Author: gettingofftheinterstate

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There’s Gold in Them Thar Hills

by Donna Poole

You travel a quiet backroad; it’s not your backroad, but its familiar feel says it could be. You see a group of friends laughing uproariously. One of them glances at you and sends a smile. They aren’t your friends, but you know they could be. You enter a small country church. It isn’t your church, but the warm welcome lets you know it could be. There’s healing in those brief connections, more precious than gold in the hills.

People have found gold in the hills of Brown County, Indiana. I’m sure not everyone was so quick to tell the tale, but the first recorded person to say he’d found gold was John Richards who discovered it in 1830 in Bear Creek. Commercial attempts at mining gold in 1875, 1898, 1901, and 1934 didn’t produce much, because apparently there just isn’t that much gold to be found.

There’s gold of another kind to be found in the hills though, the healing gold of connections. I wish I could remember how many years we’ve been traveling down the backroads to come home to Brown County, Indiana. We love the hills and the connections we’ve made here.

John and I grew up in the hills of New York State.

I was in fifth grade when Mom and Dad decided because we moved so much for Dad’s job as a mechanic with Mohawk Airlines, we’d just start taking our home with us. They bought a new trailer home, ten feet wide by fifty feet long, five-hundred square feet for six of us, make that seven when my sister was home on visits. Let’s just say that lack of space contributed to my early, long lasting love of being outside, especially in the hills.

I’ve always found a healing connection in what God made untouched by human hands. Even as a child I loved solitude, especially at twilight. As much as I love people, I sometimes need God’s quietness to heal.

We pulled into the campground at Brown County. The woman who handed me the map looked at my hat and smiled. It wasn’t the, “I’m so sorry” smile I often get these days. It wasn’t a quick averted “I don’t know what to say to you” glance. She looked right into my eyes. Somehow, I knew it was a “you go girl!” grin.

I told her, “On the worst of days I can’t imagine going anywhere. On my good days I keep thinking, ‘if I can just get to Brown County! I think I can heal there.’”

She laughed. “And here you are. I get it! I’m a five-year cancer survivor. I’m so glad you’re out doing this! Good for you!” She looked at John. “And good for you too! Thank you for bringing her!”

She’s not my friend, but I know she could be.

Over the years we’ve visited several small churches here in Brown County, and they’ve all felt like home. Our favorite church meets right in the park. We’ve come to love the pastor and his wife. They are friends. We couldn’t see them this time, not even at a distance, doctor’s orders.

We can’t hike our strenuous trails in these hills and laugh at each other afterward for even trying. Now John congratulates me when I go with him to carry the garbage to the bin several yards down the road.

We have a favorite little shop down in Nashville. The owner has told us snippets of stories over the years that found a home in my book. John is going to take him a signed copy of my book while I stay here at the camper. I will miss seeing him this year, but it’s okay.

I don’t mind what I can’t do. The healing human connections can wait for next time.

I’ve slept all night the last three nights, and so has John. I think the camping trip is doing more to heal my cancer than chemotherapy ever could. John and I have time here to talk about things other than cancer. We have time to live in the now.   

It’s totally still outside and in my heart as I sit in my lawn chair talking to you through my blog. The sun smiles down between tall, ancient trees. God is in His heaven, and if all is not right with the world, it will be someday.

I’ve come home to the hills.

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Under the Trees

by Donna Poole

Our picnic finished, we sat in chairs under trees next to the quiet water. Lazy isn’t the word to describe how I felt; inert is better. I was simply there, merely being. Too tired to read, but somehow having a book on my lap brought be comfort.

I looked down at A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L’Engle and touched the cover. It too, had a picture of trees by the water. I knew I’d love the book if I could get energy to open it; I’d read it before. But this time, my hands refused to turn any pages. They were content to lie folded on top of the book. Maybe I could absorb it by osmosis.

On the other side of where we sat a piece of land stretched out, and then the river-like water curved around and widened into a lake where children splashed and played. They were far enough away that their laughter and shouts sounded like soft background music played in a candlelit room. It was sweet, but I couldn’t quite connect with it. I just sat. I couldn’t walk over the bridge and go to the swing where John and I love to sit looking out over the lake, but I didn’t care.

“Happy?” John asked. “Tired? Want to go home?”

“Happy, tired, don’t want to go home. I’m a tree now. Leave me here in my chair by the water and come back and get me when I have enough energy to get up and leave.”

He chuckled and opened his book. I napped on and off, and listened to the trees, their roots deep by the water. Their quietness sinking down deep into the mineral rich earth below.

It’s alright just to be sometimes; it’s okay not to have anything left to give. It’s fine to rest awhile by the still waters of God’s grace and soak it in deeply, to regain strength, and light and joy.

But the trees are always giving. They are giving me shade and peace. Their leaves are making delightful patterns on the water. They bring joy to the people who sometimes fish from these banks.

That’s because it’s their season to give. Soon, their leaves will drop like yours are now. They will stand silent and still against the cold of winter, and they will wait for spring’s renewal. You, too, must wait for renewal. But for now, just rest. Be.

The sun began to sink in the west, and John closed his book. “Ready to go now?”

“No. I really can’t go. I don’t have the energy. I’m serious. I have to stay here. I think I’m a tree.”

He laughed, pulled me to my feet, and steered me to the car.

“You’re not a tree.”

I looked at the trees one more time as we left the park. They whispered a goodbye message. You can be a tree if you want to be a tree.

I don’t want to be a tree forever, but maybe I’ll be one for a little while. If you see me, slouched down in my chair beside the water, baseball cap covering my bald head, looking too tired to move, don’t worry. I’m okay. It will get better. Just for now, I’m being a tree.

“And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season.” –Psalm 1:3

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Bumps in the Road

by Donna Poole

We notice subtle differences in our backroad ramblings; the birdsongs are quieter now. The cicadas make up for the birds in volume if not in sweetness. The wildflowers deserve a standing ovation! If they had a voice, they’d be shouting a crescendo of praise, perhaps even the “Hallelujah Chorus” but their riot of color is doing that for them.

Rosinweed adds yellow sunshine to the wildflowers growing along the roadsides; it looks like a tall dandelion. White Queen Anne’s Lace is abundant. Blue Chicory, Daisy Fleabane, white with deep yellow centers, and the beautiful intruder, purple Loosestrife, combine to make fields of showy bouquets. The pink Coneflower, once a common wildflower in Michigan is now listed as threatened and according to the DNR it’s possible it no longer exists as a wildflower. We’ve planted it in our yard, and it spreads a bit every year. It’s bright pink right now in early August.

Are the wildflowers especially beautiful this year?

We’re learning to identify more wildflowers: the False or Oxeye Sunflower, the Woodland Sunflower, Ground Honeysuckle or Common Bird’s-foot Trefoil—don’t you love that name? We’ve spotted Wingstem, a terribly invasive weed with beautiful yellow flowers. I forget the names of these wildflowers as soon as I look them up, but I admire their beauty spread bountifully along the country roads for all to enjoy.

I used to love long hikes to admire the wildflowers, and I will again someday, but for now, when just a walk to the garden tires me enough that I lean on my walking stick and someone’s arm, I’ve discovered another way to enjoy them.

I hear echoes of my mother’s voice. “Take me for a ride, Dominic.”

Mom loved long rides to see the wildflowers. We’d all pile into the station wagon and Dad would drive down country roads, pointing out the wildflowers to us.

Now I sometimes ask, “Take me for a ride, John.”

He does. Early evening before the sun sets is my favorite time to ride. The world is quieting down then; the robins are chirping goodnight and perhaps missing their babies; sometimes I miss mine.

We exclaim over an especially vibrant patch of wildflowers and then see a sign. I laugh.

John looks at me. “What?”

“That sign. ‘Bump.’ It happens to all of us, doesn’t it?”

He smiles and reaches for my hand. It’s a rather sad smile. I don’t have to explain; he knows.

Just try cruising down life’s road without hitting a bump. Sooner or later we all hit one, or two, or many, and often there is no sign to warn us.

Sometimes Dad would hit a bump so hard we kids would laugh as our heads almost collided with the roof of the station wagon.

“Dominic!” We knew that yell well. So did Dad. Sometimes, maybe often, he deserved it.

Once he fell asleep when he was driving. We all did. We woke to Mom’s yell, “Dominic!”

Dad slammed on the brakes, and the car came to stop a few inches from a huge tree. As a girl I was sure all our guardian angels combined to hold that station wagon away from that tree. I pictured them, faces strained with effort, backs against the tree, arms entwined, and legs straight out against the bumper of our car. I’m still not so sure that didn’t happen.

Dad was in his late seventies or early eighties when he rolled his car. He hung upside down, dangling from his seatbelt, and couldn’t get free. Bystanders gawked as the car began to burn. One man rushed through the crowd and pulled Dad from the burning car just before his seat caught fire. God has more than one kind of angel.

When we drove from Michigan to New York to see Dad in the hospital, Kimmee was a toddler. She stared with compassion at her grandpa’s head totally wrapped in bandages. When we got home, she was looking at her books.

I heard Kimmee saying softly, “Poor, poor Grandpa.” She was looking at a picture of Humpty Dumpty with a head wrap after he fell off the wall. I didn’t let her see me laugh.

Even Humpty Dumpty faced bumps in the road.

Who knows? Perhaps Humpty Dumpty was just sitting quietly on his wall, enjoying a vibrant view of wildflowers when suddenly, crash.

In the traditional nursery rhyme, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again, but Kimmee’s book painted a gentler view. Humpty Dumpty had a head wrap, but he was recovering. And who knows? Perhaps his future views of wildflowers from the wall were all the sweeter because of his sudden, unexpected bump.

I love my backroads view of wildflowers. Jesus loved wildflowers too. He said to His friends, telling them not to worry, “Consider the lilies.” He reminded them that even King Solomon’s clothes weren’t as beautiful as wildflowers clothed by God.  

I’m amazed. God names every star in the billions of galaxies, sits beside every dying sparrow, and sees every wildflower. He counts the hairs on our heads. I’m saving Him a lot of work in that department, because of chemo I’m about bald! I can trust Him with my bumps in the road.

That’s not to say doubt never mixes with my faith. When a tsunami sweeps away thousands, when children die at the border, when innocents around the world suffer man’s inhumanity to man, when people starve, when an island is dedicated to the depravity of rich men—don’t think I don’t wonder why!

I know all the theologically correct answers. We’re born into a sin-cursed world and a better one is coming, but meanwhile, my heart cries with those who suffer.

I have bumps in my road; some have earthquakes that swallow them alive.

The sun doesn’t always shine on my backroad ramblings. And yet, as always, God points me to the light. Either I believe He is good, and will fix it all someday, or I do not. I choose to believe because I know Him too well not to trust Him.

One day, before Dad went to heaven, I was tired. Dad was near ninety. Surely, he’d have a hopeful answer.

“Dad, does it ever get any easier?”

“No, it doesn’t, honey.”

It wasn’t the answer I hoped for.

“It doesn’t get any easier, but Jesus gets sweeter.”

That was answer I could live with.

Jesus gets sweeter; the wildflowers get lovelier; and someday there will be no more bumps in the road.


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Small Miracles Against All Odds

by Donna Poole

“There’s another one! See?”

No, I didn’t see, but Kimmee, lover of all God’s creatures great and small reached out for an almost invisible, tiny larva for her collection. In it came with its milkweed to join the others already in the house.

The tiny caterpillar ate voraciously for ten to fourteen days, and then one morning, Kimmee showed me it was hanging upside down in its beautiful green chrysalis. I marveled to see that during the next ten to fourteen days the chrysalis became transparent until we could clearly see the colors of the monarch butterfly inside.

Next, the chrysalis split open and the adult butterfly emerged little by little. It hung there for a while, drying its crumpled, wet wings, extending them, and resting, until it could fly. I went outside with her, and Kimmee opened her hand and released the butterfly into the big wide world.

Kimmee was probably seven or eight when she began bringing in larva, charting the progress, and releasing butterflies. She learned to identify male and female and recorded how many she had of each. Every time she held a Monarch in her hand and watched it fly away, we saw a miracle.

We knew the fragile looking Monarch might be part of the annual southward migration, flying all the way from Michigan to Mexico. One fall John, Kimmee and I camped on Edisto Island, a marvelous place, where ancient Live Oaks line the narrow road to the campground.  On their way south, hundreds of monarchs covered a single bush right behind our tent camper. Had any of them come from Michigan, perhaps even from our yard?

Monarchs are fragile. Touch their wings the wrong way, and they will never fly again; yet they can migrate from Michigan to Mexico, even from Canada to Mexico, against all odds. How?

Who couldn’t use a small miracle against all odds right now? We’ve all lost so much, and our county fair is a small but big example.

The Hillsdale County Fair is a central part of life, not just for the week of the fair, but for many weeks before. The 4-H kids begin their projects in the spring. They spend hours, days, weeks, learning to groom and show their animals for the all-important show and sell days at the fair.

Those kids without livestock still participate. How many evenings did we spend at dog 4-H while Kimmee learned to show her dog? Then there are craft, cooking, academic, and photography projects. From scrapbooks to sewing to scarecrows, kids county-wide work unbelievably hard to prepare for the fair. Kimmee’s love of monarch’s became an academic project and many photography entries at the fair.

“John!” I said one year, a week before fair when Kimmee was getting about fifty last minute projects together, “look at this mess! There isn’t a room in this house that isn’t filled with a 4-H project!” I miss those messes.

Adults enter projects too, canning, baking, quilting, sewing, and so much more.

We love the fair. We linger at exhibits, stop and talk with neighbors and friends, and never leave without Fiske Fries and Red Barn elephant ears. When Kimmee was in 4-H we served our required hours in the kitchen; now we volunteer in the quilt booth where John laughs with everyone who stops and jokingly offers to sell the beautiful quilts to the person who will give him the most money.

The fair is an important part of county social life, and it’s an economic necessity for the fair itself.

This year, for the first time since 1851, we will have no county fair. This would have been year 170; it has never cancelled before.

Lori Hull, the fair manager, says, “I have often told people who aren’t from the area that they need to understand that the world in Hillsdale County stops for the last week in September. Everyone goes (to the fair).

“The paid attendance each year is around 40,000 people. Last year, there were over 400 kids exhibiting in 4H and over 600 open class participants. There are typically over 200 vendors that exhibit their products, food, and services during the week.

“The fairgrounds has also become a popular spot for weddings and receptions. The buildings and grounds are rented many times during the year for events as well. All that changed this year with COVID-19. We have suffered the economic impact of almost every event being cancelled, and their deposits having to be refunded. If you would have told me in March, when this whole thing started, that the board would vote unanimously in June to cancel the fair…I never would have believed it. And yet that is what happened.”

This year, there will be no tractor pulls or concerts. The Ferris wheel won’t light up the sky; no loud music will play on the midway. No children will tearfully beg for just one more ride. Long lines won’t stretch in front of Fiske fries. Friends and neighbors won’t meet and greet, hug and laugh, and promise to get together more often. Vendors who make a year’s living at the fairs will struggle to survive. We mourn our fair, and we know it’s a miniature parable of what is happening to our world.

We were at the fair office the other day, talking to Lori. We noticed a small miracle. Against all odds, a petunia was growing up through the cement steps. It had self-seeded from a pot of petunias Lori had the year before.

Later, I asked Lori, “Do you water that petunia that’s growing up through the steps?”

Understand, we’ve had a hot, dry summer. We can barely keep our garden and flowers alive with daily watering.

Lori answered, “Nope, I haven’t done anything to it! I guess it’s stubborn! Kinda like the manager, lol!”

The petunia is a small miracle of hope. The fair, the county, our country, the world needs hope.

I don’t know what you’ve lost as you’ve traveled your backroad or city street, but please, don’t lose hope. Find it the next time you see a monarch. Remember the petunia growing up through the steps at our county fair office, thriving against all odds. Remember Who created the butterfly, the flower, you, and me.

I write to you today, fellow traveler, with sorrow for what we’ve all lost, but with hope for the future. And I smile when I remember that stubborn petunia—and our equally stubborn fair manager!

Photo Credit: John Poole
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And the Corn Grows Tall

Donna Poole

“Donna,” my friend Gina Bradstreet asked, “did you make this cherry pie?”

“I did.”

It wasn’t an unusual question. At our country church potlucks, crowded together in our one-room schoolhouse fellowship hall, someone is always asking who made what, either to get the recipe or to remind themselves not to eat that person’s food again!

“But, umm, is it a homemade pie?”

“The crust is Mom Poole’s recipe, and she got it from Mrs. Boles. We always call it Mrs. Boles’ pie crust. Do you want the recipe?”

“Well, no. The crust is very good! But did you make the filling?”

“No. I bought the can of cherry pie filling.”

“Oh, good! If you made it yourself, I wasn’t going to tell you. I got a pit!”

We looked at each other and laughed.

How much laughter did we share through the years? There were tears when Dan, Gina, and family moved to South Carolina, and joy of family homecomings whenever they returned for visits.

So much has changed in our years at the Corners. John and I talked about it on an early evening slow drive, dirt road style, around a few blocks. We headed down the church road, corn tall in the fields, bordered with wildflowers. The slant of the sun felt nostalgic; life is passing so fast, as it has for generations.

We passed Anna May’s house. “It’s still hard to believe she’s gone.”

John nodded and looked at the house across from hers. “And they live in Missouri now.”

We took a left where two dirt roads meet and stopped to see the progress on the cement work. The new church addition is coming along nicely.

I looked over at the house across from the church. A nice couple lives there now, but I thought of Lloyd Eff whose house it was long ago. Lloyd lived a long time; he bought a new truck when he was one-hundred years old! He was a Catholic man, but left instructions when he died that he wanted “the Baptist preacher to have my funeral.”

John did officiate Lloyd’s funeral. We miss him and so many others who have gone on.

We continued down the road marveling at how fast the corn is growing.

“When did they take down Laser’s barn?”

I didn’t know the answer. Of course, no Lasers have lived there for many years, but we still call it the Laser place.

Heading home, John turned onto a paved road. “Well look at that. They took Dottie’s barn down too.”

I chuckled. “They wouldn’t have done that if she’d still been alive. I think she’d have had something to say about it.”

We smiled at each other, remembering Dottie. Remembering so many others.

We passed the memorial to the Potawatomi on Squawfield Road. They too farmed these fields in their time and now are a wisp of memory in the clouds.

And yet, the corn grows tall and sways in the evening breeze. The ears are getting full; they’d be fuller if we’d had more rain. The silks are still light. Cicadas are singing now. The old timers always said that means only six weeks until frost.

We pulled into the driveway of our farmhouse, and I looked across the road. The once open fields are dotted with homes now. Change is everywhere, and change is nowhere.

Bradstreets are up for a rare weekend visit from South Carolina. In a recent text, Gina asked how I was feeling.

“If chemo is a piece of cake, next time I’m ordering pie.”

She texted back a smiling emoji and a pie.

“Oh, is that cherry pie?”

“It’s cherry if you want it to be.”

I had a few good hours Friday afternoon, and Gina came for a yard visit. I’m not allowed any close social interaction. We looked at each other’s faces and started crying. They were tears of joy.

Gina handed John a warm cherry pie. “This is for Donna.”

We talked of Gina’s cancer survival and of fun times past. The birds sang sleepy songs, and our giant gnarled trees, old as the Potawatomi, sheltered us with deep shade. The cicadas murmured their ancient songs, and the corn grew tall.

“And now abideth faith, hope, and love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” –I Corinthians 13:13

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Until We See Faces

by Donna Poole

Just because I live on a dirt road in the countryside doesn’t mean I’m not guilty of living an interstate life too often. When we’re flying down an interstate, we don’t see faces. Even the angry face of the man shaking his fist at us when he flies by blurs. But on a dirt road most of us—I’ll leave a few people unnamed to protect the guilty—drive slowly to save our cars,  bunnies, and kittens and to be able to move over for someone coming the other way. We smile and wave at neighbors. We see faces. Road rage is hard to express when you know you’re going to see those same faces again the next day when you’re not temporarily insane because of anger.

Do you, like me, think part of the problem in our world today is we don’t see faces? We see groups. It’s easy for some people to feel furious with groups; then the name calling starts, and anger quickly escalates into hatred and sometimes even into murder.

Perhaps those who overreact wouldn’t if they just looked at faces. When we really look at a face, we see into a soul, and we feel the positive emotions God has given us. We smile; we share a laugh or a tear. We feel compassion.

We felt so much compassion Friday. I went for my first chemo treatment. John and I sat in the waiting room in the large Rogel Cancer Center at the University of Michigan Hospital; we didn’t stare, but we glanced at faces.

We saw a “Marilla” from Anne of Green Gables, only this Marilla was short, chunky, and adorable. She wore a gigantic garden hat to cover her baldness, marched with purpose to a wing back chair, curled up and promptly took a nap.

Two young women came in together. It was easy to tell the patient. She had a large black patch over her eye. They were both nervous.

A smiling mom pushed her teenage daughter in a wheelchair. The two chatted cheerfully. When they took the daughter back for treatment the mom bent over, kissed her daughter’s head, and just for a second, the agony showed on her face. It said, “I wish I could do this for you.”

Oh, how we prayed for her.

We smiled a connection with the young couple across from us. He was the patient; she had to tell him twice how to find the bathroom. When they called him to go back for his chemo, he forgot his computer and another bag.

She looked at me, sighed, and rolled her eyes. I grinned. I almost told her they were the reverse of John and me. I’m the one who always gets lost and forgets my things. She called his name when he forgot his bag, but he kept going.

“I don’t think he heard you.”

She yelled his name with a mixture of love and frustration.

He meandered back. “You forgot your stuff!”

He smiled pleasantly and distractedly. “Oh, I guess I did.”

She again rolled her eyes at me, grinned, and opened a book. It’s a long day for family waiting; because of COVID they aren’t allowed back in the treatment rooms with loved ones.

“Lord,” I prayed, “please give them many more years together.”

Many others came in, most wearing scarves or hats, some just going au naturel bald. There were a few newbies like me who still had hair.

And then the room stilled. A couple came in; He was helping her walk. She reminded me so much of my sister Eve who died of cancer. She was taller than Eve, but like Eve, maintained that sense of dignity and style until the end. She was probably five feet nine inches and weighed perhaps eighty pounds. She wore a long flowing skirt and a beautiful blouse, but the lovely outfit couldn’t hide the fact that she had little left to fight with. He sat her gently in the chair; she had no strength to lower herself. He propped her up until she was sitting straight and adjusted her blouse for her.

I saw their faces, the way they looked at each other, the love and loss in their eyes, and I prayed for them.

Then I noticed the young woman with the eye patch. She was staring at the frail woman. All hope left her own face. She shook her head repeatedly and dropped her face to her knees, still shaking her head. I wanted to go to her and say, “Oh honey. It doesn’t mean we will all end up that way. Don’t lose hope. Do you know the Lord? Can I pray with you?”

I couldn’t do that; the emaciated woman would have heard me, and the COVID social distancing rules were firmly in place, but John and I sat where we were and silently prayed for her. My heart was full of tears.

Finally, it was my turn to kiss John goodbye, and the Lord and I went back for my treatment. My nurses were so kind, but one was especially tired.

“You have a hard job,” I said when she glanced my way.

“Yes.” She adjusted a bag on my IV pole. “I love it, but it’s very sad.”

“Oh, hey, I forgot to introduce you to someone else in the room with me.”

She looked alarmed. Was she dealing with one from the psych ward?

I tapped my chest. “I have lots of lymphoma masses, but my biggest is right here in my lungs. Meet Morticia. I named her that because she is going to die.”

She laughed. “Morticia!” She laughed again. She looked a bit less tired.

I couldn’t live an interstate life in the fast lane Friday; God kept me in that cancer center for twelve-and-one-half very slow-moving hours.

Do you think we wondered about anyone’s politics Friday? We did not. There were many races; all were suffering, and all lives mattered. We cared about all as people. As people! That’s how life used to be, remember?

That cancer center where we saw faces reminds us that life hangs in the balance for everyone. We don’t have forever to be kind and to remember what really matters. If we could all just slow down, stop shouting rhetoric, and look at faces; if we could see hurts and feel compassion; if we could make a tired someone smile; if we could offer a prayer for everyone we meet—that would be life at its best on the backroads. And maybe I’m just a simplistic country grandma, but I think it could change the world.

If you haven’t already, find the face of God first. Because in His eyes, we all have faces.

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A Rainbow for the Road

by Donna Poole

Now what? The twenty-two in our family, plus our almost-family-photographer, Jenny Bowers from Sycamore Lane Photography, had agreed to meet at a park for family photos. Before we could even get out of our cars, clouds rolled, thunder sounded, and the winds picked up.

Jenny, sister to one of our daughters-in-law, and sister-in-law to our other daughter-in-law . . .. I see I need to stop right here and explain, or you’re going to think cousins married cousins. Here’s how our tangled family relationships work. Our son, Dan, said it best. He wrote this and read it at his brother, John’s wedding to Katie.

“Katie’s brother-in-law’s parents and John’s sister-law’s parents are my in laws, whose daughter-in-law’s brother-in-law is my brother, whose father-in-law’s son in law is john’s brother-in-law, whose sister’s mother-in-law and father-in-law are my parents, whose son’s sister-in-law’s parents are Lauren and Vicki, whose son-in-law and daughter are John and Katie???”

So, now that you clearly see no family married family, and you perfectly understand how the photographer, Jenny, is related to some but not all of us, and you sympathize with those of us who have trouble remembering who’s related to whom, I’ll continue my storm story.

As we watched the storm threaten at the park, our hearts sank. Kimmee, our daughter, felt especially bad. She’d worked so hard to co-ordinate schedules with twenty-two people, and with Jenny, who shoots many weddings with Kimmee, and feels to Kimmee like another sister. . . is she? Who knows!

“I have an idea,” Jenny said. “We could switch locations to our property. It’s beautiful outside, and we could go into the wedding barn if it rains.”

And so, our caravan took the road less traveled that included three dirt roads. It was a beautiful evening; the twelve photogenic grandchildren were perfect for the photoshoot, and the adults behaved almost as well as the kids.

My heart was full and my eyes wet as I watched each group of people I love gather for their pictures. I could never love this family any more than I did that beautiful summer July evening. My eyes kept straying to the east. God put a rainbow in the eastern sky, and it didn’t disappear quickly like most rainbows do. It stayed there the entire photoshoot.

Our family is facing some challenges, but I felt like God was giving us a sign of courage and hope.

I remembered something Amy Carmichael wrote, “Let’s give Him the satisfaction of knowing that He has some children who can trust their heavenly Father.”

Our family will trust you, Lord, we will! And when our faith falters in this race, show us again your lovely face!

I’m so glad plan A, the park, didn’t work out, and we went with plan B. We saw amazing scenery along the road. I’m going to try to remember that life lesson.

I hurt for many of God’s children who’ve recently faced devastating loss, or health news no one wants to hear, or beautiful hopes dashed beyond recognition.

Lord, please, give each one of your suffering children a rainbow of courage and hope, a quiet hope that may cry itself to sleep at night but gets up in the morning willing to try again one more day.  A hope like you gave me at a family photoshoot one beautiful summer evening in July.

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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.  

Photo Credit: Angela Wyse
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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.

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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.