the perfect life she couldn’t and had died to take the punishment for her sin. She trusted Him as her Savior, and the minute she did, He entered her life and forgave her.

Amber and I sometimes talked about how it would have felt to have been Jesus, never to have known the awful feeling of guilt, and then to suddenly take into His heart every sin ever committed in the history of mankind and to feel the horrible guilt of it. It must have been every bit as excruciating as the physical pain of crucifixion, but He triumphed over sin, death, and hell. He made that sin cease to exist for everyone who trusts Him as Savior. That’s Amber’s family, that’s her friends, and that’s me. We’ll see her again. We’ll spend eternity with her. I’ll get more hugs. We’ll watch together things even more beautiful than the sun setting west of our country church.

Meanwhile, what do we do with all these tears? The Psalmist said, “Blessed are those whose strength is in you, in whose heart are the highways to Zion. As they go through the Valley of Baca they make it a place of springs; the early rain also covers it with pools. They go from strength to strength; each one appears before God in Zion.” –Psalm 84:5-7 ESV

Because of our tears we will someday provide refreshing pools for others. Meanwhile we go from strength to strength and lean on each other and on our God.

I picture our dear Lord Jesus holding a loaf of bread in His hands, blessing it, breaking it, and giving it to others. That’s an allegory for life; we’re blessed, broken, and given in a continuing cycle. I’m wondering where you are in the cycle. God bless you, wherever you are; don’t lose hope!

Right now, all who love Amber are broken, standing in the valley of tears.

A friend from Ireland sang me a song today I’d never heard before. It had these words, “spreading a beautiful rainbow over the valley of tears.” God is doing that for us.

George Matheson said, “Show me that my tears have made my rainbow.”

Our son, Dan, was thinking of Amber on his way to work this morning when he saw a rainbow in the western sky. He took a picture and sent it to me.

Dan’s wife, Mindy, posted a lovely photo of fall leaves on Facebook with these words, “This morning on the way to school Ruby said, ‘Momma, it’s so peach outside. It’s so pretty.’ It was beautiful. The birds were singing, the rain was falling, and everything was some shade of Amber. I told her it was an Amber morning.”

Yes, today was an Amber morning, and someday we’ll have Amber mornings forever.