gettingofftheinterstate

July 6, 2020July 7, 2020

If the Creek Don’t Rise-Chapter One, Anniversary Sunday

by Donna Poole

What am I even doing here? Pastor J. D. looked around the long table and sighed. Another board meeting for the books; he’d give this one the same grade he’d given the others, a C for effort.

And C for Cyrus. The minute I open my mouth that man’s ready to holler no. He hasn’t liked me since day one, and I’m not his biggest fan either.

He mentally checked off things he’d proposed but the board had voted down. The one that irked him most was their determination to continue Sunday and Wednesday evening services. Their reason? “Pastor Jim always said stopping them would signal the beginning of the end for Corners Church.”

Pastor Jim, Pastor Jim, Pastor Jim. If I hear my predecessor’s name one more time. . .. But I knew when I came it would be this way. A man can’t pastor a church for fifty years and not be loved, but I didn’t expect them to revere him as much as the Apostle Paul. I’m surprised his picture doesn’t hang behind the pulpit! At least they finally agreed to let me get a second job. I don’t know how Pastor Jim lived on that salary. Well, I sure didn’t come here for the money.

Why had J.D. come to Corners Church? The question made him uncomfortable. He’d like to say it was because God had called him, and he hoped that was true, but part of the reason was because he’d been running away. Running from everything that reminded him of Abby’s death and the hurtful way his Chicago church had treated him. Running from the responsibilities of a large church with its endless committee meetings that had kept him from Abby’s bedside and the hours with her he could never get back. Running from the bitterness that had followed him here.

The board members, seven men and three women were chatting as though the disagreement with him had never clouded the blue skies over the country church. J. D. stretched his long legs under the table and groaned as the knee pain hit.

Davey grinned at him from the other end of the table. “Work you too hard last week, Pastor J.D.?”

“A bit.” He forced a return smile.

He wished Davey would take his side in board meetings instead of saying his constant, ‘abstain.” But he was the former pastor’s son. Davey had been on the board that had questioned him and had recommended him to the church. Davey had voted to hire him as pastor, but when J.D. preached his first sermon as pastor, Davey and family hadn’t been there. J.D. had asked Deacon Ken about it.

“Remember his dad was pastor here for fifty years, don’t you know. Davey feels like he might get in your way if he stays. Too bad, really. One of the best trustees this church has ever had, and he’s our Sunday school superintendent too. When he’s not here I have to lead the singing, and I can’t even sing. Do you….?”

Deacon Ken paused, looking hopeful

J.D. shook his head. “Can’t carry a tune.”

Ken laughed. “That makes two of us. I’ve carried many things in my time, but a tune isn’t one of them.”

“What should I do? Davey won’t get in my way. I need all the help I can get.”

Ken smiled. He’d really hoped for a young pastor with a big family, but maybe this lone widower wouldn’t be so bad.

“I’d talk to him if I were you.”

“Great! I’ll text him today.”

Ken shook his head. “Better talk face to face.”

J.D. didn’t do well with face to face. He much preferred text and email, but this country church didn’t. He’d talked to Davey, and Davey had stayed at the church.

Now Davey and the other board members were congratulating each other on getting their crops in before the expected rains. No one had mentioned his one-year anniversary at the church. Did anyone even remember? Probably not. Should I tell them I’ve been planting seed too for exactly a year today? It would be nice if someone would congratulate me.

The men were quiet now, but the women were talking about making dandelion and lilac jams. Finally, Deacon Ken said, “Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but my stomach says it’s time to go home. All in favor to dismiss, please stand.”

J.D. noticed how difficult it was for Ken to struggle to his feet. He wasn’t sure of Ken’s exact age, but he had to be near ninety. As he listened to the man close in prayer, he could almost feel the presence of God in the room. God was knocking on a cold room of his own heart, but J.D. pushed Him away.

“See you all tonight?” Deacon Ken asked.

No one answered. Finally, Cyrus said, “Lord willin’ and if the creek don’t rise.” Everyone laughed.

J.D. forced a small smile. Lord willin’ and if the creek don’t rise. I don’t know if that’s borderline sacrilegious, but it’s terrible grammar and ridiculous. I’m tired of hearing it. What does it mean, anyway? The Lord is willing for Cyrus to come tonight, but I know he won’t. And what creek?

As everyone drifted off to homes and families, Deacon Ken hesitated.

J.D. hoped his irritation didn’t show. “Ken, why does Cyrus insist on using that ridiculous phrase?”

“Oh, you mean, ‘Lord willin’ and if the creek don’t rise?’ Guess all of us say it now and then. It means we plan, but God can change things by something as simple as a creek rising so a road becomes impassable. That used to happen in these parts.”

“What creek?”

“We call it a creek, but it’s actually the St. Joe River.”

J.D. shook his head.

“Give us time, Pastor J.D. And don’t sound so impatient when you preach. I’ll tell you something my dad told Pastor Jim when he was a young, sometimes angry preacher. ‘You can say anything to us if you say it with love.’”

J.D. put his laptop in its case and walked next door to the empty parsonage. So, Ken thought he was angry? A Bible verse whispered itself, “The root of bitterness springs up and defiles many.”

Who wouldn’t be bitter? After what that church did, not just to me, but to my sweet Abby when she was dying.

Time to fix another cold sandwich and eat another Sunday dinner alone. He’d turned down so many invitations the church people had finally gotten the idea. He almost tripped over the tinfoil wrapped casserole on the porch. It was labeled, “Darlene’s Sicilian Chicken.”

He laughed. “Well, sweet Abby, I have to follow Jim’s act, but at least you don’t have to try to measure up to Darlene. They say she was quite the woman, but I bet she wasn’t half the woman you were.”

He picked up the casserole. It was still warm and smelled wonderful. He’d eat and get a nap before the evening service. Right. The exciting evening service only a handful would attend, and most of them wouldn’t even be board members.

June 29, 2020June 29, 2020

Corners Church Backstory It Started with a Failed History Test

by Donna Poole

I knew it; I’d flunked yet another of Mr. Joseph Tedeschi’s history tests, but there’s no use crying over spilled milk, especially if you’re the one who spilled it. Oh well, those dates I couldn’t remember weren’t going to magically appear in the sky, so to fill the rest of the long class period, I flipped the test over and wrote a story on the back.

I flunked alright, and even worse, Mr. Tedeschi scrawled in red ink at the top of the test two dreaded words, “See me.” I could barely sit through the rest of the class. The Piarulli girl stomach my sisters and I are still famous for started making ominous noises.

Please, Lord, I can’t run for the bathroom now. Weren’t you ever an embarrassed girl at Maine-Endwell Senior High? No, He wasn’t, but the Bible says He understands our smallest trials, and somehow, I made it through class without having to raise my hand and beg permission to go to the girl’s room.

I sat in my chair until the other students left then slowly made my way to Mr. Tedeschi’s desk for the well-deserved lecture.

“I read what you wrote on the back of your paper.”

Was he going to scold me for writing a story instead of trying harder to remember all the impossible history dates?

He smiled at me. “You’re going to be a writer someday. Just do me a favor, okay? Don’t try to write any historical fiction.”

And then? He laughed. Not one word about the failed test, no scolding about studying harder.

I walked down the hall in a daze. Me? A writer? I’d loved books since I was a child, the feel of them in my hands, the way each one had its own scent, and the way they carried me to other worlds. Writers must be magical people, but I was just me, Donna Louise Piarulli, one of five kids in our family who lived in a trailer in Maine, New York. I wasn’t magic.

Still, I tucked those six words away in my heart, words a teacher probably forgot as soon as he said them, “You’re going to be a writer someday.”

Then I forgot all about being a writer. Fast forward several years and a variety of jobs that had paid my way through college. John had returned to college for one more degree and was working full time; I was home in a tiny apartment with our new baby and working only weekends.

I worked all day Saturdays, and John babysat. On Sundays I nursed baby Angie, went to church, nursed her again on the way to work after church, and worked until late afternoon. John picked me up and I fed Angie again on the way back to choir practice and the evening service at church. It was a long day, but I loved my job; I loved our church where many college students attended, and we all loved young Pastor and Mrs. Mohr.

With Angie finally asleep one Sunday evening John and I sat with our feet propped up and read our Sunday take home paper. I always anticipated the fiction story in the paper, but that story was disappointing. I sighed.

“I could write a better story than that.”

“Why don’t you?” And John went on a hunt for our old non-electric typewriter.

And so, it began. I sold my first short story to Regular Baptist Press in 1973 and began writing curriculum for Union Gospel Press in 1976. A Michigan Magazine, the Baptist Testimony, carried my “Rainbows and Dustmops” column from February 1978 through July 1980.

In 1980 an editor from The Baptist Bulletin asked me to write a column, and I continued that for twenty-two years.

I’d sold about 3,000 articles and stories and helped a missionary write a book about his adventures in Venezuela, but I didn’t think about writing a fiction book until I read an article our local newspaper, The Hillsdale Daily News, carried, “The Lost Cities of Hillsdale County: Lickley’s Corners.” The author, Steven Howard, wrote, “Lickley’s Corners barely has a physical presence at the intersection it occupies in Wright Township. . . .It has fallen almost entirely off of the map. . . .”

What? We barely have a physical presence? We’ve fallen almost entirely off the map? Guess they forgot to tell those of us whose lives center around these four corners. And so, the idea of a fiction book was born. What if a young pastor and wife, let’s call them Jim and Darlene, come to a church like our church, on the corner of two dirt roads? That idea tumbled in my brain for years, and finally gave birth to a book, Corners Church.

Doesn’t Jim know the country church is dead? Straight from Bible college where his charismatic mentor, Professor Nick Machiavelli, has filled his mind with dreams of success, Jim begins his ministry as pastor of a tiny country church at the corner of two dirt roads. Nothing ever happens where two dirt roads meet, or so says Machiavelli.

But Jim and his wife, Darlene, find Corners Church is alive and well. Its unique congregation and the people who live at the Corners capture their hearts and teach them the joy of community. However, Machiavelli’s maxims still trouble Jim, especially the one that says, “Move up the ladder; bigger is always better.”

Darlene never felt called to be a pastor’s wife, but most of the time she’s too busy trying to adapt to country ways to worry about it. Despite her struggles, the wide-open fields, the sound of the old church bell, and the kindness of the people call to her. They say, “Put on your barn boots, girl. You’re home.”

Join Jim and Darlene in their hilarious and heartbreaking adventures including a homicide, wild dogs, and a slide down a coal chute. Laugh, cry, and feel right at home at Corners Church where no one is a stranger, not even the stray dog that wanders in and walks right up to the pulpit.

Like any new parent, I’m happy to introduce my book-child to the world. If you’d like a copy of the book to read while you’re meandering down your own back roads, you can find it here on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Corners-Church-Where-Dirt-Roads-ebook/dp/B08B8Z73M9

Mr. Joseph Tedeschi would be proud. The historical parts of the novel are accurate. More or less. If any of my readers know if that wonderful teacher is still alive, please contact me. I’d love to give him a copy of my book.

June 22, 2020

Go to Pipestem!

by Donna Poole

Excitement was building; it was almost time for us to go camping in Cades Cove in the Great Smoky Mountains. We had our route mapped out and couldn’t wait to get started. Maybe we’d take the sunset ranger hike again, or the sunrise hayride.

Our good friends, Dan and Gina, suggested a side-trip. “Go to Pipestem first. You’ll love it! It’s in West Virginia.” They gave some quick directions.

“But we don’t go through West Virginia on our way to Cades Cove.” John calculated a minute. “I think if we go there it will take us at least thirteen hours to get to Cades Cove instead of the nine hours it usually takes.”

“Just go. We don’t want to tell you why; it will spoil the surprise. Just trust us.”

The six of us crammed into our station wagon, and we pulled an old utility trailer behind us with our ancient, yellow Coleman tent, playpen for the baby, and half our household goods. We started down our country road and headed for Pipestem State Park, Middle-of-Nowhere West Virginia.

After many weary hours we arrived at Pipestem. We put up the net-sided play pen first and plopped baby Kimmee in it. Our teenagers, Angie, Johnnie, and Danny were experts at helping set up camp. We finished, wiped sweat from our faces, surveyed the flat, grassy site, directly in the sun, and looked at each other. No one wanted to say what we were all thinking. Talk about a hot, boring place! Why had Dan and Gina told us to come here? We wanted to be in Cades Cove, familiar, fun, fantastic views.

We didn’t complain to each other because we trusted our friends. Maybe there was something we hadn’t seen yet. Surely something would make all those long hours of travel worthwhile.

“Can we go explore the rest of the park?” one of the kids asked.

Why not? We started walking and came to a sign that said, “Scenic Overlook.” What “scenic” could there possibly be? We walked a few more feet, gasped, and couldn’t look away. We saw. . . . Never mind. I’m not going to tell you. Go to Pipestem. I don’t want to spoil the surprise. It’s worth all the backroad travel it will take you to get there.

Our backroad ramblings have taken our family some unexpected places in the month of June. We are nowhere we ever planned to be. Testing showed a lung tumor closing my bronchus, severely narrowing the right pulmonary artery and vein, and collapsing one-third of my lung. First, they told me they suspected I had small cell lung cancer. How could I have lung cancer when I’d never smoked? I hadn’t even smoked pot with my friends under the bleachers. Not to say I’d never been under the bleachers; I just hadn’t smoked the offered pot. I know, I know, we Boomers had a lot of growing up to do, and most of us did it pretty well.

The newest biopsy results, with more testing still happening, say “diffuse high grade B cell lymphoma double expressor phenotype.” You can bet that sent my fingers flying to Google! Basically, it’s an aggressive lymphoma and resistant to treatment.

So, here I am, in a place I never wanted to camp. My family helped me set up my tent in this grassy field. The sun beats down; there are no trees, and it’s not our favorite site. I’d rather be at Lake Michigan or at Brown County State Park in Indiana. We’re waiting here in the hot sun, waiting for an appointment at University of Michigan Hospital, waiting to find out what the treatment will be, waiting for their help. But we already have God’s help.

Now we set off to see the rest of the campground. We, my family, friends, and I, expect to find some amazing views, even though we know the hiking will be more strenuous than we’ve ever before experienced. Why do we anticipate awesome scenery ahead? I guess you could say we trust our Tour Guide.

I’m not claiming God will heal me, though I know He could. God always answers prayer, but “no” is an answer too. I do know that no matter how rough the backroad ramblings get I’m not walking them alone. Jesus is with me, and the love and prayers of others will help me hike this tough trail.

This is my walking stick for the journey: “Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.” –Isaiah 41:10

This lymphoma is my Pipestem. I’m not going to say, “Why me?” I’m just going to enjoy every wildflower, every birdsong, every blessing, every token of love along the path.

I know you, my dear readers, have Pipestems of your own. I hope you trust your Tour Guide.

June 17, 2020

Heaven in Michigan is a Sunday in June!

by Donna Poole

Heaven’s weather must be a lot like a sweet Michigan Sunday in June. Last Sunday was close to perfect. I wish you all could have been here. Our back road ramblings took us where we’ve been driving for almost forty-six years now, the place where two dirt roads meet. We joined the other cars and trucks at our country church.

Some people wandered from car to truck, exchanging greetings; others stayed a safe social distance, but smiles and waves said everything. We were family; we were together once again, and life was good.

It was a cool morning; the sky was a brilliant blue, and white clouds dashed by in the wind. The wind messed with the mic, but our church guys, who can fix anything with baling twine and a coat hanger, weren’t deterred. Someone tied a napkin around the microphone.

John climbed on a hay wagon to begin our church service. He gave each of the younger children a Ziplock bag with a box of crayons, a picture, and a party horn.

“You kids have to help me during the service today,” he told them. They happily agreed.

We sang an old gospel hymn written in 1939 by Eugene Monroe Bartlett. The beautiful hymn goes like this:

I heard an old, old story,

How a Savior came from glory,

How He gave His life on Calvary

To save a wretch like me;

I heard about His groaning,

Of His precious blood’s atoning.

Then I repented of my sins

And won the victory.

Chorus:

O victory in Jesus,

My Savior, forever.

He sought me and bought me

With His redeeming blood;

He loved me ere I knew Him,

And all my love is due Him,

He plunged me to victory,

Beneath the cleansing flood.

I heard about His healing,

Of His cleansing power revealing.

How He made the lame to walk again

And caused the blind to see;

And then I cried, “Dear Jesus,

Come and heal my broken spirit,”

And somehow Jesus came and brought

To me the victory.

Repeat Chorus:

I heard about a mansion

He has built for me in glory.

And I heard about the streets of gold

Beyond the crystal sea;

About the angels singing,

And the old redemption story,

And some sweet day I’ll sing up there

The song of victory.

Repeat Chorus:

Kimmee, like all our church kids, grew up singing hymns in church. Children repeat what they think they hear, so little Kimmee used to sing, loudly, “He punched me to victory,” instead of, “He plunged me to victory.”

I didn’t correct her; I thought it was cute, and besides, sometimes we may need a punch or two. Kimmee’s siblings did correct her, however, and teased her about that mistake for years.

I was glad we were in the car and not in the church auditorium when Kimmee made me laugh halfway through the song. When we got to that line in the chorus “He plunged me to victory,” Kimmee lightly punched my shoulder. I looked at her, and we laughed. But now I can’t laugh without coughing. I barely recovered in time to hear John preach on “The Other Side of Our Obstacles.”

God sometimes punches us to victory in strange ways, and we’re as surprised as the next guy to find ourselves on the other side of our obstacles. If I’d been one of the fighting men who went up against the great walled city of Jericho I might have said to God, “You want me to do what?”

God gave Joshua the strange battle instructions. The men of war, priests carrying the ark of the covenant, and seven priests blowing rams’ horns were to march with him around Jericho. That’s all. Just march.

Just as God said, they marched around the city once a day for six days. The soldiers probably examined the walls each time for the slightest crack, but they saw nothing. The obstacle remained as formidable as ever. Did the soldiers feel vulnerable? Did the people in the city laugh at them? Did the soldiers start to doubt God?

The obstacle looked impossible; the plan to surmount it seemed ridiculous.

John kept telling the story of Jericho on Sunday. “You still listening kids? You ready to practice blowing those horns?”

The kids were only too happy to stick their heads out of their car windows and blow their party horns.

John told us that finally day seven came, the day God said to march around the city seven times. The rams’ horns sounded, and Joshua told the people to shout!

“Blow those horns, kids!” John said. Did they ever!

I was a little disappointed John didn’t tell the rest of us to shout. I wanted to stick my head out of the car window and shout; Kimmee probably did not.

If you’re familiar with the biblical account, you know the rest of the Jericho story; the walls came tumbling down. The impossible obstacle crumbled.

The weapons weren’t the shouts and the horns; the victorious weapon was faith.

Faith will take us to the other side of our obstacles and give us courage to face whatever we find there. Unlike some, we don’t order God to remove obstacles; we don’t demand healing as our right in Christ. We hold our requests up to God and add, “Your will, please. Just your will be done.” We realize that “no” is sometimes an answer. Hey, if God healed everyone, this earth would be a bit overcrowded, wouldn’t it?

At the end of our church service our three wonderful deacons climbed up on the hay wagon and stood next to John. They prayed for me and for my family. My heart filled with love, and tears of joy rolled down my face.

I looked at those beloved men. I blessed our little country church at the corner of two dirt roads; what a privilege it has been to be part of it. I think we have the kindest, sweetest church family anywhere.

Yes, like the old song says, “Some sweet day I’ll sing up there the song of victory.” But for now, I’m just grateful for a bit of heaven on earth, found right here on a sweet Michigan Sunday in June.

June 8, 2020

“Take ‘Er Easy There, Pilgrim”

by Donna Poole

If you’re a fan of John Wayne, you know the Duke wasn’t giving a compliment when he called someone “pilgrim.” If you’ve ever read a Louis L’Amour book—please start with his Sackett series—you realize a pilgrim wasn’t smart enough not to sit with his back to the door. He was someone from the east or a novice cowhand who probably tended to get upset too fast and talk too much. He needed the Duke’s advice to “Take ‘er easy there, Pilgrim.”

We all need that advice sometimes, to just settle down, to stay in our own lane, to just breathe. To be sure, the last thing we want to hear when we’re upset is to settle down. We can measure how upset we are by how furious the advice to settle down makes us.

Sometimes we can handle the big trials of life better than the small ones; we may take a cancer diagnosis with grace and faith and get disgusted at mosquitoes or at the deer who insist on snacking on the produce in our beautifully raised garden.

I just realized I’m using the editorial “we” here, “we” as you may have guessed means me.

When my sister and I were little girls we heard the somewhat stuffy Queen Victoria once said, referring to just herself, “We are not amused.” We didn’t know then that she probably never said it at all, and had we known, that wouldn’t have stopped our uproarious laughter.

Why would someone call herself “we”? How ostentatious. We had to try it out. We’d take turns putting our noses in the air and flounce around, trying to look regal, and announce at every possible opportunity, “We are not amused.” We thought we were hysterically funny; Mom didn’t agree.

I’m sometimes surprised at the little things that make me unamused; the latest was just what I said above, a deer snacking on my beautiful raised bed garden. The bib lettuce vanished except for one brown, dead, leaf. The beans look like sticks without a single leaf. And good luck with that bad breath from eating my garlic, dear deer!

Our dear old neighbor, now with the Lord, used to say, “I don’t mind telling you, I have righteous in-dig-nation!” Well, I had a bit of in-dig-nation when I saw the empty lettuce spot and the beans looking more like walking sticks than the legume of the species Phaseolus vulgaris. I wouldn’t be too impressed with my botanical knowledge if I were you, I used Siri to find those five-dollar words.

Take ‘er easy there, Pilgrim. I am a pilgrim, just passing through, on my way to heaven. I often don’t know enough not to sit with my back to the door, and hasty words and actions have caused me trouble more than once. What does it matter in the overall scheme of things if the deer ate my lettuce, garlic, and every last bean? Are we going to starve this winter? I doubt it. Is my pride over my beautiful garden a bit hurt? Maybe.

How many other insignificant things have I let trouble me in my lifetime? Too many, that’s for sure. I’ve already found one blessing from my cancer diagnosis; it has given me new emotional glasses. I see better what matters and what doesn’t. And I’m beginning to understand how silly and counterproductive worry and frustration really are.

“The Robin and the Sparrow”

Said the robin to the sparrow,

“I should really like to know,

Why these anxious human beings

Rush about and worry so.”

Said the sparrow to the robin,

“Friend, I think that it must be

That they have no heavenly Father,

Such as cares for you and me.” –Elizabeth Cheney

I don’t know where my cancer journey will take me in the months ahead, and you don’t know where your travels may take you, but worrying won’t improve our trip. Here’s a little more of the Duke’s advice for the road:

“No matter where people go…sooner or later they find God’s already been there.” John Wayne–Chisum (1970)

If God’s there, we can take ‘er easy there, pilgrims. He knows what He’s doing.

June 1, 2020

Saying Goodbye

A Story for the Young and the Young at Heart

by Donna Poole

Mommy heard Susie’s feet come down the stairs one step at a time. Susie opened the door to GG’s room and clicked on the light. Quietly, so as not to wake Daddy, Mommy slipped out of bed and went to GG’s room.

Susie stood there, sucking her thumb, and holding Teddy by one leg. Susie looked around the room. Everything looked just right. The old pictures sat on the doilies GG had crocheted. The plump blue and white checked cushions looked cheerful in the rocker near the window. The funny smelly red geraniums hung in the window. The patchwork quilt on the bed looked as warm and cozy as ever. Ginger, the fat yellow cat, slept on the colorful braided rug where he always slept.

Yes, everything looked just right, everything but the most important thing. GG wasn’t in the room. She wasn’t in the comfy rocker. She wasn’t in the cozy bed.

Susie turned and saw Mommy. “I know where my heart is.” She put one small hand on her chest. “It’s right here. A few minutes ago, upstairs, I felt it crack and break.”

Mommy heard a small sob. She picked up Susie and sat with her in great-grandmother’s rocker. She kissed Susie’s red cheeks and wiped away her tears.

“You put me down! I want GG to rock me.”

Mommy held her close. Susie stopped wiggling and buried her face in Mommy’s shoulder.

“Susie, you know GG’s funeral was yesterday. You know she’s with God now.”

“But…when is she coming back to see me? She didn’t finish reading me my book. And Teddy needs his leg sewed on again, see?”

Mommy looked at the dangling leg. Teddy did indeed need another operation. How many times had Great-Grandmother stitched Teddy’s arms and legs?

Mommy’s lips brushed Susie’s light brown curls. Lord, show me how to help Susie say goodbye.

“Poor GG’s hands,” Mommy said. “Did you see how hard it was getting for her to sew Teddy?”

Susie nodded. “GG’s fingers were bent funny. I don’t think her eyes were working good either. She was having a hard time reading to me too. And, Mommy,” Susie let out another small sob, “sometimes GG forgot my name!”

“Oh, honey, Great Grandmother’s poor old body just got too tired and sick to keep working right. Now she’s with Jesus, and she’s young and strong again.”

“Like in that picture on the dresser?” Susie slid off Mommy’s lap.

“Perhaps just like that picture.”

Susie held the picture in both hands and studied it. This was a GG she’d never known. Her eyes were bright blue and sparkling, not faded and squinting. There were no wrinkles on her soft-looking cheeks. GG’s hair was brown and curly like Susie’s, not white and thin. The GG in the picture was laughing at someone Susie couldn’t see.

“Does GG look this happy in heaven?”

“She looks even happier. Think of the happiest day of your life.”

“My happiest day was my birthday. I loved my party!”

“GG is even happier now than you were at your party! She won’t ever hurt again, or cry, or forget a name. Her fingers are straight, and her eyes can see. She can’t come back and see us, but she knows someday we’ll go to heaven. We’ll be together forever!”

“It might take me a long time to get to heaven,” Susie said. “What if GG forgets me?”

“The heart never forgets love.” Mommy started to cry.

Susie’s eyes opened wide. She crawled back on Mommy’s lap. “Do you wish GG was here to rock you too?”

“She was my grandma. I will always miss her.”

“You stay right here, Mommy. We have to do something now.”

Susie scrambled off Mommy’s lap. She took the picture of beautiful, young GG off the dresser. She hugged and kissed it. She took the picture to Mommy and climbed back on her lap.”

“Kiss GG goodbye.”

Mommy obeyed.

Susie studied the picture intently. “Who is GG smiling at?”

“Your great-grandpa took that picture of GG on their wedding day. She’s smiling at him.”

Susie shook her head. “I think GG is smiling at Jesus. She’s smiling because she knows it’s true, what she read at the end of my stories.”

Mommy looked puzzled.

“You know, the part that says, ‘And they lived happily ever after.’ That’s what GG is doing now, right? Living happily ever after?”

Mommy held her little girl tightly and rocked her to sleep. She carried Susie upstairs and tucked her into bed, putting Teddy next to her cheek.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Tomorrow you can operate on Teddy.”

Mommy sat on the edge of the bed and held Susie’s hand until her breathing was deep and even. Then she kissed her goodnight. “Thank you, Susie,” she whispered, “for helping me say goodbye.”

May 25, 2020May 26, 2020

Prince Not So Charming

by Donna Poole

She was clueless about love, mostly because she’d grown up reading Grace Livingston Hill novels. If you’ve never heard of those books, that’s okay; I’ll explain. They are like Hallmark Movies on steroids. Not only does the knight in shining armor swoop in on a white horse and rescue the damsel in distress, the knight owns a stable full of white horses and an entire armor factory. When said damsel looks at charming knight, she almost swoons. Her world tilts and spins, and her heart knows he is her one and only, forever and ever, amen. I add the “amen” because the novels are Christian romance books.

Not only did she read and love Grace Livingston Hill novels, the clueless girl adored Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese. Her favorite was Number 43:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely; as they turn from Praise;

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith;

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, –I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! –and if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

She grew up to be quite independent and struggled to have compassion for anyone with damsel in distress syndrome, but still, you can’t read that many Grace Livingston Hill novels and escape unaffected. A part of her still yearned for that mysterious knight in shining armor who would swoop in on his white horse and, if she didn’t need rescuing, would at least carry her off to a place where they could make a beautiful life together.

She dreamed of a love where she’d walk, arms entwined, with Prince Charming, through an ancient apple orchard and recite to each other classic poetry.

His favorite poem was:

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

My aunt has a lawnmower.

Can you swim?

They’d known each other and argued with each other since they’d been preschool age. She’d told him to stop chewing his crepe paper bow tie in church cherub choir. He’d ignored her and kept chewing.

When they’d learn to spell their names, she’d told him he spelled his wrong.

When they grew older, their friendship deepened, but the arguments continued. When they stopped arguing long enough for him to say, “I love you,” she was a little shocked.

Her response was not what he’d hoped for. “How does a person really know something like that for sure?”

She was pretty sure if one of them needed rescuing it would be him and she’d have to do it.

There were so many things she liked about him though, and not the least was his crazy sense of humor. Finally, she wiped away enough storybook cobwebs to realize she did love him, and she told him so.

Then began the proposals. Yes, that word is plural, proposals. He’d ask her to marry him; she look hopefully at him, and he’d laugh, pull out a ring he’d gotten from a bubble gum machine, tug on her pony tail, and walk away.

One day they stood on top of Stone Mountain, Georgia. His parents, sister, and brother-in-law were at the bottom of the mountain, but a friend stood right next to them. As they looked out over the awesome view, he said to her, “Will you marry me?”

She gave him another quick, hopeful look. Wait. Come on. Who proposes with a third person standing right here? No one, that’s who.

“Ha! I’m not going to fall for that again!”

His hurt look and stiff posture were her first clues. He’d been serious. He refused to talk to her the rest of the day, a bit awkward, since they spent the rest of the day with his family and their friend. She became a bit frustrated with her prince not-so-charming. How could she have known he’d planned that moment for months?

Later that evening as they sat alone on the couch in his sister’s living room, he said, “Do you want to marry me or not? And this is your last chance.”

She laughed. It wasn’t like any proposal she’d ever read about in her books. There was no recitation of Number 43 from Sonnets from the Portuguese. No white horse was in sight, and the spring evening in Georgia was way too hot for shining armor. But she saw his heart, and she loved what she saw. Besides, she could be quite the brat herself on occasion, and they both knew it.

She threw her arms around him. “Oh, yes, I do want to marry you. I love you.”

And now, we’ll look the other way, but suffice it to say, he was no longer mad. He didn’t have the ring yet; that would come later.

She drove home from work one night. The sun had set hours before. All she could think of was how tired she was and how she wanted to curl up in bed with a good book. She pulled in the driveway, and his car was there. Her heart sunk. She loved him; she really did, but she was just too tired for company.

“Want to go for a ride?” he asked.

“Not tonight, please. I’m too tired.”

“Donna,” her mother said, “if Johnnie wants to go for a ride, you should go for a ride.”

Can’t he see how tired I am? Won’t he change his mind and say we can go another time?

She wasn’t happy about it, but she got in the car. He wasn’t happy, because once again, a major plan was dissolving like butter in a hot pan, and that made him grumpy. Neither of them said a word until they stopped at the airport.

“Open the glove compartment,” Prince not-so-charming ordered.

“Did you break your arm?” the bratty damsel not in distress replied. “Open it yourself.”

“I said, open the glove compartment!”

They glared at each other. An onlooker would have said they looked more like two angry three-year-old’s than the nineteen-year old’s they were. Finally, she sighed. She was too tired to argue. She opened the glove compartment. There was a beautiful diamond solitaire in a gold tiffany setting.

She looked at the engagement ring feeling frustration and joy. Would there never be any poetry?

“It’s a small diamond. I could have gotten a bigger one for the same price, but the jeweler said this one didn’t have any flaws, and I wanted a perfect one. You know. Like you.” There it was. The poetry. More beautiful to her ears than Number 43.

Perfect? Like me? The me who has been arguing with you since we were preschoolers? The me who just refused to talk to you all the way to this airport?

Let’s look the other way again; suffice it to say, they didn’t sit as far apart on the way home from the airport as they did on the way there.

The date at the airport was May 24, 1968. Yesterday, they celebrated the fifty second anniversary of that date by sitting by a lake and talking about yesterday, today, and tomorrow. They’d made a beautiful life together, or rather, God had done that through them. She’d needed a lot of rescuing through the years, and he’d done it all with a cheerful smile and arms ready to comfort. He’d become quite the Prince Charming.

His favorite poem is still the same one; he laughed today when he repeated it for her so she could type it into this article. Life has all kinds of poetry, and she’s come to think that laughter is one of its best.

May 18, 2020

Horsewhips, Pistols, Editors, and Writers

by Donna Poole

I laughed when I read what William Faulkner wrote about editors: “Only Southerners have taken horsewhips and pistols to editors about the treatment or maltreatment of their manuscript. This—the actual pistols—was in the old days, of course, we no longer succumb to the impulse. But it is still there, within us.”

The thing is, if your editor is any good at all, she is going to maul your manuscript, dispassionately dispense with the most delightful parts, delete your best descriptions, subtract your similes, and tell you to quit with the alliteration already!

For you non-writers who are parents, picture the author-editor exchange like this: You show off your lovely newborn to a modeling agent for, say, Gerber baby food. He scowls at your beautiful bundle of perfection.

“No, no, won’t do at all. Legs are too scrawny. Ears are too big. Nose is off center. Hair is too thin. Eyebrows are too thick. Are you sure this is your best work? And throw that ridiculous bonnet in the garbage; it’s outdated.”

You get the idea. The better the editor, the more detailed the criticism, even if it does come cloaked in gentleness the way my editor usually dispenses advice.

I’ve known my editor a long time; I’m sure our relationship is more complicated than most author and editor’s. My editor, Kimmee, is also my daughter. I homeschooled her.

Years ago, a frustrated Kimmee grabbed back from me a paper she’d written. “Will I ever turn in a paper and get it back without any red marks?”

“I doubt it, honey. I’ve been selling my writing for many years, and it’s still far from perfect. Did I ever tell you about the editor who told me I use too many explanation points?”

But she was off to her room in a huff, determined to rewrite that paper and get nothing less than an A.

Kimmee’s competitive spirit made her want to be the best in her class, and since she was the only one in her class, that meant she had to be better than herself. She graduated from homeschool, went on to Spring Arbor University, and graduated summa cum laude with a degree in professional writing.

Together, Kimmee and I have edited fifty books for clients. Editing is not our favorite work; I’d rather be writing, and she’d rather be doing her main job of professional photographer, but we can edit, and it helps pay the bills.

Writing has helped pay some bills too. If you know me even slightly, you know I’ve been writing a book.

Kimmee is my editor. “Mom,” with only the slightest edge to her patient voice, “this is the third time you’ve had that man die. You can only have him die once.”

“Mom, you don’t need this part about friends here. You talk about them in the camping chapter.”

“But, I love what I wrote in that paragr….”

Too late. She hits the delete button. She’s like a surgeon determined to cut out cancer.

Delete, delete, delete. Rearrange the entire book.

Finally, we’re done. I read my book again with amazement. Somehow, it’s more mine now than it was when I sent it into the Kimmee Hospital for its major surgery.

I wanted to put her name on the cover with mine, because she rewrote whole sections of the book to make them fit, but she refused. She says it’s my book. I say it’s both of ours. I never could have done it without her.

I look at this woman, so talented, so determined, so brave she’ll even stand up to her mom for what she knows is right when we disagree about punctuation, and I think, where did you come from and how am I lucky enough to have you in my life?

Then I remember, luck had nothing to do with it. This talented editor, and all my children, are God’s gifts to me.

My poor editor is exhausted. I’m glad I didn’t go looking for William Faulkner’s horsewhip or pistol. I can never thank her enough.

The other day, I told Kimmee I’m thinking of writing five more books, and now I can’t find her anywhere. I think I heard her mutter something about going out to buy a horsewhip and a pistol.

May 11, 2020

Outside and Around Back

by Donna Poole

It was a warm Sunday in May 1974 when Jim first preached at Corners Church in rural Hillsdale County, Michigan. The church was looking for a pastor. Darlene was more nervous than Jim was when they pulled into the dirt parking lot next to the tiny, white frame building. They were early, and as they waited for people to arrive, they looked around. They saw open fields or farmhouses in every direction. Dust flew every time the rare truck or tractor went down the gravel road.

As Jim looked at the old church building, white paint peeling from its sides, he remembered what Professor Nick Machiavelli from Bible college had told the divinity students: “If your first church is small, don’t despise the day of small things, but don’t stay there either. Think of it as the first rung on a ladder and aim always to climb to a place of greater usefulness. Climb higher!”

Jim and the other divinity students almost worshipped Professor Machiavelli who had rugged good looks, prematurely gray hair, and an authoritative voice. A child prodigy, the professor had started college young. Though he had his doctorate, he was only a a few years older than his students. Jim felt there was something almost apostolic about him andkept an entire notebook he’d titled “Machiavelli’s Maxims.” He’d memorized most of the sayings. But, something about the “climb higher” advice made Jim feel uneasy, and he didn’t know why.

Jim mentioned his feelings to Darlene as they sat in the parking lot, but she had other worries. She was expecting their second baby and couldn’t seem to stay awake. She hoped she didn’t fall asleep in Jim’s sermon. Also, April, their daughter, wasn’t quite two, and Darlene was concerned about how she was going to act during a long day filled with strangers. She looked back at their toddler who had blessedly fallen asleep on the long drive. Maybe the nap would help her behave.

Darlene grinned, remembering a story she’d read about a pastor’s wife whose husband was preaching at a church he hoped would hire him. Unlike Darlene, this woman was a fantastic piano player, and she thought it might help her husband’s chances of being called as pastor if she volunteered to play the offertory. She felt apprehensive as she left her three-year-old in the back pew and went up to play her special number.

“Be good until Mommy comes back,” she whispered. He looked at her and nodded, his brown eyes bright, his yellow curls making him look like the angel he wasn’t.

She was into the most impressive part of her offertory when she heard her little boy shout, “Ride ‘em, cowboy!”

Horrified, she glanced back to see him straddling the pew, pretending to ride a horse. She abruptly ended the offertory before the ushers had even half-finished collecting the offering.

She hurried back to her pew, and when her son saw her coming, he hollered, “Giddyup, Old Paint. Faster! Bad guy coming!”

Darlene wondered if their angel would behave while Jim preached. She doubted it.

First impressions matter, and Darlene worried about what the congregation would think of her as a potential pastor’s wife. With her straight hair that hung past her waist, her long skirt, and no paint or polish, she thought she looked more like an ad for a hippie clothing company than a pastor’s wife. She knew she couldn’t measure up to the previous pastor’s wife, but maybe the congregation would like her a little.

Darlene reached over and smoothed Jim’s hair back. He only sat that stiff and straight when he was nervous. She didn’t think it would boost his confidence to tell him he looked more like he was sixteen than twenty-five. His light brown hair insisted on falling on his forehead, and his serious brown eyes looked like a little boy’s expecting a scolding.

A few cars pulled into the parking lot, and Jim, Darlene, and April went into the church. The tiny building was charming with its stained-glass windows, native lumber wainscoting, and bare hardwood floors. Including the three of them, there were fifteen people in the congregation.

Darlene sat quietly, listening to Jim preach, until April whispered, “Potty, potty!”

“Can you wait?”

April shook her head vigorously. Darlene looked around. Where in this tiny building could there possibly be a bathroom?

She tapped an older woman in front of her on the shoulder. “Where’s the bathroom?” she whispered. Darlene sat back in the pew, confused by the answer. Maybe she hadn’t heard correctly.

“You have to wait,” Darlene told April.

“No! Potty! Potty!” April was getting louder.

Darlene touched the older lady on the shoulder again. “Where did you say the bathroom was?”

This time the answer was louder, and there was no mistaking when she said, “Outside and around back.”

The heavy, wooden church door creaked as Darlene tugged it open. Outside and around back she went. She stood there a minute and laughed. The bathroom was an outhouse.

As Darlene and April exited the outhouse, she wondered how they would wash their hands. There was no running water. She felt frustrated for a minute, but as she looked out over the fields, she felt a deep peace. If Jim was sure he wanted to be a preacher, then she hoped God would call them to this church. She already loved the simplicity of this place.

Darlene loved simplicity. So many large churches complicated things and handled church more like a corporation than a ministry.

Darlene agreed with her friend Julie who said, “Churches didn’t get complicated until they got electric lights to show off their stained-glass windows.”

As they went back inside the church, Darlene considered what to do about hand washing. Then she remembered the wet washcloth she’d tucked into the diaper bag. It would have to do. She washed her hands and April’s and hoped that would be the last trip she’d ever have to make to the outhouse. It wasn’t.

May 7, 2020

Me? A Pastor’s Wife?

by Donna Poole

When Jim first told Darlene he felt God had called him to be a pastor, she was horrified.

“Wait! Me? A pastor’s wife? God hasn’t said a word about it. He hasn’t called me; I know that for sure.”

Not feeling called would bother her for many years. Not only hadn’t Darlene felt the call to be a pastor’s wife; she’d thought she could do anything else better: fly a single-engine plane solo across the Atlantic, become a whaler, or open a dogsled business in Alaska.

In Darlene’s mind a pastor’s wife was sweet, angelic Mrs. Kole, who sat in the first pew and looked reverently at her husband during every word of his lengthy sermon. Darlene was certain Mrs. Kole hadn’t told or laughed at a joke in her life. Darlene loved to laugh, a laugh that sometimes dissolved into a snort that made people look strangely at her.

Mrs. Kole was a serene, lovely woman, who refused to say an unkind word about anyone, even when people gave her good reason. Her refusal to gossip was legendary. Three women in the church once hatched a plot to make her say something bad about someone.

They surrounded Mrs. Kole at the church door where she stood next to her husband, saying gracious goodbyes to the congregation.

“So, Mrs. Kole, what do you think of the devil?”

Mrs. Kole’s gentle, ever-present smile faded, and a tiny frown line appeared between her kind, blue eyes. The three women had all they could do not to jab each other in the ribs with glee. Here it came!

“Well. . ..” Mrs. Kole paused, troubled. Then her face brightened. “The devil certainly is good at what he does, isn’t he?”

The women gave up on Mrs. Kole the way the Pharisees and Sadducees did when they threw their hands in the air and stopped trying to stump Jesus with questions.

“No wonder she’s so quiet all the time,” they grumbled to each other. “What do people talk about if they don’t talk about other people?”

When Darlene mentioned to her mother-in-law she couldn’t be as perfect as Mrs. Kole, Mom Peters assured her Mrs. Kole hadn’t always been so perfect; although, she had given her husband her undivided attention, hanging onto every word of his sermon, oblivious to all else.

That focused attention once kept Mrs. Kole from noticing their daughter, two-year-old Judi, stand on the pew next to her and remove every piece of clothing except her ruffled white socks and her tiny black patent leather shoes. Though no one in those days giggled in church, and if someone did, a lightning bolt zapped through a stained-glass window and struck the offender where he or she sat, there was a noticeable stirring in the pews.

Pastor Kole stopped pounding the pulpit long enough to notice his daughter. He looked at his wife and jerked his head toward Judi. Mrs. Kole smiled sweetly at him. He scowled and jerked his head a few more times. Finally, she noticed Judi, standing on the pew, not at all concerned about her parents’ reputation. When you’re only two, you figure the clergy can take care of itself.

If the clergy wanted to wear clothes, let them; Judi wasn’t clergy.

Mortified, Mrs. Kole pulled Judi off the pew and dressed her.

After Mom Peters recounted this story, Darlene asked, “Did anyone say anything to Mrs. Kole about it?”

“Oh, no!” Her mother-in-law laughed. “No one mentioned it to her. It wasn’t done, you know.”

Darlene thought it may have been easier to have been a pastor’s wife in the 1930s than in the 1970s. She was sure if her two-year-old did that, someone, everyone, would say something.

Darlene didn’t think she’d ever make a good pastor’s wife. So many women were better suited to the job. Maybe Jim should have married one of them. What was God thinking?

Darlene had heard some pious testimonies given by pastors’ wives. In martyr-like tones they’d said they could withstand the battle only because God had called them to be pastors’ wives, even before they’d met their husbands. Because of this, they hadn’t considered marrying anyone but a pastor. Darlene didn’t question their testimonies, but she hadn’t felt anything like they’d described. That bothered her.

Darlene had married Jim because she loved him, and she hadn’t cared if he became a pastor, a factory worker, or a garbage man. She might have objected to mob hitman.

Well, called or not, being a pastor’s wife was about to become her job. She had definite opinions on most things, okay on everything, but hopefully God would put His hand over her mouth at the appropriate times because, unlike Mrs. Kole, she wasn’t all that quiet.