Author: gettingofftheinterstate

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The Weary Widow

by Donna Poole

I’m bone weary, more exhausted than ever, but what a day it’s been! I wish I had the pen and parchment of a scribe to write my story, but I’ll whisper it to the wind blowing by my little temple chamber. Perhaps it will carry my tale down through time to someone who cares enough to listen.

They call mine a sad story, but do you believe a warm river of joy can run under the ice of sorrow? I do, and I’ve lived in that joy for one-hundred and five years. That’s right; I’m a very old woman. Some think me only eighty-four, but no matter; old is old, and no one denies I’m that.

Oh, but please excuse my lack of manners. Let me introduce myself. I’m Anna, daughter of Phanuel from the tribe of Asher. Long ago, in Deuteronomy 33:25, Moses wrote of my tribe that “your strength will equal your days,” and that has been true of me.

 It seems almost like a life another lived when I recall my few married years. I wedded my beloved husband when I was only fourteen years old, the common age for marriage. Our happiness was beyond words. We talked about everything. My favorite topic was the coming of the Messiah; I’d been fascinated by that since I’d been a tiny girl, and my beloved never tired of listening to me.

“Do you think, dearest, we’ll live to see the Messiah come?” I asked my husband so many times.

He laughed and pulled me into my favorite place, the circle of his arms. “I hope so, but remember, people have been waiting for the Messiah for centuries. Meanwhile, let’s talk about having a family.”

That was his favorite thing to talk about, and I desperately wanted children too. I remember standing together under the night sky, his arms around me, looking up at the stars.

“Dearest Anna,” he said, putting his rough beard on my cheek, “perhaps God will bless us with so many children our offspring will be like those stars, too many to count. Our great grandchildren will sit at our feet and listen to our stories, and our children will nourish us in our old age. I will love you even more when your hair is silver and your smooth cheeks are lined than I do today.”

It was a beautiful dream, but it was not to be. After only seven years of marriage and no children, God took my wonderful husband.

Shattered, I wept in heartbroken despair, feeling the best part of me was forever gone. I was alone with no family to rely on, a harsh place to be in Jewish society. A widow with no means of support was dependent on the charity of others.

As I lay on my mat, eyes swollen almost shut with tears, I heard the quiet voice, and not for the first time. “Anna, my dear child, I have plans for you. Will you take my hand?”

I’d heard the voice so many times during my seven years of marriage, sometimes when I was pounding grain or kneading bread, sometimes when I was sweeping the dirt floor of our tiny home we loved so much. The voice never alarmed me. I knew it was my heavenly Father, and it filled my heart with even more joy than when my husband stooped to enter our home and pull me into his arms each evening after work.

Each time I heard the voice I whispered back, “Yes, I will take your hand. Where are we going?”

But no answer ever came. This time, I sat up on my sleeping mat, wiped my tears on the sleeve of my robe, and answered, “Yes, I will take your hand. Where are we going?”

“Go to the temple.”

I rolled up my mat, took what I could carry, and went to the temple. I wish you could have seen the look on the priests’ faces. I stood before them, a twenty-one-year-old woman, face still wet with tears, clutching my belongings. I looked at them silently; then suddenly I felt the powerful hand of God on my shoulder.

I opened my mouth.

I don’t remember all I said now, but a torrent of joy poured out, proclaiming the goodness of God in the land of the living, promising Jehovah would keep his promises soon and send the Messiah for the redemption of Jerusalem and the world.

The words were not mine, and when Jehovah finished speaking through me, I dropped my head and waited quietly.

The priests whispered among themselves as I waited, praying they would not misjudge my motives and try to marry me off to an acquaintance. The women of my tribe were known for their beauty and often sought after for marriage, even the widows, though not by priests. Priests could marry only a virgin or the widow of another priest.

Please Lord, let them see I desire only what King David did, “One thing have I desired of the Lord, that will I seek after; that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the Lord, and to enquire in his temple.”

Even then, on that first encounter with the priests, I knew instinctively why the Holy Spirit had brought me to the temple; David’s desire was mine and would be forever. I could feel my face glowing with the intensity of it.

After a bit longer of a wait, a young priest, Simeon, approached me, asked my name, and I told him.

“Prophetess Anna,” he said, “we offer you sanctuary here. You may stay in one of the little chambers in the outer court.”

Prophetess! I’d never thought of myself as such, but God had spoken through me.

You may find it hard to believe, but I never left the temple courts after that. Day and night I remained in the temple. I served God by praying and by encouraging others to look beyond the mundane everyday of life, and to live for what matters, because soon they would see the King!

I spent most of my time praying and fasting. At first women glanced at me and then away or at each other. I knew they thought me eccentric; who wouldn’t? But as time passed, they came to me and shared burdens. I reminded them of the two things we so easily forget, the shortness of time and the length of eternity. In helping them discover joy, my own sorrow faded though never totally left. My past life with my beloved faded to a dream and I spent my real life in anticipation. The Messiah would come in my lifetime; I knew it!

You cannot possibly know how quickly you can go from young to old unless you’ve done it yourself. The passing of years took my agility and my smooth skin, but people often remarked about the young fire in my eyes. I gave that glow a name; I called it hope.

Though countless days faded into night; though more than four-thousand Sabbaths came and left with no sign of the Messiah, I did not lose hope. It grew stronger. Each night before I lay down on my mat, I tried to picture him. How old would he be? Would he be dressed like a king? Each day in the temple my eyes searched the face of every young man, looking for the Messiah.

And then one day I heard Simeon, the young priest who’d first welcomed me, now grown old like myself, shout louder than I’d ever heard him. He was standing next to a young couple who’d come to present a baby boy to the Lord and to offer a sacrifice as the law required. They were just an ordinary looking couple, but Simeon was holding the child in his arms and as close to dancing for joy as his old limbs would allow.

He blessed the child, praised God, and prayed, “Lord, now let me die in peace! You told me I wouldn’t die before I’d seen the Messiah, and here he is in my arms, a light to the Gentiles and the glory of Israel!”

What! The Messiah is a tiny baby? Can it be true?

I hurried to see for myself. As soon as I saw the smiling face of the baby boy God’s Spirit fell on me and I thanked the Lord and told everyone who would listen the Messiah had been born!

Simeon may have been ready to die, but I certainly was not. I wanted to see this child grow into manhood, conquer Israel’s enemies, and set up his kingdom.

That night as I lay on my mat the voice I’d come to know and love so well spoke to me once more.

“Anna, my dear child. I have plans for you. Will you take my hand?”

I didn’t ask where we were going, I knew, and I didn’t want to go. Not yet.

“Wait, Lord, shouldn’t you be taking Simeon? He’s the one ready to go. I want to see the Messiah set up his glorious kingdom.”

“Dear Anna, what if the Messiah has come to deliver his people, not from Roman rule, but from sin? And what if that deliverance involves his own death on the cross, a cruel, humiliating, excruciating death?”

I thought of that baby’s smile, and I wept. But then in a brief flash of light I saw an empty tomb, and the Messiah’s triumphant return as king centuries later, and I caught my breath at the beauty of it all. Millions upon millions of his followers returned with him, and I was one of them, and so was my beloved husband!

They call mine a sad story, but do you believe a warm river of joy can run under the ice of sorrow? I do, and I’ve lived in that joy for one-hundred and five years.

“How soon will you take me, Lord?” I asked.

“Very soon.”

I feel my strength fading, but I’m not uncomfortable. I feel like a sleepy child being tucked under warm robes at night by a loving mother.

Quickly now, while I’m still able, I’ll whisper my story to the wind blowing by my little temple chamber. Perhaps it will carry my tale down through time to someone who cares enough to listen.

The End

This story is fiction based on fact. The Bible doesn’t say that Simeon was a priest or even that he was old. It doesn’t tell nearly this much about Anna. Read the true story for yourself in Luke 2.

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These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

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Bye, Bye Escalators

by Donna Poole

“Bye bye escalators. They always scared me. Lol.”

That’s what my friend Pam posted on her Facebook page. Boscov’s in Binghamton, New York is doing a ten-million-dollar upgrade and replacing its escalators, the last ones in the area, with elevators.

Mom Poole liked to shop; I think she may have gotten some of her lovely suits at Boscov’s. I never liked shopping, unless it was in a bookstore, and my wardrobe reflected it. Once, when I was back home at Mom and Dad Poole’s for the holidays, Mom, Lonnie, and I decided to leave the kids with the guys and do a little after Christmas shopping. We were ready to leave when Mom looked at me and almost cried. I soon discovered I wasn’t wardrobe approved.

What? I’m wearing my denim skirt, my new red knee socks, and I have my long hair pulled around to the front in two ponytails tied with thick red yarn bows. I look great!

I didn’t say that out loud, just listened to the conversation between Mom and Lonnie. Poor Lonnie, she was always the family peacemaker and sometimes distressed at unable to keep the peace.

I wasn’t deaf then like I am now, so I heard every word even though they spoke quietly.

Mom: I’m not taking her out in public looking like that.

Lonnie: Mom, she looks fine. Please don’t say anything.

Mom: What if one of my friends sees her? I’m not doing it.

Mom turned to me. “Donna, will you please go change your clothes? You can’t wear those red knee socks.”

I did, but I’m not sure what I changed into met with any greater approval; I wasn’t exactly the fashion queen, and what looked fine to my country friends obviously didn’t to the town fashionistas!

I don’t think we shopped at Boscov’s that day. I’m sure we did hit up Philly Sales because that’s where we always bought paper, boxes, tags, and bows for the next Christmas, and if any of you are from the Triple Cities area, you’ll know my first outfit was probably over dressed for Philly Sales.

Had we stopped at Boscov’s it would have taken all my courage to get on the escalator, especially without John. When he’s with me, he tells me when to step on and off. I can’t judge distance and that puts me at a disadvantage in some things, and escalators are one.

It took years and a reoccurring nightmare to make me acknowledge I was afraid of escalators. Growing up I didn’t want to admit I was afraid of anything, not me, not Donna Piarulli, not the Donna who would try anything once!

University of Michigan Hospital, my home away from home, has an escalator. I avoid it like its covered with Covid. In the eleven plus years I’ve been going there for one thing or another I’ve only used it once.

As I grew older my list of fears grew with me, and they made no sense. I discovered I was afraid of jumping into water even though I love swimming. I found I’m terrified of public speaking—or I was. When I had brain surgery my family swears the neurosurgeon forgot to replace my filter, and now I’m not afraid to speak in public anymore. This is not always a good thing.

When Kimmee, our youngest daughter, was little she had a school assignment to write a sentence about something she was afraid of.

“I can’t do this,” she said. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Everyone is afraid of something,” I told her. “Go upstairs and write that sentence.”

She returned triumphant. Her sentence said, “I am afraid of Mommy’s homemade chicken noodle soup.”

Fair enough! I knew she hated that soup!

Some fear makes sense; we have a built-in warning system that alerts us to danger. Some fear isn’t logical though.

Fear is so sad, isn’t it?

Do you know fear’s origin? It’s almost but not quite as ancient as man. Adam and Eve had never known fear. They wouldn’t have been able to define it. They loved talking to God when he came to converse with them in the cool of the day, but the day they disobeyed him they ran and hid when they heard him calling them.

Adam finally answered God’s call and said, “I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid.”

No longer was the garden the place of perfect peace. When sin entered, so did fear. The Bible doesn’t say this but it’s logical to suppose all God’s creatures also felt fear for the first time. Have you ever noticed all the wild creatures look over their shoulders in fear, ready to run?

One of our cats, Louie, came inside as a tiny kitten. He’s always been loved, never mistreated, but poor Mr. Lou is afraid of everything and everyone. Sometimes he’s even afraid of us if there’s anything different about us. If we carry groceries in from the car, we look different to him, so he panics and runs.

Fear, rational or irrational: we all face it, and the Bible has something to help. In the King James Version “fear not” appears sixty-three times. Why don’t we have to be afraid? God hasn’t given us a spirit of fear, but he has given us one of love and a sound mind (cf. 2 Tim. 1:7).

I suppose life’s greatest fear is, “What’s going to happen to me after I die?”

We may fear punishment for our sins. But on the cross Jesus, the Son of God, suffered the guilt and shame for every sin ever committed, even sins so dark we can’t imagine them. All that’s left for us to do is to admit we’re sinners who need a Savior! Then God’s love drives out all fear of punishment (cf. I John 4:18) and promises us heaven.

Still, in this world, we aren’t perfect, and we’re going to be afraid sometimes. That’s when we run to Jesus who understands more about fear than we ever will. Did you ever read the account of his emotions in the garden before he went to the cross?

I don’t know who said this, but I love it. “The sheep don’t have to fear the wolf if they stay close to the Shepherd.”

Will God keep us safe? Does he promise no harm will come to us or those we love? In our dreams, maybe, but not in real life. In real life he says, “Yes, you’ll walk through the valley of the shadow of death, but I will be with you.”

In Jesus, we have someone to talk to about our fears, someone who will face them with us. And if fears get too overwhelming, it’s no sin to get professional help.

On this earth fear will always be with us and with the poor animal kingdom. Until it won’t. We all know fear won’t follow us to heaven, but fear won’t always be a part of earth life either. One day, even the animal kingdom will have peace.

I love this promise from Isaiah 11:6-9: “The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them. And the cow and the bear shall feed; their young ones shall lie down together: and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. And the sucking child shall play on the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put his hand on the cockatrice’ den. They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain: for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the LORD, as the waters cover the sea.”

And Pam! Either there won’t be any escalators, or we won’t be afraid of them anymore. We’ll dance our way up and down them. I’m going to wear my red knee socks.

The End
***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

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Walk the Mile and Share the Load

by Donna Poole

“I’m not sure you should cut my hair this morning. You just had your second full dose cancer treatment yesterday so you’re probably feeling rotten, and I’m not sure we have time before the funeral.”

“I’m strong on steroids, remember? It won’t take long; I’m sure we’ve got enough time. I’ll feel worse tomorrow than I do today; that’s how this goes. They’ve done so much for us. I love them, and I want to be there for them.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.”

The hair cut was uneventful unless you count the volume of shaggy hair falling to the floor.

“Honey, I can almost hear Bud from heaven.”

We laughed, remembering the long-ago time, when busy with babies and life, I’d let John’s hair creep over his ears and down his neck, and some people at church hadn’t approved but were too nice to say so. Finally, Bud, a deacon, the kindest of men, and a great encourager, approached me after church with some dollar bills crumpled in his hand.

He held them out to me.

“What’s that for?”

“I know you’ve been busy lately, and um, Pastor’s hair, well, it’s getting kind of long, and um, well, I thought maybe you could use this money and send him to the barber.”

Poor Bud looked miserably uncomfortable. I knew he’d been appointed spokesperson and was handling the situation Bud style, encourage don’t discourage.

I laughed and hugged him. “Put your money away, Bud. I’m not too busy to cut John’s hair. I’ll get it done this week; I promise!”

His face brightened and he patted my back.

Haircut finished and running a bit later than we’d hoped, John got in the shower. When he got out, I knew something was wrong. It didn’t take me long to run for his nitro.

When the chest pain ended with just one pill John continued getting ready.

“Honey, are you sure you should go?”

“I’m feeling fine. I’m going. Are you sure you should go?”

We both knew the answer to that. With my lymphocyte count this low I’m at a high risk of infection and am supposed to avoid crowds. But we hoped to arrive early and sit in the back. Some things are worth the risk. I’ve had to miss some funerals and other important things when I was critically low on everything and under orders to stay home; now I’m just under suggestions. This sweet neighbor lady who died left behind people we care about, and we wanted to be there today for them. Why are we still here if not to see one another through?

As you may have guessed, we got a later start than we hoped. We arrived at the church just in time, but there was no place to park. John drove to the corner to turn around and wham! Wheels spun and refused to move.  

So, John, the one who’d just had an angina attack at home, shoveled us out of the snow. We finally found a place a distance from the church and went hurrying off; if you can call me hanging on to John’s arm with one hand and using my cane with the other hand and both of us pushing our way through the snow in the unplowed road hurrying!

“We…are…going…to be…so…late!” I said, gasping for breath.

But when we got inside, the service hadn’t started. The pastor and the family were still lined up inside the door. I wear a mask, doctor’s orders, so of course my glasses completely fogged over, and I couldn’t see a single person. Just shapes.

A tall figure not in the line with the family touched my arm. “You may not remember me, but I pray for you every day. You’re at the top of my prayer list.”

I didn’t know if I remembered him or not because I couldn’t see him, but I thanked him, and tears formed behind my fogged-up lenses. It seems every time we go somewhere to encourage people, someone encourages us. John told me later the tall figure was the pastor from the Pittsford Wesleyan Church who, like us, and all the others in the full church at Liberty Bible Church, had come to show Bob and the family we cared deeply about their sorrow and wanted to walk part of this hard mile with them.

John spoke with the family as we made our way into the auditorium. I still couldn’t see a thing, but I managed to find Bob, the last in line. I can’t remember if I said a word to him. I know I hugged him. And he kissed the top of my head.

Amazingly, the last pew was empty. When we were seated, I took off my glasses and saw we knew so many of the people there.

The sermon was a beautiful tribute to Kathy; it made us chuckle and cry. And it was a beautiful tribute to the only one Kathy loved more than her family, the Lord Jesus. Pastor Wickard preached from Kathy’s Bible with its verses underlined and its margin notes written in her handwriting. He reminded us Kathy is in the Father’s house now, and that she’d want him to tell us all how to be there with her.

He spoke with simplistic beauty the old confession of the faith: Jesus, God the Son, loved us enough to die for our sins. And we, sin sick and weary, need but cry out to him to save us from our sins, and he will do it. And then someday we will all be where Kathy is now.

Too simple you say? Pie in the sky? Other great minds thought so but changed their minds when they investigated. On that note I highly recommend the movie, “C.S. Lewis Onstage The Most Reluctant Convert.” Please watch it before you disregard Christianity; you have everything to lose and everything to gain.

Back to the funeral, Kathy’s celebration of life, Pastor Wickard spoke words of comfort to the family. We sang together the old hymns Kathy loved. And then it was over. We talked a few minutes to a couple we dearly love and then made our way back to the car through the snow. I was freezing, and my socks under my boots were soaked. My heart ached for Bob and the family, but a warm joy sang through it all. We’ll meet again, all of us, at the Big Table in our Father’s House.

Next weekend is another funeral, a cancer warrior who lost her fight but gained heaven. I’ll miss her loving, encouraging messages. Patty wrote me this strong encouragement on December 19, 2020.

“I was brought to tears this morning when praying for you and it had me wishing I had something deep and scriptural to share with you. Instead, I found a snippet of a sermon that had been shared with me.

‘Our primary purpose is not our pleasure it is His glory. We are not called to do something easy. We are called to do something important. Things that are important require commitment and effort and perseverance, and we persevere because we know there are eternal purposes to earthy difficulties. God knows our burdens. He knows their purpose. Some He will fix; some He will not.’

“This has brought me a lot of comfort on those days when I know I can’t take anymore. Looking forward to the day when we have understanding.”

Patty understands now! But the rest of us don’t always. We need each other. My photographer daughter Kimmee was a second shooter at an Anglican wedding recently where they sang this song with its lovely words reminding us to walk Home together.

“The Servant Song by Richard Gillard

Brother, sister, let me serve you, Let me be as Christ to you;

Pray that I might have the grace to Let you be my servant, too.

We are pilgrims on a journey, And companions on the road;

We are here to help each other, Walk the mile and bear the load.

I will hold the Christ-light for you, In the night time of your fear;

I will share your joy and sorrow Till we’ve seen this journey through.

When we sing to God in heaven, We shall find such harmony

Born of all we’ve known together Of Christ’s love and agony.

Brother, sister, let me serve you, Let me be as Christ to you;

Pray that I might have the grace to Let you be my servant too.”

My reader friends, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? We aren’t here to criticize and see through one another; we’re here to see one another through. In person and online, with whatever time we have left, let’s walk the mile and share the load.

The End
***

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

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The Three O’clock in the Morning Chat

by Donna Poole

“Hey, are you awake?”

Huge sigh. “I am now. What do you want? And why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I can’t sleep. You know prednisone does that to me. So, I’m counting my blessings. Like the song goes, ‘I count my blessings, instead of sheep…’”

“Please! Stop singing! It’s bad enough listening to you sing in the shower in the mornings. I really can’t now. I have a headache.”

“Sorry! I know my voice isn’t the best. It begins as a lovely melody in my heart though.”

“Yeah? Well, it sure gets mugged somewhere before it comes out of your mouth.”

“You’re a bit grumpy tonight, aren’t you?”

“For Pete’s sake; I’m not grumpy. I want to sleep! And it’s not night, it’s morning. In three hours you’ll be singing in the shower, and I’d like to get a little shut eye before then!”

“I’m sorry I woke you. I was thinking about all the good things that happened in the hospital the past three days, and I wanted to share them with someone. Go back to sleep. I’ll just talk to God.”

“Oh, go ahead and keep talking. I’m wide awake now anyway. But blessings? How about when we had to wait all that time in the hallway for a room to open up? You were so cold you put on your winter jacket and pulled the hood up!”

“True, but then I felt cozy, and the padded bench was comfortable. I was tired from getting up extra early to get to Ann Arbor on time, and I had a good nap sitting on that bench. And then we got the call the room was ready, and they said for sure my husband could stay with me. That about made me cry; I was so happy.”

“Everything makes you cry when you’re happy. How about when the parking garage was full and you had to get out at the door by yourself and find your own way to your room in that big hospital, you and your cane and your horrible sense of direction, with no arm to lean on and no one to help you?”

“Well, that was a blessing too! Everyone was helpful. The first lady sent me to the second lady. She called to be sure my room was ready, and it was.”

“‘I hope you can give me simple directions,’ I told her, ‘because I hold the world’s record for getting lost.’”

“She laughed. ‘It’s easy. Go past that big blow-up Superman, and you’ll come to the elevators. Go to floor eight, and you’ll see a desk. They’ll give you more directions from there.’”

“I found the desk, memorized my room, number six, and I only had to go back once and ask her to repeat the directions. Then off I went, feeling like a little girl setting off alone for the first day of kindergarten, proud to be on my own.”

“Get real! Kindergarten at age seventy-five? And you were only on your own for a few minutes.”

“Let me finish, okay? I found the right hallway and room number six. I stopped in front of it and read a sign that said something like ‘sanitized linens.’ The nurse’s desk was right behind me.”

“I said, ‘Hi, I’m Donna Poole, and I have room six, but I don’t think that’s it?’”

“She laughed. ‘No, that’s definitely not it. Keep going down that hall a bit and you’ll come to your room.’”

“A man coming toward me saw my confusion. ‘You’ll see your name on your room. Tell you what, I’ll take you there!’”

“And he did! Now isn’t that a blessing? And that room! It was impressive! It had a mini fridge, a love seat that opened up into a bed, and a recliner. The hospital bed was even more comfortable than my bed at home!”

“I heard you tell the doctor that. She laughed and said it was the first time she’d ever heard anyone say that!”

“I put the quilt my friend Missy had stayed up all night making for me before I’d gone into the hospital the last time on my bed. Everyone who came into the room loved it.”

“I suppose you’ll rave about the bathroom next.”

“Well, it was nice. Big and very clean.”

“Oh yeah? How’d you like having to measure and record your pee?”

“Do you always have to be so negative? I’m trying to focus on the blessings. The food was good!”

“It must have been. I heard you say you’d gained a few pounds you didn’t need while you were there.”

“Oh, come on. It was almost like being on a vacation. I met so many nice people, and we shared stories….”

“That’s another thing. What’s with you and sharing stories? It happens everywhere you go.”

“Sharing stories is a way to connect. It’s how we let other people know they aren’t alone in the world.”

“So that’s why you gave that girl who was cleaning your contact information when she told you about her sad family situation and her lack of friendships?”

“Yes, that’s exactly why. I listened to her. It might have been the first time in a long time someone cared enough to listen to her story. And I told her I didn’t want her to ever feel alone, so she could get ahold of me if she had a problem, or a prayer request, or just wanted someone to talk to. Wouldn’t you have done the same?”

“I can honestly say I’ve never done that and never will, and sometimes I think you’re an idiot. I suppose you think the side effects from your cancer treatment, the shivering, the horrible muscle and bone aches, the burning eyes, the unbearable neck pain, and the headache from h…”

“Hold on. We don’t use that word.”

“Okay, okay! So, I suppose you think the headache from…Stygian was a blessing too?”

“Stygian?”

“Look it up.”

“I will sometime. The side effects weren’t fun, but you have to admit the fast help I got from the nurse and the doctor were blessings. They didn’t even mind being disturbed at two o’clock in the morning.”

“Look, Miss Pollyanna, that’s what they get paid to do. They were just doing their job.”

“No, they did more than that. They did it with compassion and cheerfulness. They could have been grumpy, like some others I know!”

“You’re talking about me, aren’t you? I am what I am. We’re different, but we’ve come a long way together, haven’t we?”

“Yes, we have, and don’t think I don’t appreciate you because I do! Do you want to hear more blessings?”

“I’m probably going to hear them whether I want to or not. But can you cut this short? I have a feeling you could write a book about your hospital stay, and I’m not in the mood to hear it!”

“Well, you know how I love that verse from the book of Esther in the Bible that says maybe she was exactly where she was ‘for such a time as this?’”

“Must we go there again? You’re always thinking you’re right where you are ‘for such a time as this.’ It’s ridiculous. Don’t you realize things might happen by chance?”

“Nope. It’s Providence! Things happen by design! I think the best blessing was getting to meet the woman I’d been talking to online. You know, the one whose husband is so sick with a rare kind of lymphoma, sicker than I’ve ever been. If not Providence, how else do you explain that we were both in the hospital at the same time and only two doors apart?”

“I don’t know.”

“God did it, that’s what. And it gave me a chance to share one of my books and a little love and encouragement. And she encouraged me too. I really was there ‘for such a time as this.’”

“Whatever.”

“And even though the side effects weren’t fun, I didn’t get CRS like last time, and I got to come home on Friday. God brought us safely home through blowing snow and drifting roads, and Kimmee and Drew fixed us two kinds of delicious soup and yummy cupcakes. Then it was time to crawl into our cozy bed. Coming home was a little glimpse of what heaven will be like, don’t you think?”

“That trip shook me up, going and coming. I’m even greener that usual and look at all my white bubbles and froth. I don’t believe heaven is in my future. Why are you laughing?”

“I’m laughing at myself. I can’t believe I’m having a middle of the night imaginary conversation with a bottle of green mouthwash. I’m going back to bed now, but thanks for coming to the hospital with me. You were a lifesaver. Everyone who got close to me probably appreciated you too! See you in a few hours. Sorry you have to listen to me sing in the shower!”

“I’m sorry too! If I only had money and hands, I’d pay someone to give you singing lessons!”

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Posted on

This! This is the Day!

by Donna Poole

It was a great Christmas season at the little church on the corner of two dirt roads, weeks of wonderful holiday celebrations at our old farmhouse, and its music still lingers in my heart. It’s not over; I’m not ready to let it go, because this was my year!

I don’t know if I’ve ever enjoyed a Christmas season more! Oh, it wasn’t perfect. Pneumonia and two other nasty infections invaded, required seven weeks of antibiotics, and forced me to miss long anticipated holiday events at the grandkids’ schools. I had to skip my cancer treatments too. My husband, John, also got sick. Unwelcomed guests in form house repairs showed up.

But oh, the joy that rang through it all, echoing yet like the old bell at our country church. Have you ever seen the beautiful frozen fog that sometimes forms on trees and makes you catch your breath with delight when the sunrise hits it and the world for just a second sparkles like a diamond? That’s what this season was like for me. I wish I could package it all up, put a big red bow on it, and let you peek inside so you could share my joy.

I think I’ll try!

Let’s begin at church. You’ll have to drive up a dirt road to get there and try not to get muddy when you get out. It’s an acquired art, and one I haven’t yet mastered. This was our fiftieth Christmas here; we were twenty five when John came as pastor. Like any small country church, we’ve known times of feast and famine when it comes to attendance. Right now, we’re big on love but small on numbers, and we didn’t really have enough children to pull off the traditional Christmas program. Someone suggested we skip it.

Skip the program on John’s fiftieth Christmas here? I don’t think so! Over my dead body!

My daughter Kimmee helped me, and we wrote a program that featured all ages. We called it “The Invisible Woman.” Everyone at church was willing to help. The choir sang three awesome numbers; the angels glowed, and each child and old person played their part to perfection. We had beautiful special music too. We felt again the ancient awe as we worshipped the God who loved us and sent his Son!

The program ended and people clustered around the Christmas table at the back of the church. Everyone got a bag packed with candy people brought to share with each other. Each year our family makes Christmas ornaments to give away; this year Kimmee did most of the work. People took the ornament they wanted off the tree on the table. Cards and hugs were exchanged. And when people said, “Merry Christmas!” they meant it.

George Fee used to attend our church until God called him home many years ago. After every program George smiled his famous smile and said, “That was wonderful. Couldn’t have seen anything better, not even in New York City!”

And if you don’t think I heard George say that to me after our Christmas program this year, you need to go to the doctor and get your imagination checked.

Oh, and we had my favorite, the candlelight church service. That’s an informal time; everyone who wants to can read, or sing, or play an instrument. Carole Knowlton always reads A Cup of Christmas Tea, and then, each year, it’s suddenly Christmas for me. John closes with a short devotional; we dim the lights, and we sing “Silent Night.”

Now come over to our farmhouse, the one given us by a sweet neighbor years ago, called to heaven just a few months ago. But that beautiful story is one I’ve already told, and I’ll probably tell it again another day.

We start preparing for our big family Christmas early. We get the tree the day after Thanksgiving, and this year’s tree was a beauty! She stands to this day, tall and proud, still drinking water, still alive, still, like me, soaking up leftover Christmas joy and not ready yet to say goodbye to it all.

Long before our family gathering we make the Christmas cookies John’s parents made when he was a boy and put them in the freezer. We plan and replan how to fit twenty-four of us at tables. We clean, shop, and cook. I cook the main part of the meal, each of the families brings good food too, and Kimmee makes fantastic desserts.

The hardest part of it all, the part that requires prayer and a miracle, is getting all of us together on a day and time that works for everyone—and not having anyone get sick. This year, it happened on December 22. The rest of my family probably guessed, but only God could see the overflowing joy in my heart as they all came in the kitchen door. When those dear faces gathered together, and our grandson read Luke chapter two, and our granddaughter was home from Physician’s Assistant school and back with us, when my children and their wonderful spouses, and my fourteen beautiful grandchildren crowded together, and made such a delightful noise and mess—I’ve never been happier.

It ended so quickly. John and I stood outside in the soft falling rain and waved goodbye. When we came back inside, not all of the wetness I brushed from my cheeks was from the rain.

Because, you see, living in the limbo of cancer teaches you to treasure like never before each day, each moment when family stories are retold, and new ones are made.

Not long-ago John preached a sermon he titled “This is the Day!” His text was, “This is the day the Lord has made. We will rejoice and be glad in it.”

Oh yes, we will say “This is the day,” this day and every day! Whatever it brings! We will find something to be thankful for, and somedays you don’t have to look too hard, because joy wraps you up so warmly you can hardly catch your breath. Family Christmas was like that for me. I can’t thank my family enough for giving it to me.

Christmas Day itself was quieter here with just the four of us, Kimmee and Drew, our daughter and son-in-law who live with us, and John and me. Kimmee and Drew made us their traditional Christmas brunch with food so delicious I dare not tell you lest you get distracted from the rest of my story. After brunch, the four of us exchanged some gifts.

As we began picking up wrapping paper, Drew said to wait just a minute, because he had received a message for us on his cell. He read, “Hello-ho-ho! This is Kris Kringle, finally taking a moment to catch up on some post-Christmas Night messages to my favorite helper! You may have not noticed, but I had to hide a special gift for John and Donna in the dishwasher. Could you be a dear and tell them about it? It would really make my Christmas Day extra, extra wonderful.”

Out to the dishwasher we went. It had been broken now for over a year, but we’d kept it because its top provided valuable counter top space. Inside we found a gigantic red bow attached to a plastic bag of dishwasher pods. We stared at Kimmee and Drew. This couldn’t mean what we thought, did it? They laughed.

“Your new dishwasher is coming tomorrow.”

Flabbergasted is a good word, is it not? Christmas tears are special, aren’t they?

Our church family, family, neighbors, and friends showered us with love and gifts this year. The monetary gifts alone more than made up for the unexpected house expenses. This was all wonderful, and it made John and me cry. I mean really cry.

There was more, so much more—playing marathon games of Phase 10, going to see Christmas lights twice, eating at a little deli we love, spending time with beloved friends from out of town, a turkey dinner on New Year’s Day.

But what made this Christmas season so very dear to me was the strands of love running through each of our days and connecting us to the one great Love that will still be here when I finally agree to take down the tree and the decorations. It’s the Love that never fails.

God loved us and sent his son. Those seven perfect words change time and eternity.

Jesus willingly came to earth to make a way for us all to go Home for a forever Christmas. No tearful driveway goodbyes. No shutting off the lights and closing the doors of the old country church. No ending the music. No putting away the decorations.  

Here’s how the Bible says it.

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” –John 3:16

Believe what exactly? The rest of the Bible tells us what we already instinctively know. We’ve all got a big problem with sin. Jesus, the God man who never sinned, did something beyond comprehension on the cross. He gathered into his own heart every sin ever committed, suffered the horrible guilt and pain of each of them, and made them not to be. And now every sinner who falls at his feet and believes is suddenly on the road Home to God.

And that is why, even though one day you may stand in the driveway waving a tearful goodbye to me as I leave this earth, or I to you, joy will still remain. Christmas, real Christmas, never needs to leave our hearts. Because we have that long, forever tomorrow, we can say, “This! This is the day!” We can say it sobbing, but we can say it!

I suppose I will have to give in soon and say goodbye to this tree, pack away the decorations, and save the music for another year. Well, maybe not the music.

This afternoon a friend reminded me that January 7 is the day the Russian Orthodox Church celebrates Christmas, and so it’s not too late to say “Merry Christmas.”

It’s never too late. So, if you see me on July 4 and I say it to you, just laugh and hug me. And don’t be surprised if I ask you, “Did you know that this is the day?”

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

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And the Needles Kept Dropping

by Donna Poole

What to do next?

That was always the question. Bonnie sighed and looked at her lengthy to-do list on the fridge. Number one: Take decorations off the Christmas tree.

Not that. That always makes me cry. Maybe if I sweep up the pile of needles Ed won’t notice how dead the tree is getting, and we can keep it up longer.

Number four on the list caught her eye. Make Ed’s fruitcake.

She smiled. Ed had devoured the first fruitcake she’d made him even before Christmas. Their grown kids poked fun at his fruitcake addiction; no one else in the family could stand it. He’d looked so sad when he’d scraped the last crumb from his plate. When she’d found the candied fruit half-off at an after Christmas sale, she’d snatched it up. She was going to make him another one for a surprise treat.

The phone rang just as she got started. “Hi, Mom! What are you up to today?”

“I’m making a fruitcake for your dad.”

Becky laughed. “Not another one! I suppose he’s at work?”

Bonnie shrugged. “Where else?”

“Seventy-five and Dad still goes to the shop every day. If he didn’t own the place someone would have made him retire by now. Do you wish he would?”

“Two cups of water, one-fourth cup of oil.”

“What?”

“Oh, sorry honey. If I don’t say recipe ingredients out loud, I forget something. What did you ask me?”

“Do you wish Dad would retire?”

“Yes. But no. He loves it there, and the work isn’t too much for him. He mostly answers the phone, sets up appointments, and chats with the customers waiting for their vehicles. People talk to him about their troubles, and he tells them about Jesus and prays for them. And when an older model car comes in, he still likes to get his hands greasy working on it.”

“But sometimes I worry about you being home alone.”

“I’m fine honey. Two cups of raisins, one cup candied pineapple. Okay. I think that’s it. Give me a minute while I pour this into the bundt pan. Done! Oh bother!”

“What’s wrong? You didn’t burn yourself putting it into the oven, did you?”

“No, I forgot the eggs. I’ll just scrape the batter back into the bowl and add the eggs.”

It was quiet for a minute, and then Becky heard the refrigerator door slam and her mom laugh.

“Well, I guess we’ll see how fruitcake tastes without eggs. We don’t have any.”

“Mom, remember that trick I told you? Put out and measure all your ingredients before you start baking.”

“It’s a great idea, if I only could remember it.”

They both laughed.

“I forgot something else. I wrote the recipe on a three by five card, but I forgot to write down the oven temperature and how long to cook it. I saved the recipe on my cell, but now I can’t find my phone.”

Becky grinned. Should she? She couldn’t resist, and Mom always loved a good joke.

“Look on the counter. No? Check the couch cushions. You often lose your cell there. Not there either? You don’t suppose you put it in the fridge when you were looking for eggs do you?”

“It’s not anywhere! You don’t happen to know the oven temperature for fruitcake do you, honey?”

“Mom, the day I bake fruitcake is the day you know I am one. Do me a favor, okay? Go look in the mirror.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

She heard her mom start laughing. “Becky Joy if I had you here, I’d…”

“I take it you found your phone?”

“Honey, do you think I’m getting dementia?”

“Nope. I did the same thing I just did to you to my friend the other day. He was talking to me on his cell and couldn’t find it, and he’s only in his thirties.”

“You’re as much of a tease as your dad. But now I have to stop talking and look up the oven temperature. Love you.”

“Love you too. I’ll call you back later.”

Becky did worry though. She didn’t think her mom had dementia, but she did have some memory problems. She wished Dad would stay home more. Her parents seemed happy with their lives, but she hoped they could enjoy a few years of retirement before God took one of them home to heaven.

She whispered a prayer and then chuckled. “Another fruitcake! She’ll probably make him one for Valentine’s Day too!”

Bonnie turned the oven to 350 degrees. The old thing took a long time to preheat; what should she do while she was waiting? She glanced at the list again. Number seven: Find old Bible.

She was tired of reading the Bible on her cell, though the kids had installed three versions for her. She wanted to hold her old Bible in her hands, the one with dates, underlining, and tear stains, the one she’d had since the kids were little. She didn’t care that the spine had fallen off. She’d go find it while she waited for the oven to preheat.

Short of breath by the time she got to the top of the stairs, Bonnie stared at the empty shelves in the study.

Where in the world are all our books? Oh, that’s right. We put them in boxes on the closed in porch so we could get this room ready to paint. Where is my brain today? Oh, look, there’s a box of the kids’ baby pictures!

Bonnie sat down in a chair and laughed and cried her way through photos for the next hour before she headed back downstairs. A warm blast of heat met her near the bottom,

Why is it so hot down here? Oh! The oven! I forgot!

Bonnie popped the fruitcake in the oven, set the timer, and sat down on the couch to read her Bible on her cell. No way could she manage to find her old Bible in all those boxes on the porch. Engrossed in reading and a bit deaf, she didn’t hear the oven timer go off. Eventually, her nose told her Ed’s favorite dessert was overdone.

She ruefully set the fruitcake on the counter to cool, and its black edges looked condemningly back at her.

“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t turn you into a complete charcoal briquet. Not quite.”

Since the oven is hot, I might as well think about supper. Did Ed say something about supper? I can’t remember. Well, I have that roast thawed out in the fridge. I think I’ll brown it and pop it in the oven with some potatoes and carrots.

After fifty-five years of making pot roast, she knew that recipe by heart. She even remembered the cream of mushroom, cream of celery, and dried onion soups. Soon the kitchen smelled heavenly. She could barely smell burned fruitcake.

Bonnie tackled more things on her to-do list. She swept up the needles under the tree, but as soon as she did, more fell. She ignored them and went on to other tasks. She disregarded her aching muscles too; she knew she was overdoing, but it felt good to get a lot done. The phone never rang to interrupt her.

The kitchen door opened earlier than usual, and Ed hurried inside, snow on his shoulders, and a grin on his face. He put a big pizza box on the counter, swept Bonnie into his arms, and danced her around the kitchen.

“What are you doing New Year’s Eve?” he sang to her.

“This is New Year’s Eve?”

“You forgot?”

“I guess I did.”

“Remember, I told you I’d be home early and bring our favorite pizza.”

“Whoops. I made your favorite pot roast.”

They both laughed. “I’m eating roast,” he said.

“I’m having pizza!” she answered.

“I tried to call you several times to remind you about the pizza.”

She patted her apron pocket. “Oh dear. My phone. I seem to have lost it again.”

He went right to the couch and pulled it out from between the cushions.

“How did you know?”

“Lucky guess. You missed four calls from Becky. You better call her back. You know how she worries.”

Ed ate a piece of fruitcake even before supper and said it was delicious. They curled up in bed right after they ate and turned on a movie Bonnie had been wanting to watch, “The Man Who Invented Christmas.”

A few minutes into the movie Ed glanced over at Bonnie. She was sound asleep, and it was only six o’clock. He grinned, muted the movie, and slipped out of bed. They’d planned to undecorate the tree tomorrow, but that job always made her cry. He’d do it now and get it over with. And then he’d wake her up and tell her his good news. He took down all the red ornaments first. He couldn’t believe how many needles fell from the tree. How had it died so quickly? It had been alive just a few days earlier.

An hour later he went to wake Bonnie. Her wispy white bangs had moved to the side and he could plainly see her dented forehead from the brain surgery and the purple star shaped plate that bulged out. His throat tightened as he thought of the times he’d almost lost her. They’d have some good years yet. Wait until he told her his news.

“Bonnie!” He shook her shoulder. The patchwork quilt covering her wasn’t rising and falling; she wasn’t breathing! He thought of the pile of dead needles dropping from the tree and could barely catch a breath between sobs.

“Bonnie!” He groaned and pulled her to his chest, tears flowing.

“Ed!” She pounded him. “You’re hugging me too tightly. I can’t breathe!”

She pushed away and stared at his tear covered face. “You didn’t think I was…?”

She laughed. “Honey, you need new glasses!”

He climbed in beside her and told her his plans for semi-retirement, and she listened, a contented smile making her look as beautiful to him as she had when they’d married at twenty. They talked on as hours passed. He felt God still wanted him at the shop part time for the people who needed him, and she agreed. They’d always tried to let God love others through them, and Ed was in a good place to do that.

Bonnie didn’t tell him, but she wasn’t ready to give up her quiet hours of reading and writing either. This was a happy compromise; it would be wonderful to be together more.

“Happy New Year, honey,” Ed said when the grandfather clock struck twelve.

“Oh! Is that today?” she asked.

He nodded and kissed her.

“I think it will be our best year ever!” she said, and he agreed.

They fell asleep holding hands. And in the living room the needles kept dropping from the tree.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Posted on

Jasmine, Kate, and the Christmas Cups

by Donna Poole

Jasmine and Kate had been unusually close as toddlers, teens, twenty somethings, and they still were in their mid-seventies, but twins are often like that.

Steam from the dishwater fogged Jasmine’s glasses as she worked her way through the pile. The kitchen was a bit chilly when the wind blew from the east, and the hot dishwater felt good.

Kate curled both hands around the cup of coffee Jasmine had fixed for her. The steam from the delicious brew was clouding her glasses too. She pulled back a bit, looked at the cup, and laughed.

“Still have your Christmas cups out, I see.”

“Yes, and the tree is still up too. I suppose you took yours down the day after Christmas.”

“Wrong! We opened gifts early Christmas morning, and then the kids were all off to celebrate with their in-laws. I got busy and had the tree down and decorations put back in the attic by late afternoon.”

Jasmine pulled her hands from the sudsy water and turned to stare at her sister. “Kate! On Christmas Day! How could you! Did you put away your Christmas cups too, even the ones Mom gave us?”

Kate nodded. “Jasmine, you’re so sentimental. Out with the old, in with the new. The house looks so fresh and clean without the clutter. And I think I have too many Christmas mugs; no one uses them. We all use the disposable ones at family gatherings. I might just donate the cups to charity. So, when are you going to take down your tree? You’re getting quite a pile of needles on the floor there.”

Jasmine sighed. “If I had my way, I’d leave it up until February. I love to sit with my coffee in a Christmas cup, look at the tree, and try to remember every single minute of the holidays. They were especially beautiful this year.”

“That’s what you say every year.”

“Well, it’s true every year.”

“It looks the same in here every year, I’ll give you that. Don’t you ever want to do something different, like, oh, I don’t know, decorate with purple and black instead of red and green?”

Jasmine’s mouth dropped and Kate laughed.

“I’m kidding, but you know I’m right. You have a hard time with change. You bawled like a baby all over four college campuses when you left your kids there. And I bet you still cry when the kids and grandkids leave after family Christmas, don’t you?”

Jasmine pictured herself, standing in the driveway in the drizzling rain waving as the cars turned out of the driveway, leaving one by one. When she’d gone back inside, the moisture on her face hadn’t been all from the rain.

Kate sat down her coffee and hugged her sister. “It’s okay. I love you just like you are. I know you don’t really wish the kids were all little and home again. You’re as happy for them as adults as I am for mine. You do seem especially nostalgic this year though. What gives?”

Jasmine wiped away a tear. “It’s been a good year, hasn’t it Kate? And we don’t know what sorrows next year might bring. We already heard about a sweet friend going on Hospice. And our own health isn’t so good either, and…”

Kate pulled her closer and patted her back. “I know, honey. I know. But remember what we said to each other on Christmas Day? We’ve seen a Great Light, and it will grow brighter and brighter all the way Home! We can trust God to take care of us and the people we love. And you know perfectly well, not putting away those Christmas cups isn’t going to help you hang on to what’s beautiful now. Ready or not, the future is coming for us with is sorrows and its joys. Remember, God is already there!”

Jasmine laughed and hugged her sister. “You’re right, as usual. What would I do without you?”

“You’d be a mess.”

Jasmine laughed again and returned to the dishes.

John came into the kitchen. “Sorry, Donna, I found some more dishes. And are you talking to yourself again?

“Just listening to Jasmine and Kate.”

“Oh, is that a podcast or something?”

“Or something.”

“You aren’t crying, are you?”

“Not anymore. Hey, what do you think about leaving the Christmas tree up until February?”

She looked at his face and laughed. “That’s what I thought. “Well, can we keep the Christmas cups out awhile longer?”

“That we can do.”

She went to work on the new pile of dishes John had brought her and looked out the window. The clouds parted and sun poured in, flooding the kitchen with light, sparkling off the bubbles in the dishwater, and making new dreams.

Posted on

The Street Kid

by Donna Poole

The street kid knew things; he’d always known things. At nine Davey had known he’d die if he’d stayed home any longer. It was only his mother who’d kept his father from killing him in one of his drunken rages, and with her gone he knew he’d suffer way more than beatings and being thrown against the wall.

His dad had killed his mom on Christmas Eve; Davey had seen him throw her down the stairs. He’d also heard him tell his cop friends she’d fallen. His dad would get away with it. In that big city the blue wall of silence was a real thing; Davey and his mom had learned that the hard way when they’d tried to report his dad’s abuse to his fellow officers. Like I said, Davey knew things, things a nine-year-old shouldn’t know. So, the night his mom had died, he’d hit the streets.

What he hadn’t known on the streets he’d learned in a hurry. Sometimes the victim, sometimes the aggressor, he’d survived seven harsh winters since the Christmas Eve he’d left home at nine years old. With the wail of sirens and cops crawling all over the house, it had been easy for him to escape unnoticed.

He’d wiped away one tear when he’d looked at his mom crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. She’d still had on her red apron, the one she’d worn earlier in the day to make him Christmas cookies. The frosted Christmas tree cookies were still on the table when he’d left, but he hadn’t taken one. He’d thought about them often in the years that followed and wondered what had happened to them. His father hadn’t liked sugar cookies.

That tear was the last one Davey cried. Street kids don’t cry. Only the strong survive, and they survive any way they can. I won’t tell you the horrible things that happened to Davey or the terrible things he did to others, because they’re too sad. This story has already been sad enough, and it’s a Christmas story.

Once, when he’d been about thirteen, a girl his age had asked him, “Don’t you ever get homesick?”

Davey had laughed, a bitter sound. “Homesick? For what? Home is the last place I’d ever want to go. If you want to go home, why don’t you?”

She’d shrugged. “I have my reasons.”

He hadn’t asked what reasons. He’d kept a small circle, watched his back, and looked out for number one. That’s how you survive on the streets.

Sixteen now, Davey was as tough as any man in the northside homeless camp. Fists or knives, Davey could hold his own…until he couldn’t. A wound to his calf festered for weeks, and then the fevers and nightmares started.

Davey woke from a dream with tears on his face and heard the laughter. Someone mocked, “Did you hear him call for his mama?”

He didn’t know it; his fever was so high he didn’t know much of anything, but it was Christmas Eve again when he stumbled out of the camp, once again afraid for his life. The weak didn’t survive there, and he was weak. That much he knew.

Davey stumbled down dark streets and lurched into buildings, feeling warm tears freeze on his cheeks. It was snowing, and the snow wasn’t gentle. The wicked winds from the north blasted through his clothes, and he began shivering uncontrollably.

Then he smelled them, those sugar cookies. And he saw her in her red apron, smiling at him.

“Mama?”

He slid down a building into the snow.

Davey felt someone shaking his shoulder. “May I help you, son?”

He looked up. The man was tall, taller than he was. Davey tasted the fear.

“Get away from me!”

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before!”

Davey lurched to his feet and bent to reach for the knife in his boot but toppled forward. The man caught him.

“Son, do you want to go home? I can help you find home.”

“Are you crazy, man? Home is gone. No one can help me find home.”

“Come on. You’re going home.”

Too weak to protest and half-conscious Davey felt the man half lead, half carry him through the blinding snow. He felt the man lay him down and smelled sugar cookies.  

When he woke, he was lying on a couch and covered with blankets. A young couple was smiling at him.

“Are you feeling better?” the woman asked. “I’m a doctor. I hope you don’t mind, but blood was seeping through your jeans. I cut off the bottom of them, dressed your wound, and gave you a shot of antibiotic. I don’t usually keep that kind of medication at home, but I had a bad infection myself after I had the baby.”

Davey just stared at her.

“I think you need to give him a minute to wake up, Mary,” the man said. “I don’t think he knows where he is.”

“Where’s the man who carried me in here?” Davey asked.

“What man?” Mary looked puzzled. “Did you see a man when you answered the door, Joseph?”

He shook his head. “There wasn’t any man. You were just pounding on our door mumbling “mama.” You looked half dead. We would have taken you to the hospital, and we will as soon as the roads get cleared from this storm.”

Davey tried to sit up. “No! No hospital. I don’t have any money. No insurance either.”

The two of them looked at each other. “Listen. We try to do something to help someone every Christmas. Please, let us help you.”

He tried to say thank you, but the words got stuck. Joseph patted his shoulder. A baby cried, and Mary hurried out of the room. Davey fell asleep again. When he woke again Mary fed him hot chicken noodle soup. He sat up, looked around, and noticed a tall tree dazzling with lights.

“Merry Christmas.” Mary smiled at him. “Are you still hungry?”

He nodded. “You don’t happen to have any sugar cookies, do you?”

She laughed. “Matter of fact I do.”

Shadows fell, and Davey dozed on and off. Mary rocked the baby, and Joeseph sat next to her reading.

Davey woke again. “So, Mary, you’re a doctor. What do you do, Joseph?”

“I’m a carpenter; I make custom cabinets and many other things.”

Davey sat straight up. “No way! My mom took me to Sunday school when I was a kid. Mary, Joseph…wasn’t the Joseph in the Christmas story a carpenter?”

Joseph laughed. “We get that a lot.”

Davey nodded at the baby in Mary’s arms. “What’s the kid’s name?”

“It’s Joshua,” Joseph answered, “another name for Jesus. Jesus means ‘The Lord is salvation.’ Hey, we need to talk. I could use an apprentice, and you look like you could use a job. And we have a little guest house out back. You can live there if you want and eat your meals with us. What do you say?”

Davey swore then apologized. “I’m sorry, but are you people crazy? You don’t know a thing about me!”

“Let’s give it a month and see how it goes. Then we’ll reassess. Okay?”

The street kid, who hadn’t willingly shed a tear since he’d seen his mom crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, started to sob. A half a box and several hugs and Christmas cookies later, Joseph opened a Bible.

“We always read from Luke chapter two at the end of Christmas day,” he said. “‘For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.’”

Davey fell asleep before the reading was finished. His last thought was these people are the real deal. I know. I’ve always known things.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

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Lessons from a Turkey Leg

by Donna Poole

Emma, the old pastor’s wife, woke in the middle of the night and opened the wrong door. Confused, she stood staring at the family room, the living room, and the Christmas tree.

Why is the Christmas tree in the bathroom? Wait. Where’s the bathroom?

She shook her head to clear it, closed the door, and opened it again—the same door. She remembered one definition of insanity, “repeating the same thing and expecting different results.” But she wasn’t out of her mind, not quite yet, just tired, so tired. She rubbed her eyes, turned around and saw it. Relieved, she headed for the right door. The bathroom hadn’t disappeared after all.

Back in bed, cuddled under her many blankets, and snuggled next to her softly snoring husband, Emma couldn’t quite wake up, but neither could she drift back into sleep. It was almost Christmas.

Christmas! Her mind wandered off to years gone by and a gift never forgotten.

They’d been young then, she and her husband, and not yet in the ministry. They’d spent a year before they’d gone to their country church as pastor and wife absorbing all they could from Tom and Becky, a young pastor and wife at a thriving church on the outskirts of an Indiana town. And they’d learned a lot.

James had worked full time at American Motors and served as a deacon and a department Sunday school superintendent.

Emma had plunged into every opportunity available for service, and surprisingly, even in that large church, there were many holes to be filled. She taught Sunday school, children’s church, and helped in the nursery. Months went by without her hearing a single sermon.

Finally, she timidly approached Pastor Tom and asked if anything could be done about her workload. He laughed.

“Sure! I’ll find someone to cover something for you. But remember, around here, we only grease the wheels that squeak.”

She filed that thought away for future reference. Around here we only grease the wheels that squeak.  

Emma and Becky, the pastor’s wife, became good friends. They both liked to have fun, perhaps a bit too much fun, at least in the eyes of some of the stern older church ladies.

Missionary group was, how shall we put it nicely? Missionary group was dull; there is no nicer word. Emma suggested to Becky they liven things up a bit with a skit, and they enjoyed writing and performing it. In the skit they dressed as two impoverished, elderly, worn-out missionaries and acted the part complete with shuffling walk and quavering voices. They particularly enjoyed two lines they said to each other:

“You poor dear, what is that on your sneaker?”

“Oh, please excuse me. I have dysentery.”

They barely managed the lines without giggling.

Later, Becky told Emma with a sigh the stern older church ladies had not shared their amusement. They’d said the skit had been inappropriate and they hoped in the future Becky would show more decorum.

“No one said a word to me,” Emma replied.

“They wouldn’t,” Becky said. She tapped her chest. “When you’re the pastor’s wife, the buck stops here.”

Emma filed that away for future reference. When you’re the pastor’s wife, the buck stops here.

Quite a few families with money attended the church so Emma and her husband James were surprised to see Tom and Becky’s home with its threadbare carpet and sparse furnishings. They were even more surprised to discover the church paid their young pastor a meager wage, not that Tom ever complained, but it wasn’t too hard to figure it out.

The four of them sometimes enjoyed a meal together at Tom and Becky’s. They shared a turkey leg and a can of vegetables. The first time the turkey leg was a bit tough.

“I should have cooked it longer,” Becky said. “Next time I will.”

“Do you eat turkey legs often?” Emma asked.

Tom and Becky looked at each other and laughed.

“We do when we can afford them,” Becky said. “Sometimes you can get them on sale for nineteen cents a pound. And a big one makes a couple of meals.”

There was no apology for the meager meal and no dessert. There was just love, laughter, and fun around the table. It was a gift of hospitality never forgotten.

Share what you have and serve it with love and laughter. Emma filed that thought away for future reference.

The year passed quickly. The two couples hugged goodbye, and James and Emma went off to begin their ministry in a little church on the corner of two dirt roads. Emma’s favorite thing was to fill their home with family and friends, love and laughter. She never served a turkey leg, but she sometimes made a third of a pound of hamburger into a casserole that fed many. She discovered that a few loaves of homemade bread still warm from the oven go a long way toward covering a multitude of sins in the culinary department.

The years at the little church passed quickly also, too quickly. Emma calculated in her head, whispering so she didn’t wake James. Could it be? Yes. This was their fifty-fifth Christmas as a married couple and their fiftieth at the church they both loved so much.

Memories flooded in of the many meals she’d served over the years. Some had been large and lavish; some had been sweet and simple, but all had been served with love. And after each group of family or friends had left, and she’d crawled into bed tired and happy, she’d imagined she’d heard the Lord saying, “Thank you for a wonderful meal, Emma. I really enjoyed that.”

A tear trickled down her cheek. Cancer treatments had kept her immunocompromised for a few years. She was only allowed to invite family for meals, no more large groups of friends. She remembered years gone by when she’d invited everyone from their little church to come enjoy a meal around Christmas time, but once again, that couldn’t happen this year.

“Maybe next year,” she whispered to herself. “Let’s see. I’ve done Italian, Mexican, soups and sandwiches. If I can ever have my big Christmas party again, maybe I’ll serve turkey legs!”

And she fell asleep with a laugh, a hope, and a dream.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

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The Lady Wore Red

by Donna Poole

No one did Christmas as well as Ruthie; her family was sure of that. She almost looked like Christmas all year round, always wearing her pearl earrings and often wearing red. When she wore her red suit to church, she was the most beautiful woman there, even when she was sixty years old. Her dark eyes sparkled; her dark hair didn’t turn gray, and everyone agreed red was her color.

And if Ruthie was Mrs. Christmas, her husband, Claytie was the best Mr. Christmas in history. He didn’t let her do a thing alone; he was there for it all, the shopping, the wrapping, the decorating, the cookie baking.

And when the kids and grandkids came home for Christmas, Ruthie spared no effort to make the Christmas magic happen. Her heart was in her home, and never more so than at Christmas time. Porcelain angels bowed low, stretched their arms high, or danced with one another on every shelf of the hutch. Santa and Mrs. Claus sat on the round side table next to the couch perched on crocheted doilies. The perfectly decorated Christmas tree stood center stage in front of the bay window, and behind it, on the window shelf, Ruthie’s collection of antique red glass sparkled.

A red cardinal tablecloth covered the dining room table every year; cardinals were Ruthie’s favorite bird, and cardinal ornaments and knickknacks were tucked into every nook and cranny. A set of cardinal Christmas lights wound around the banister, and Ruthie, in a red apron, waited with face aglow at the door to welcome her family home for Christmas.

“Come in! Come in!”

And Claytie was right behind her, enveloping everyone in huge hugs, making even the in-law out-laws feel wanted and at home.

If hugs and kisses could have made it so, their family would have stayed forever.

Each year the menu included every one’s favorites; a HoneyBaked spiral ham, sweet potato, green bean, and carrot casseroles, stuffing, dinner rolls, and Ruthie’s home canned bread and butter pickles. Oh, and the potato salad. Though the recipe passed down to the next generation, no one was ever able to make that potato salad the way Ruthie did. It was worth driving one-thousand miles for. Dessert wasn’t too shabby either—homemade pie and apple crisp, delicious chocolate fudge and penuche, and spritz cookies, forever after called “Grandma’s cookies” no matter who made them.

Love and food meant practically the same thing, so Ruthie spoiled her family with both. No one ever forgot her delicious lasagna, or spaghetti topped with sauce she’d made from garden tomatoes and kept freezer ready for the holidays. Scalloped potatoes and leftover ham were on the menu too.

The red tablecloth stayed pristine clean, only because it was protected with a thick, clear plastic covering. When it wasn’t holding a heavy load of food, it found itself covered with board games and elbows of people leaning forward to talk and laugh with the person across from them or at the other end of the table.

Gift opening was wonderful too, but it would have been Christmas even without it. Often there were homemade gifts from Ruthie under the tree; she was a beautiful seamstress and a creative crafter.

And then each year, Claytie put the icing on the cake. The family called it “Grandpa’s party.” They would all go down to the family room and enjoy the treats he’d made or gone out to get; pizza, hot spiced apple cider, popcorn balls, summer sausage, cheese, crackers, little Pepperidge Farm breads, fun and games, love and laughter. There never was another party like it; I don’t believe.

It seemed to the family those days of coming home for Christmas would never end, but even the sweetest of fairy tales draws to a close. Claytie’s health failed before Ruthie’s did, and the two of them bought a small house in the south to live closer to their daughter.

The home of so many Christmases was sold.

A few years later, Mr. Christmas went home to be with God, and Ruthie lived part of each year with her daughter, and the other part of the year with her son. Her dementia worsened year by year.

One year she said to her son and daughter-in-law, “I can’t remember what home looks like.”

Out came the pictures of each home she’d lived in, but she just frowned at each one and shook her head. “No, that’s not it. That’s not it. I miss home.”

She seemed to enjoy Christmas with her son and daughter in law each year, and they did their best to keep up the family traditions, but it wasn’t the same, even though all the family still gathered together. She smiled politely at her gifts, often something red, a sweater, another cardinal, but she often had a far off look in her eyes.  

Her daughter-in-law noticed. She’s missing Dad and days gone by, but there’s something else too. What is she missing? I think she wants to go home, even though she can’t remember where it is.

More years passed as years do; the chapters in the book seemed to write themselves more quickly now. A severe infection sent Ruthie to a care home. She was happy there and didn’t seem to remember she’d ever lived anywhere else.

Except for that one day. Her son and daughter-in-law tried to visit her every day they could. One day she saw her son coming down the hall and her face lit up the way her daughter-in-law remembered it looking when she’d stood at the door at Christmas.

“Have you come to take me home?” she asked.

Tears filled her son’s eyes.

A nurse gently said, “You live here now, remember?”

“Oh, yes!” Ruthie said, sounding happy but still looking confused.

“Do you know who this is?” the nurse asked, gesturing toward her son.

“Why yes! He’s my husband!”

“No, he’s your son.”

“That’s right. He’s my son.”

The daughter-in-law’s eyes filled with tears too. Husband. Home. There’s no going back, is there? On the way out of the care home that day she clung a little tighter to her husband’s arm, looking back at the windows of the home, and wondering how long it might be before one of them might be there without the other.

One of the gifts they bought Ruthie for Christmas that year was a beautiful mobile with eight glass cardinals hanging from different lengths of string. They looked like they were flying. They were Ruthie’s favorite bird, and her favorite color, but by then she didn’t remember that anymore. Still, she sometimes looked at them and smiled. She had some of her porcelain angels in her room too, and other things she’d once loved, but none of them seemed to matter anymore.

Ruthie did love visits from family though, right up until the end. The nurses told the family she didn’t remember they’d been there two minutes after they’d left, but that didn’t matter, because when they were together, sometimes, just for a brief moment or two, a flash of memory would return, and often it would be about Christmas.

“Hey, Mom, remember how you got the kids blanket sleeper pajamas every year and took a picture of them by the Christmas tree?”

She nodded. “Except for Karen. She wanted nightgowns.”

The son and daughter-in-law looked at each other in surprise. “That’s right! And you and Dad got the grandkids Hess trucks every year.”

“Where is Dad? He was here just a minute ago. Be sure you find him and say goodbye before you leave. He’ll feel bad if you don’t.”

“We’ll look for him on the way out, Mom.”

Winter faded into spring, because no matter how cold the winds blow or how dark and short the days, spring always comes. And one evening, when Ruthie was cozy in bed, an angel came for her. She was surprised to see him; he didn’t look at all like her sweet, cuddly porcelain angels.

He was tall and bright like lightning, but she wasn’t afraid. She caught her breath with joy and felt like a child at Christmas.

He said, “Ruthie, I hear you want to go Home.”

“Oh, I do! Would you mind if I put on my red suit before we go?”

He laughed, and it sounded like an echo of faraway thunder. The windows in the care home rattled, but still she wasn’t afraid.

“Make it snappy,” he said.

And soon, while everyone else in the home slept, two figures soared upward, one an angel looking like lightning, and the other a lady. And the lady wore red.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author