John and I were visiting a church. To protect the guilty, I won’t tell you the denomination or the location, but I’ll say this; it was a very large church. The message was good, a bit lengthy, but good. Then came the invitation sometimes known as the altar call.
For the uninitiated, let me explain. An altar call isn’t a bad thing; it’s often sweet and holy. During the final hymn the pastor invites people to come to the front. Some may come to indicate their desire to trust Christ as Savior, to be baptized, or just to kneel at the altar and pray.
The pastor in the church we visited began the altar call. We sang a favorite hymn, one I’ve loved since childhood, “Just as I Am” by Charlotte Elliott (1789-1871).
I wasn’t surprised when we sang all the verses because that’s what we’d done with all the previous hymns we’d sung in that church.
The words are beautiful and true:
1 Just as I am, without one plea, But that Thy blood was shed for me, And that Thou bidst me come to Thee, O Lamb of God, I come.
Refrain: Just as I am, Just as I am, Just as I am, I come.
2 Just as I am, and waiting not To rid my soul of one dark blot; To Thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot, O Lamb of God, I come. [Refrain]
3 Just as I am, though tossed about, With many a conflict, many a doubt; Fightings within and fears without, O Lamb of God, I come. [Refrain]
4 Just as I am, Thou wilt receive, Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve; Because Thy promise I believe, O Lamb of God, I come. [Refrain]
After each verse, and sometimes during each one, the pastor pleaded with people to come to the altar, but no one responded. So, he began singing the hymn again. I looked around; no one seemed surprised by the repetition, not even when it continued to happen. For. Fifteen. Minutes.
I started feeling sorry for the pastor. His pleading began to sound desperate. I felt sorry for the congregation having to stand that long, but they seemed immune. I felt especially sorry for myself. I was tired. I was hungry. We were on vacation.
Like John Wayne said, “Slap some bacon on a biscuit and let’s go! We’re burnin’ daylight!”
I had a sudden epiphany.
“Scuse me,” I whispered to John, also known as Pastor John Poole, when we’re home, not on vacation, and he’s behind the pulpit in our church.
He thought I needed to use the lady’s room. He inched back to give me room to slip out but looked uneasily at the line of relatives still between him and the center aisle. I could see it on his face. It was going to be a tight squeeze for me to exit; John was going to ask me if I could wait.
That’s not what he asked. He studied my face and looked suspicious.
“Wait. Why do you want to get out?” he whispered as the congregation sang verse three for the thirtieth or fortieth time.
“I’m going to the altar.”
“You’re going to do what? Why?”
Our whispering should have been distracting, but everyone had their faces buried in their hymnals. They were probably trying to avoid eye contact with the now tearful face of their pastor.
“Because! That man isn’t going to let us leave until someone repents. I’m sure I can think of something to repent of on my way up there.”
A storm was brewing on my sweet John’s face. He’s a funny guy, full of jokes, fun, and laughter, but there are certain things that are sacred cows, and you do not joke about them. Apparently, the altar call was one of them.
But I wasn’t joking. I had every intention of walking down, down that long aisle in that big church and thinking of something to say to the pastor when I got to the front.
Perhaps I could just say, “I need to talk to the Lord about the sin in my life.”
I mean, everyone has sin in their life, right? By the time I got to the front of the church I’d be guilty of the sin of deception of just going to the altar so I could slap some bacon on my biscuit, get going, and not spend anymore vacation time singing fifty more verses.
“I’m serious, John. Let me out.”
Poor guy. He loves me enough to die for me, I think, but sometimes he just doesn’t know what to do with me.
It was a stare down between the two of us, but we never found out who would win, because someone else went to the altar. The organist hurried off to bandage her blistered fingers, and the pastor closed in prayer. Amazingly, he showed no sign of laryngitis.
As for the repentant sinner who walked down the long, long aisle? I hate it when people judge others’ motives, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he was truly sorry or if he just wanted to go eat fried chicken.
Well, today is Valentine’s Day, and I write this in honor of my wonderful John who has been my Valentine for a long, long time. He’s loved me for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. He’s even loved me when I wanted to answer an altar call just so I could get out of church.
Where was the church? I won’t tell you the denomination or the location, but I’ll say this; it was a very large church. And as we left they said, “Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?”
Once upon a time I got mail, real mail, lots of mail! It came with colorful stamps and ended up in the battered rural mailbox we had back then.
Before people had the internet and could just type a quick note on Facebook or a comment at the end of a blog, it took real work to contact a writer. In retrospect, I’m surprised so many did it. I have heaps of mail I’ve saved through the years so my kids can have the honor of throwing it out after I depart these premises and go where no one gets mail.
Sometimes a letter arrived addressed to “Donna Poole Writer Pittsford, Michigan.” Other times an envelope said “Lickley’s Corners Baptist Church Donna Poole Pastor’s Wife Pittsford Michigan.” The mailman knew us; it’s a small town, and the letters arrived. If, perchance, one went into a neighbor’s mailbox, the neighbor brought it over.
Usually, my fan (or hate) mail was addressed, not to me, but to the publications I wrote for. Editors then forwarded it to me. One editor often included humorous remarks to take the sting off if the letter was of the “you stink” variety.
Once an editor wrote, “If you quote me, I’ll deny it, but I’d hate to be married to this woman. I think she has problems beyond her dislike of your column and our publication.”
Why did I get so much mail? I had a column in one magazine for twenty-two years; that’s long enough to make readers either love you or hate you.
I also wrote Sunday school curriculum for children for over fifty years. Some of my favorite mail came from kids. One little girl wrote, “I liked your lesson. Do you know anything else about the Bible? If you do, will you write back and tell me what it is?”
The children drew pictures of me the way they imagined I might look and decorated their pictures with hearts and stickers and almost always signed their notes, “I love you.” I didn’t get any hate mail from children.
I didn’t really get much negative mail from adults either. People wrote for other reasons. Some people contacted me to share their sorrows; cancer at age thirty-five with five children nine years and younger, the loss of a daughter at the hands of a drunk driver, a woman only in her thirties needing dialysis three times a week. Many people wrote to tell me about their lives or families. Some people wanted my help; to compile a book for them, to locate an out-of-print book, to sell something, to find a topic for a mother-daughter banquet, to do some research for them, to send them a list of recommended books for a certain age. Some people wanted advice on how to get started with writing or how to fix a broken relationship. I got asked for recipes. I received requests to speak in many places as far away as a remote village in India.
I didn’t get any neutral letters. Some people asked me to write more; some asked me to shut up and never write again. Some asked me to use more quotes; some said I quoted far too often. Some praised my style: “So glad it’s deep and not the fluff most women’s columns are.” Another reader dismissed my writing as “fluff” and “out of touch with reality.”
One man threatened my editor if he continued to print “this kind of thing” (my column) his church would stop buying all material published by that press including their Sunday school curriculum.
A lady in her late eighties wrote to tell me she had a mission in life, and it was to correct authors’ mistakes. She pointed out a word I’d misspelled. I wrote back. You’d be proud of my humility; I didn’t say I was glad she had such a noble purpose for staying alive.
Another sweet lady, also in her eighties, wrote to suggest a topic for my next column. She wanted me to write about people who refuse to help clean the church. She was the only one in a church of one-hundred members who offered to help when the pastor requested. She closed with, “When you write about this, please don’t use my name.”
One woman took offense at the authors I quoted. She was sure none of them were headed for heaven. She went on to say she didn’t believe I was a true Christian either, and that if I didn’t know enough not to read those kinds of books, my pastor husband should stop me, and if he didn’t know any better either, he certainly did not belong behind the pulpit!
Did I respond? I’m sure I did. I answered every letter unless my editor told me not to. There were several vicious ones from a man in California. My editor told me to quit responding and also told me he hoped I never ran into that man in a dark alley somewhere!
Well, a sage wisely said everyone who has a dog who loves him needs a cat who hates him.
Probably ninety-eight percent of the letters were kind. The phrase I heard most often and the one that warmed my heart was, “I feel like I know you.”
When a columnist or a blogger can make that kind of connection with her readers, she’s done her job.
I still occasionally get real mail with stamps on it. A reader from Ireland has brightened my day several times with mail, but most people are like me. We use snail mail now and then, but we rely on text messages, email, Facebook, and Facebook messenger. And that’s fine. I enjoy the connections I make with readers on the internet too.
By the way, let me be perfectly clear. Whether you live in a remote village in India or the town next to mine, please don’t ask me to come speak at your mother-daughter banquet, or your puppy’s adoption, or at your boat’s christening. Why not? I won’t be able to come. I’ll have laryngitis. I can guarantee it.
The End
***
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole
Half a century ago, I started copying on three by five cards quotes from books I was reading. I did this for many years, stopped, and recently started again. Something is different this time. My handwriting is wobbly now, looks like an old lady’s scrawl, and I can’t imagine why. But something else is different too.
“John, feel this.” I handed my husband an old three by five card I’d written a quote on many years ago.
“Now feel this.” I gave him a newborn three by five, baby-fresh from its package.
The old card was thick, sturdy, dependable; something made to last half a century.
The new card is a lightweight piece of junk. I don’t know how long it will survive being pulled out and pushed into its place in my antique card file cabinet.
This small irritation, during all the world’s enormous crises, bugged me. It was like a tiny mosquito buzzing around my ear and refusing to be swatted. So, I asked Siri and Safari why three by five cards are thinner now, and when they shrugged and yawned, I went to know-it-all Google. Eureka! I found I was not alone in my angst. Others have noticed and commented too, not just on the decline in quality of the humble index card, but also in construction paper, and many other things too.
It seems in many ways we’re paying more but getting less for our buck. There’s even a word for what’s happening, “Shrinkflation.”
“It kind of feels like you’ve been had.” So says Professor Hitendra Chaturvedi from Arizona State University when commenting on shrinkflation.
No “kinda” about it, Prof. We’ve been had alright!
Shrinkflation: Put less in the package but charge the consumer the same amount of money or even more.
Shrinkflation: make index cards almost as thin as notebook paper.
The consumer won’t notice.
I sympathize with manufacturers’ dilemmas; raw materials cost more. Way more. But I resent their assumption that the average consumer won’t notice there’s five to twenty percent less than there used to be inside bags and boxes. I resent even more they were correct; with most products, I didn’t notice.
I read an article listing some of the products included in shrinkflation: Cottenelle, Sun Maid Raisins, Safeguard soap, Keebler’s M & M cookies, GM cereals, and others.
I’ve noticed shrinkflation in something everyone needs that isn’t for sale. We may offer less of ourselves to others after circumstances and people leave us battle scarred and hurt. We put up shields. We become a little less kind and giving. Perhaps we present ourselves as the same package we once were, but there’s less inside. We have no intention of putting ourselves out there for others the way we once did; what if we get hurt again?
Or maybe we aren’t battle scarred and hurt; we’re just weary. Why keep caring and giving when so few others do?
Kindness shrinkflation is everywhere.
In a world that’s growing colder, more callous, and more self-centered, I’m blessed to know so many givers, people who’ve resisted shrinkflation, the way they do at my favorite coffee shop, Pam’s Place.
Pam sets the tone at her place. She opens before most of us wake up every morning, ready to welcome the earliest risers, not just with delicious coffee, but also with a smile and an encouraging word or two. I’ve gotten to know several of her regular customers. It’s a place where people actually connect with each other.
There’s no shrinkflation of kindness at Pam’s Place; it’s everywhere. No one argues. We don’t talk much about politics, except maybe to tease Ken about being in Facebook jail so often. People don’t stay long; we’re all busy. Someone may tell a joke. Someone else may ask for prayer. We stop by, say good morning, grab our coffee, and we’re gone. But the kindness of Pam’s Place lingers for the rest of the day.
Pam’s Place isn’t real. That is, it’s not brick and mortar real. There isn’t even a coffee shop named Pam’s Place; that’s just what I call it.
Pam is real. She’s a Facebook friend I’ve known since high school. Pam does something many would think a little thing. Every morning she finds an attractive photo of coffee cups, adds a few words of encouragement, and posts it on Facebook. Every evening Pam shares a lovely picture and says goodnight. In a world where kindness is shrinking, Pam spends time, every single day, to give a little joy to the people in her world.
Several of us check in with Pam each morning. Chris was a regular; she was a tea drinker, and Pam often had some virtual tea waiting for her. When Chris died of cancer, we stopped by Pam’s page and found comfort from each other. A little thing became a big thing that day.
You don’t have to post on Facebook every morning to add kindness to this hurting world.
At the cancer center where I go many different nurses come to collect patients when it’s time for a treatment. One nurse comes into the large room and sings the patient’s name. It makes me smile, and I’m not the only one who smiles in that room where many are hiding tears.
A text. A phone call. A plate of cookies. A smile. A hand on a shoulder. A prayer. Find your own way to give a little kindness. Little things become big things.
Call me D.P.—not Donna Poole but Dreamer Pollyanna; I can see it now, a world without any shrinkflation of kindness. It could happen too if everyone would just be a Pam.
Meanwhile, while I wait for that to happen, does anyone know where I can buy some decent three by five cards?
The End
***
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole
The corn grew tall that July weekend, just as it had done when the Potawatomi had roamed this land. Sweet and clear, the church bell rang out over the green fields. It was saying, “It’s time to celebrate! Come on over.”
The church had hosted many celebrations in its century long history, standing on the corner where two dirt roads meet. Old timers told of weddings where guests had stood four-deep outside around open windows trying to catch a glimpse of the bride and groom. And the one room schoolhouse next door that had served as both a community club and a church fellowship hall had its own stories to tell of spelling bees and quilt making parties.
The four corners had once boasted a post office, a country store, a grange hall, and a church. Only the church was left. A local newspaper said the once bustling corners was now “barely a presence on the map.” That might be true for some, but for the pastor who’d spent his entire adult life there, loving on the broken and the hurt, the church was his heart.
The pastor had guided several generations of children during his years at that church, including his own children and his grandchildren. When his kids had been young, they’d gone to church for Sunday school, morning worship, evening service, and Wednesday prayer service. They’d never questioned going or complained about it, even when they were teens; it was just part of life. They’d loved the church, and the church had usually loved them back. That’s not to say they hadn’t rejoiced when a snowstorm, or a loss of electrical power. or some other event had closed the church for the day.
When the kids had been young, prayer meeting had started late to give the farmers a chance to finish milking before coming. It had also been the service most poorly attended. The pastor’s boys had often stood, feet planted firmly on the hardwood floor, peering out of the clear glass section of the stained-glass windows, hoping against hope that no one would pull into the parking lot.
“Dad, it’s five minutes after eight. How long do we have to wait until we can go home?”
“Someone might still be coming. Let’s give it until quarter after.”
If it had been winter, they’d taken turns abdicating the window watch to go stand on the big square register between the pews, the only heat source. The old furnace beneath the register had moaned and groaned, struggling to keep up with the wild winds whipping around the white frame building. Usually, the winds had won.
Sometimes, when the fifteen minutes had expired, the kids had gotten their wish. No one had come to prayer meeting, and they’d gotten to go home.
Other times, the boys had groaned at twelve minutes after eight o’clock. “Oh no! Here comes Anna May.”
The children, two boys, two girls, now middle-aged adults were there today for the celebration. And so were many others who’d grown up travelling down the dirt roads to the white frame church. As they waited for the celebration to begin, people reminisced about the old days.
“Remember when you threw the baseball through the stained-glass window?”
“As I recall, it was you who did that!”
“Well, remember when you tried to throw one of the girls’ flip flops over the roof and it got stuck up there, so you tried to knock it off with a frisbee, and that got stuck too?”
“I do believe I remember that.”
The new fellowship hall, the one the pastor didn’t think he’d ever live long enough to see finished, was completed, but barely in time. It still smelled like fresh paint. It could seat one-hundred twenty people, a proud number for the little church on the corners, and it was packed full of at least that many. Some talked fondly of happy fellowships in the old schoolhouse, but it had seated only about fifty people and had no running water, and no indoor bathroom.
For that matter, the church itself had no running water and no indoor bathroom when the young pastor and his wife had come, with their two-year-old, to rural southern Michigan fifty years before. The “bathroom” had been an outhouse outback. The pastor’s wife had found it humorous that in warm weather every child in the church had to make at least one trip to the outhouse, but when it had been cold or rainy, no one had to go.
The pastor’s wife was quiet that celebration day as she watched the women bustling in the kitchen area, finishing the last-minute food preparations. For years she’d overseen everything like that and had cooked a good deal of the food too, but those days were long gone. She looked at her walker, but not with regret. The years had been good years. Time had dulled the hurts that had happened in the little country church and had left in their place only a warm gratitude for the love and community she’d found here. She’d never expected to feel contented to be an old lady, but she was, except for that one thing she couldn’t change. She’d not fight with the Lord about that; what good would it do?
Someone tapped the mic. It was time for the celebration to start; the church was honoring her husband’s fifty years of faithful service. He’d come to the country community not knowing a combine from a planter or beans from winter wheat. But he’d learned. He’d helped chase down stray cows and pigs, saved a calf from a pack of wild dogs, and once had dropped down a coal chute to rescue children accidentally locked inside a house. God had blessed him for that half-century. Big churches might scoff at what looked small to them, but she believed the old song, “Little is much when God is in it.”
He was no Billy Graham, her man, but he’d helped a few here and there find God. And he’d loved his people well and taught them to love one another. He’d loved her well too, and his children and grandchildren. Some of them were speaking today to honor him.
But first the singing! How that church could sing! Then came the speaking. So many people, so many words.
One son said, “There aren’t many left like my dad. I’m proud to be his son.”
A daughter said, “He tried everyday to live what he preached. I love him so much.”
A little girl said, “His face made me happy.”
After thirty minutes of praise that would have made an angel blush, they asked the pastor’s wife to speak. She said only a few words; she didn’t have strength for more. “I want to say we love you and thank you. We wouldn’t be what we are; we couldn’t have done what we have without you. Now I want to read you one of our favorite verses.”
Her hands trembled as she tried to turn the pages, and a daughter helped her find Psalm 115:1. “Not unto us, O Lord,” she read, “but unto thy name give the glory, for thy mercy and for thy truth’s sake.”
And then came the food, such an abundance of food prepared by loving hands in honor of this celebration.
The pastor’s wife didn’t eat much; she was so tired, but she loved hearing the conversation and laughter flow around her. She wished today never had to end; she’d hold it in her heart forever. But it did end, as all things must.
Her son helped her to the car. “Mom, do you ever wonder about God’s timing? Why did He have to take Dad to heaven last week? Dad would have loved today.”
She looked up at him and smiled through her tears. “I missed him terribly today, but I kept thinking this beautiful celebration was nothing compared to what he’s enjoying now.”
Her son bent down and hugged her. “You’re right, Mom. He’s having the grandest celebration of all.”
The church bell rang sweetly again, signaling the end of another wonderful day at the corner where two dirt roads meet. And the corn grew tall.
The End
***
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole
Dead is dead, right? I mean you can’t say something is so dead.
But it is. It is so dead.
The beautiful tree we bought the day after Thanksgiving 2022 and decorated with so much joy and hope stands desolate and dead in our living room. Needles scatter all over the floor, along with a few ornaments the cats have knocked down.
I look at the dead tree and at the needles slowly taking over the house and sigh. Symbolic they are. For all the plans we had for Christmas activities that never happened. Why not? Let’s just say it was this, that, and the other thing. Including influenza and Covid.
It’s past the middle of January 2023 now and we still haven’t had family Christmas. I happen to know three grandkids in Ohio ask almost every day when it’s going to happen, and I imagine the rest of our crew of fourteen grandchildren wonder the same thing. It’s now scheduled for the last Sunday of the month, Lord willing and if the creek don’t rise, and hope against hope.
But the tree is dead. No one has had the physical or emotional energy to remove its decorations. I’m going to do that as soon as I finish writing this article. Maybe. I know John will help me. I’m already hearing hundreds, thousands, millions of dead needles falling as we remove ornaments.
Okay, so I exaggerate. It’s a prerogative of authors and evangelists.
Which reminds me. Did you hear about the evangelist who went to a pastor pleading for an intervention?
“Please, help me. I’m preaching at your church Sunday, and the Lord has convicted me of sin. I have a ginormous problem with exaggeration. I’ve literally cried gallons of tears about it.”
The pastor nodded. “You do have a problem.”
“Will you sit behind me when I preach? If I exaggerate, tug on my suitcoat.”
Sunday came. The evangelist held the congregation spellbound with his persuasive personality and superb storytelling.
“I don’t usually preach in churches this small,” he said. “The last auditorium I preached in was one-thousand feet long!”
He felt a strong tug on his suit coat and cleared his throat.
“Yes, five-hundred feet long…and two feet wide.”
Well, we didn’t have a Walton Family Christmas or a Hallmark movie one either this year, but lest I exaggerate our woes we had many blessings too. Our kids’ program at church was excellent; I loved every minute. Our candlelight service, always a favorite, lived up to expectations. True, no one remembered to bring a candle, not even us, but the readings and specials captured hearts. Christmas Day here with just the four of us really was wonderful, white Christmas and all, until I got sick in the middle of it.
And there hasn’t been a day since when everyone here has felt completely well. That’s why the dead tree still stands, yet undecorated, a metaphor for shattered plans.
Life’s magical moments, its joy filled days can’t last forever. During a celebration death knocks on a door somewhere; or a doctor gives a grim diagnosis, or a heartbreak ends a relationship.
You and I, we climbed our hills with so much hope, didn’t we? The highest height was just in sight when we slipped and began a downward slide. I see a sled. Grab it my friend; hold on tight, and off you go. Let the tears freeze on your cheeks as you zig zag down. It’s quiet now, peaceful even, and the sled finds its own way through beautiful snow draped pines. You aren’t going in the direction you’d hoped, but you see beauty through those frozen tears. The sled skids sideways and stops. You’re at the bottom now. You climb off, weary and sad, and look up at where you once were. Perhaps one day you’ll have the energy to climb again, but not now. You’re too tired; the hill is too steep. Your hands are freezing; somehow, you’ve lost your mittens. You shove your hands into your pockets to warm them and feel a flicker of warmth in your heart. You know right away what it is, and you thank God you haven’t lost that. It’s hope. You glance to your left and see someone else climbing off a sled. It’s me, I haven’t lost hope either, not yet.
Hope is why we’re decorating another tree here in the next few days.
Our daughter who lives with us discovered an artificial flocked tree at an after Christmas sale. We split the cost. It arrives today. Those decorations I’m taking off the dead tree are going on the new one. No one in this house is a big fan of artificial trees, but I think we’re going to love this one.
Are we crazy to decorate again? Maybe. But family Christmas, like life, is what you make it. And along with love, laughter, and lots of good food, we want a tree at our family Christmas. For the grandkids. Okay, for the grandma too. Trees are metaphors for lots of things. Ours has lots of lights and a spinning antique star ornament. It says yesterday. It says today. And it says maybe tomorrow.
“Through the years we all will be together
If the Lord allows
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.” –Hannah Kerr lyrics
It wasn’t the smartest decision I’ve ever made but I couldn’t help myself.
You see, our dear pastor friend had died. Because of my cancer treatments I couldn’t do any of the things I used to do. I couldn’t go to the memorial service to honor him and comfort his wife or hug his family members, also my dear friends. I couldn’t serve at the funeral dinner.
I’m no longer on one of the hospitality groups at church. Every January I still print up the sign-up lists for the hospitality groups and children’s church workers, but the last three Januarys I haven’t been able to add my name the way I always did before.
I’ve lost count of how many funeral dinners I once oversaw, but those days are no more.
Our church didn’t fix the entire meal for our pastor friend’s funeral dinner. The people in charge only requested salads.
My husband, John, started to call Martha and Marilyn, the two women on our church hospitality committee that month, so they could arrange the salads.
“Tell them I’ll make enough macaroni salad for one-hundred and fifty people,” I told John. “That way they won’t have to get so many other salads.”
He stared at me.
His Donna? The one who usually must take a nap after a simple shower because she’s so exhausted?
“Don’t forget you have the family coming here for Thanksgiving the day before, honey.”
“I know.”
“And Kimmee can’t help you make all that salad; she and Jenny have to shoot a wedding.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t know how much I can help you either. If I’m going to take Thanksgiving Day off to be with family, get ready to preach the funeral on Saturday, and prepare for Sunday, I probably won’t have much time available to help you on Friday.”
“I’ll be fine. I love that family and I can’t be there to comfort them. And I love Martha and Marilyn. There’s so much I can’t do, honey. Please, let me do this for everyone.”
“If you’re sure….”
“I’m sure. Make the call.”
The following days were a storm of activity, cooking, cleaning, moving furniture, setting up tables, and decorating for Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving was wonderful, a day of love and laughter, one of those days you keep in your heart forever.
After everyone left and we cleaned up I think I must have found our bed. I don’t remember.
The next morning, I could barely wake up. Then I remembered. Macaroni salad for one-hundred fifty! My feet hit the ground with a groan and a prayer. Well, the recipe was easy enough. Just in case you ever need it, here it is.
Macaroni Salad for 150
8 pounds macaroni cooked and drained
4 ½ pounds shredded cheddar cheese
8 pounds fully cooked ham cubed
3 bags frozen peas, 20-oz each, thawed
3 bunches celery, chopped (about 18 cups)
3 large onions, chopped
3 jars green olives, sliced (Sorry, I can’t remember the size.)
Dressing:
12 cups mayonnaise
12 ounces Western or French salad dressing
½ cup white vinegar
½ cup sugar
2 cups half and half
2 ¼ t onion salt
2 ¼ t garlic salt
1 ½ t salt
1 ½ t pepper
Directions:
In several large bowls, combine the first seven ingredients. In a large bowl, combine all the dressing ingredients; pour over ham mixture and toss to coat. Cover and refrigerate until serving.
“You call me if you need me,” John said.
“I won’t need you,” I promised.
So much for promises!
In generosity added to love I forgot to calculate one vital factor: Who has containers big enough to mix that much macaroni salad?
It wasn’t long before John was in the kitchen helping me. I still don’t know how we did it. I’m pretty sure our guardian angels were laughing, not helping. Finally, we got all the salad mixed and put into sturdy, disposable lasagna pans, all that would fit, that is.
There was a considerable amount of salad left.
“You know I love macaroni salad, honey,” John said as he started hunting for containers to put the leftovers in.
I looked at the kitchen. Every pot, pan, and bowl we had was dirty. There wasn’t a clean spot to sit even a coffee cup.
About then our granddaughter stopped by and were we ever happy to see her! We were more than ready to sit.
“Come in, Megan!” I laughed when she walked into the kitchen. “This is what a kitchen looks like when you make macaroni salad for one-hundred fifty people. Want some?”
“No, but thanks, Grandma.”
She looked around the messy kitchen with those wide blue eyes of hers and offered to clean it up, but I refused.
“Just stay and talk awhile, if you have time.”
Megan did stay, and her grandpa and I loved every minute. Lunch time came and went. She had to be hungry. Again, I offered macaroni salad. Again, she politely refused.
We hated to see Megan leave; we always do.
And then we tackled the kitchen. What a job.
“She…went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends—a mammoth task.” –O’ Henry
When we finally finished cleaning up, John was ready for macaroni salad. We ate it several times that day.
By the next morning when John left early to deliver the pans of salad for the funeral dinner, I was already tired of eating it.
“Tell them to give any leftovers to the family or the kitchen help, okay?”
“I think they said they’re going to give the dinner leftovers to the homeless shelter.”
I’m pretty sure I made way too much macaroni salad. I’m pretty sure the people at the homeless shelter couldn’t eat it all. I’m pretty sure it ended up in a dumpster somewhere, but that’s okay. I was just glad it didn’t come back home because we ate the macaroni salad we had here way longer than it’s safe to eat it, and I haven’t made it since. Nor do I plan to.
A few days later I remembered something. Megan doesn’t like macaroni salad. And it seems I don’t either, not anymore!
Is it possible to have too much of a good thing? Maybe. I do believe I ate way too many pieces of Christmas chocolate candy. But I don’t think you can have too much generosity mixed with love. I’d do it again it a heartbeat; if I thought it could bring a little help and comfort to my friends, I’d offer to make salad for one-hundred and fifty people.
But you better believe it wouldn’t be macaroni salad.
The End
***
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole
“Addie, it’s almost midnight,” Paul said. “You should be sleeping.”
She was sitting up in bed, notebook propped on her knees, pencil in hand. “I know, Daddy, but I’m working on my New Year’s substitutions.”
“Your what?”
“You know. Like you and Mommy made. I heard you say you want to lose a few pounds, and Mommy said she wants to read more, especially her Bible.”
Paul chuckled and adjusted the beanie that had slid too far forward on Addie’s bald head. “Oh, I see, your resolutions.”
“Uh huh. That’s what I said.”
“Well, how about if I unplug your Christmas tree lights now so it’s darker in here so you can sleep. You can work on your resolutions tomorrow.”
“Do you want to see what I wrote?”
“Maybe tomorrow, honey. You need to sleep.”
He put her notebook and pencil on the bedside table, and she snuggled down under her covers.
“I’ll go to sleep, Daddy, but please leave the tree lights on. I wish we could leave the decorations up until Valentine’s Day!”
He kissed her forehead. She felt warm.
Please, Lord, not neutropenia again and another trip to the ER.
He took her temperature. It wasn’t yet to the point the oncologist ordered ER visits.
“You come get Mommy and me if you start feeling sick.”
“I will, but I feel fine! Daddy, does your angel whisper to you before you fall asleep?”
He shook his head.
“You do believe in angels, don’t you Daddy? Because my angel whispers to me.”
If she wants to believe an angel whispers to her, and that gives her comfort, let her believe it.
He kept back sobs until he got to the living room where Jenna folded him in her arms.
“Let it out, honey. I’ve been crying most of the day. I’m not sure the treatments are working, and the oncologist gives such vague answers. And he’s always in a hurry and never smiles. It’s hard talking to him.”
Paul wiped his eyes. “He doesn’t have an easy job, honey. He isn’t God; he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want us to lose hope.”
He felt her tremble. “I’m not losing hope, Paul, but I’m scared. It’s so hard having to take a seven-year-old for chemotherapy. Last week a little three-year-old was next to us. She sobbed the whole time, until Addie asked if she wanted her to tell her a story. Addie told her a beautiful story about how her guardian angel whispers to her a bedtime. She told the little girl she had an angel too, and she should listen right before she falls asleep, and maybe the angel will talk to her about heaven or even sing to her. That little girl of ours has quite an imagination.”
Paul turned on the gas fireplace and they sat on the couch in front of it. “I’m not so sure it’s her imagination. I think she really believes it. She told me tonight her angel whispers to her.”
Jenna looked at him. “Do you think it’s possible?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? The Bible says children have angels.”
Jenna put her head on his shoulder. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this tired, body, soul, and spirit. She usually took down Christmas decorations on New Year’s Day, and here it was the third, and she couldn’t even think about beginning the chore. She told Paul how she felt.
Paul said, “Addie said she wished we could leave decorations up until Valentine’s Day. Why don’t we do that for her. Just in case…” He cleared his throat. “You know what she was doing tonight? She was working on what she called her New Year’s Substitutions.”
Jenna sat up. “Her what?”
“You know, substitutions. Resolutions?”
“Oh!” Jenna laughed.
“What were they?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t look.”
“Do you think she’d mind if we sneak in there and take a peek?”
Paul shook his head. “She wouldn’t mind. She tried to show them to me earlier. I want to check on her anyway. Her temperature was up a little.”
Jenna groaned. “Not again!”
Addie’s room glowed with the soft lights from her tree. Jenna went to her bed and softly kissed her forehead. Her temperature felt normal.
Thank you, Lord.
Addie smiled in her sleep. Jenna checked to be sure her bucket was next to her bed, just in case she got sick during the night, a frequent occurrence.
Paul was reading the notebook and tears were running down his face.
He took Jenna’s hand and led her back to the living room couch. He handed her the notebook.
Jenna read what Addie had printed:
My New Year Subtatoshuns
Help kids not to cry
Help nurses not to be sad
Help doctur to smile
Help mommy and daddy not to be afrade about if I dye becuse Jesus will take care of me
It took quite awhile before Jenna could speak. “She knows we’re afraid.”
Paul nodded. “She’s a smart kid.”
“We can do better that this,” Jenna said. “I have a New Year’s substitution of my own. How about if we try to practice what we believe? Why don’t we face the future with faith instead of fear? Yes, we may lose Addie this year, but let’s not let fear spoil the time we have left with her!”
Paul smiled. “Well look at me. I have a smart daughter, and a smart wife.”
He hugged Jenna tightly. When she came up for air she asked, “What do you think that angel whispers in her ear every night?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he tells her that whatever happens, it’s going to be okay.”
The End
***
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole
Kat touched Johnny’s shoulder. She didn’t reach for his hand; he was gripping the steering wheel and staring out at the snow whipping across the country roads. He was used to city driving in Chicago, not backroads like these.
“Oh, the things you do for love, Johnny Dryden,” she said.
He gave her a quick smile. “Hard to believe it’s been a year and a week since I found you in your grandparent’s room at Riverside Assisted Living and Memory Care. I grabbed your hand that day and haven’t let go since!”
“You aren’t holding it now.” She teased.
“In just a few hours you’re going to be Kathleen Dryden and I’d like you to be able to say your vows in one piece. This storm is something else! At least it might keep some party goers off the road. Tell me again why we decided to get married on New Year’s Eve?”
“Because, after all the tears of this year, we wanted to begin next year with joy.”
Kat’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of the agonizing pain Grandma had suffered for weeks before she died, and the heart attack that took Grandpa a few hours after she went to be with Jesus. And then just a month after Mr. Ken had their joint memorial service, he joined them in heaven. Losing her grandparents and then her dear older friend had sent Kat spiraling into a deeper grief than she’d ever known.
She could barely choke out the words. “Johnny, I’m glad God took Grandpa before his beloved Corners Church in Wisconsin burned to the ground after the lightning strike. He would have been heartbroken to hear the small congregation disbanded. And somehow it seemed to me like the end. The end of so many things….”
Johnny took one hand off the steering wheel and reached for hers.
“I’m sorry, Kat. I loved your grandparents and I’m glad they didn’t have to know about the church. They suffered enough this year. The year wasn’t all bad though; they had some wonderful times. We all did!”
She laughed through her tears, and Johnny smiled at her.
If Mom and Dad were still alive, they’d love this woman I’m marrying.
“Wasn’t it amazing, Johnny, the way Mr. Ken and Grandma and Grandpa found each other again after all those years? Only God could do that! And they were inseparable after they were reunited last Christmas.”
Johnny nodded. “Remember last June when we brought your grandparents to your apartment? And your grandma insisted on making pancakes for all of us? Kat! I can understand burning one or two pancakes, but how does someone burn an entire two dozen of them? We had to open the windows so we could breathe!”
“Well, Johnny, you may have noticed I’ve inherited Grandma’s cooking talent.”
He laughed. “Good thing for you I love to cook. Good thing for me too!”
“Johnny, I’m glad you proposed to me when we were with Grandma, Grandpa, and Mr. Ken. It was so sweet.”
“It was supposed to be a little more romantic, but when your grandma said, ‘So I see you’ve finally decided what your intentions are toward my granddaughter. You may now hold her hand!’ we all laughed. So much for romance.”
“Laughter’s very romantic, Johnny. I love to laugh. But remember how happy Grandpa was? He said he wished we could get married at Corners Church and he could officiate. And we told him we’d try to make it happen.”
A small sob escaped. “But Johnny, you did the next best thing. I still don’t know how you found a church for our wedding that’s so much like Grandpa’s was. Internet?”
“Nope. I told our pastor you felt sad about not being able to get married in your grandpa’s little country church, and he told me he knew a man who’d once pastored a church in Chicago, one even larger than ours. The guy left and became pastor of a country church in Michigan. It sounds a lot like your grandpa’s church. It even has the same name, ‘Corners Church.’”
Suddenly, their vehicle slid, spun out, and came to rest in a snowbank on the lonely country road.
“Are you okay, honey?”
“I am, but I’m afraid we’re going to be late to our own wedding.”
He glanced at the dashboard and saw the time. They had only a half-hour left to make it to the church by five. Johnny had a great sense of direction and had memorized the route, but to check how much travel time they had left, he punched the church address into his phone.
“Oh great. No cell service. So, no GPS. And I don’t have a shovel.”
“Johnny! We have another problem. I forgot the marriage license!”
“No, you didn’t. I grabbed it off your table on the way out. It was great how the county clerk let us apply for it virtually, so we didn’t have to make this trip twice.”
“Yeah, the trip from Chicago to here that was supposed to take three hours? We’ve been on the road five already. What are we going to do?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, grinning, impossibly blue eyes holding her gaze. “We could panic or pray. You choose.”
“Can I choose both?”
He laughed and reached for her hands. He was still praying when someone knocked on his window.
“Looks like you folks need some help.”
“Are you an angel?” Kat asked.
The man laughed. “I’m not often called that. I’m Davey, and this is my son, Reece. The rest of my family is in the car. You don’t look too badly stuck; I think we can dig you out in no time.”
And they did. Johnny offered pay, but Davey shook his head. “Just have a safe and happy New Year, and God bless. Anything else I can do for you?”
“You wouldn’t happen to know how far Corner’s Church is, would you? It’s a white frame building on the corner of….”
“Two dirt roads.” Davey finished. “My family and I are on our way there now. You wouldn’t happen to be getting married this afternoon, would you?”
As Johnny followed Davey’s vehicle down dirt roads Kat began worrying.
“Johnny, didn’t the pastor say the church auditorium would be empty and available for us to use? Why are these people going there?”
Her heart sunk even more when they arrived, and the parking lot was full. The simple wedding of her dreams was evaporating. Had that pastor—what was his name—J.D.—gone and invited his entire congregation to her wedding that was supposed to be just her, Johnny, and the required witnesses?
Johnny was already in his suit. Kat took her satin dress with its fur cape from the backseat, and they walked into the auditorium. She caught her breath. It looked so much like Grandpa’s church. And it was decorated with beautiful simplicity, white lights on two real pine trees and on a garland strung across the front.
A gorgeous, tiny woman with red curls came toward her, smiling. “I’m Trish, J.D.’s wife. Let me show you where to change. Would you like some help?”
“I’m Kat, and I’d love some help. I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage the zipper, and I didn’t want to have to ask Johnny to help me with it when I got to the front of the church!”
Trish laughed. Kat thought it sounded like bells. She noticed Trish walked with a pronounced limp and wondered what had happened to her.
“J.D. and I got married here last Christmas. I decorated the same way for you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? It’s perfect!”
“And for my wedding a dear friend whose heart’s the only thing bigger than his bank account ordered flowers from overseas for me. When he heard we were going to have another Corner’s Church wedding, he did the same for you. Do you like lilacs?”
Fresh tears ran down Kat’s face. “They’re only my favorite flower.”
Trish left and returned with a box of tissues and a beautiful bouquet of purple, lavender, and white lilacs. She put the flowers into Kat’s hands, wiped her tears with a Kleenex, and said, “It’s time. Go meet your happily ever after.”
Trish stood in the back of the auditorium.
There are only a couple of people here. Where are the rest of them?
She heard the back door close, and her heart sunk. Were they all coming in now? It was only Reece, the teen who had helped shovel them out. He reached up, and pulled on a long, thick rope. The beautiful sound of a bell echoed over farms and fields.
How can it sound just like Grandpa’s church bell?
Kat whispered a thank you. Reece smiled and left.
The wedding march began. Kat took a few steps and stopped, suddenly feeling lonely and wishing she had someone to walk her down the aisle. As if by magic an older man appeared at her side and offered his arm.
“I’m George. May I?”
The ceremony was perfect, though Kat had a hard time concentrating because Johnny’s eyes kept promising he’d love her beyond forever.
When they signed the marriage license, she and Johnny used their matching antique Christmas pens. She had her grandpa’s, and he had Mr. Ken’s.
“J.D. uses an antique fountain pen too, but yours are unusual,” Trish said as she signed her name.
Kat said, “These pens have quite a story. They’re the Christmas pens. I wish I had time to tell you about them.”
“Oh, you have time. Our church people wouldn’t hear of you not having a reception. Do you smell that amazing sauce? I hope you like spaghetti because our Edna makes pasta you’ll never forget!”
“That’s so kind, but it’s a long drive back to Chicago, and this storm, and….”
Johnny laughed and hugged her. “We aren’t going back to Chicago tonight, honey. J.D. and Trish checked with me weeks ago. They’re giving us a wedding gift, two nights at a nearby log cabin bed and breakfast.”
The reception was wonderful, and Trish was right; she’d never forget Edna’s pasta, or the bread fresh from the oven, or the table full of pies people had brought. There was even a small, perfect wedding cake topped with a lighted country church.
Everyone wanted to hear the story of the Christmas pen. There were a few tears when Kat finished telling it.
Kat tried to keep names and faces straight. She hadn’t been hugged by this many people since she’d been at Grandpa’s church so many years before. A sign in the fellowship hall said, “Live, Love, Laugh.” These people sure knew how to do that, and how to share God’s love too.
Finally, an old man pounded his fist twice on the table. Kat jumped and Trish laughed.
“Don’t worry; that’s just Uncle Cyrus being Uncle Cyrus.”
The old man stood. “I say it’s getting late and we let this here sweet bride and groom head on out. We’ll meet again sometime, Lord willin’ and if the creek don’t rise.”
Kat and Johnny tried to express their gratitude, but it got swallowed up in more hugs.
Later, at the bed and breakfast, Kat asked, “Do you want to hear my crazy idea? I’d like to move here. I haven’t felt this much at home since I was a kid.”
Johnny laughed. “I’m always ready for adventure. A physician’s assistant can find work anywhere, but what are you going to do? I doubt there’s going to be a job here for a biomedical engineer.”
“Maybe I could work virtually.”
Johnny pulled her to the window that overlooked a field covered with snow. The clouds drifted apart, and a full moon glistened on the snow.
He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
“Let’s pray about it, Kat. And let’s make a lifetime of beautiful memories because life goes way too fast. Someday memories are all we’ll have. But for now, we have each other, and I don’t think anything could be more perfect. Do you agree?”
Her kiss answered his question, and the angels smiled.
The End
***
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole
“Aren’t you at least going to rinse the dinner dishes, Kat?” Mr. Ken asked.
She shook her head. “No time.”
She tried not to look impatient while he took his overcoat from the hall tree and put it on. His hands trembled over the buttons, and he nodded gratefully when she offered to button it for him. Then he knotted the red and green plaid scarf around his neck, tying it just so. And it seemed to take forever for him to pull on his leather gloves. Bent almost double, he tapped his gold tipped cane twice and smiled up at her.
“Aren’t you ready to go yet? What are we waiting for?”
Kathleen laughed. “Oh, Mr. Ken, some things are worth the wait. That’s what my grandpa always said.”
Ken almost fell when he slipped on the ice as they waited for a taxi. She caught him.
“Do you think a walker might be safer?”
“Maybe? Do they come with gold tips?”
Even in the cab he kept shivering. “Where are we going?” he asked, teeth chattering.
“I know you’d rather be under a warm blanket enjoying your Sunday afternoon nap, but I’m taking you for a Christmas surprise. Don’t ask questions.”
“Oh, Kat, old men are happiest at home. I don’t need anything I don’t already have there.”
“Don’t you, though?” she asked, giving him a mysterious smile.
He groaned when they pulled into the winding driveway of the Riverside Assisted Living and Memory Care.
“Kat! Just because I slipped on the ice once or twice! Have you arranged a tour here for me?”
She laughed. “It’s Christmas Day, remember? I don’t think they do tours on Christmas.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Just ride along with me.”
He gave her a sharp look.
“That couple I told you about who took me in when I was a tough street kid? Bill and Sheri? He used to say that to her when she tried to be a backseat driver. ‘Just ride along with me.’ She didn’t like it much. He knew it too. But they just looked at each other and laughed.”
Kathleen saw tears in his eyes behind his half glasses. He took off a leather glove, fished a handkerchief out of his pocket, and blew his nose.
“They were the kindest people God ever made, taking in a tough kid like me, giving me a place to live, and telling me about Jesus. I told them I’d never believe in Jesus, and I’m sure they thought I never did, after the way I left, stealing from them, and destroying Sheri’s Bible. I’d give anything to apologize and tell them they changed my life. But we don’t live looking in the rearview mirror. We aren’t going that way. Always go forward. You remember that Kat.”
“I will, Mr. Ken, but we can’t go anywhere if we don’t get out of this cab.”
The lobby was beautifully decorated, and a group of children was singing Christmas carols. Mr. Ken smiled and waved at them. Kathleen steered him down a hallway.
“Do we have to walk far?” he asked, leaning hard on her arm.
She shook her head. “Just a few doors.”
She stopped at a door decorated like a Christmas tree. It had a sign, “First prize for door decorating.” Ken looked for a name, but it was covered by the tree.
“Who are we going to see?” he asked.
She smiled and guided him inside.
“Grandma and Grandpa, I brought you a Christmas present.”
A tiny, fragile looking lady with white curls protested, “Kat, no gifts! You promised!”
A man Ken judged to be even older than himself chuckled. “You know our granddaughter, Sheri! She has a mind of her own, just like her grandma. So, what’s the present, kiddo? Let’s have it. I hope it’s chocolate!”
“Bill!” The old lady laughed. “You’re incorrigible! And you probably should let Kat introduce her guest before you start begging for candy.”
Bill? Sheri?
It couldn’t be. Ken’s mind struggled to keep up.
Kathleen led him closer to the older couple. “Grandma and Grandpa, this is my dear friend, Mr. Ken. He’s a retired pastor and an old friend of yours, but you knew him as Sam.”
She glanced at Ken’s face and lowered him into the armchair behind him just before he fell.
Sheri put one hand over her heart and struggled to catch her breath. “Bill! Honey? The scarf he’s wearing! It’s the gift I got you long ago, the one missing from under the tree when Sam left us on Christmas, the day we found my new Bible ripped apart and thrown under the tree…”
The angels congregated to hear the tears, laugher, and conversation that followed, and they whispered to each other, “Look. It’s another Christmas miracle.”
Two taps sounded on the door. Kathleen was the only one who heard it. She opened it and stared into the brilliant blue eyes of Johnny Dryden.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m the volunteer chaplain here. I come here every Sunday to get advice from Bill and Sheri, and they pray with me. What are you doing here?”
Kathleen’s grandpa hollered, “Hey, Johnny, come in! I want to introduce you to my granddaughter and tell you a story you aren’t going to believe!”
Johnny grinned. “I’ve already met your granddaughter, and I can’t wait to hear your story. He took Kathleen’s hand and guided her to a love seat under the window. They sat down, but he didn’t let go of her hand.
Kathleen’s grandma stared at her and raised an eyebrow. Kathleen shrugged.
“Young man, what are your intentions toward my granddaughter?”
Johnny looked at Kathleen and smiled. “To be determined.”
“Then perhaps you should let go of Kat’s hand while you work out the to be determined part.”
His face flushed. “Yes, ma’am.”
But he didn’t let go of her hand.
Kathleen laughed. So did her grandparents.
Mr. Ken said, “I’ve been expecting this.”
The three older people began reminiscing again.
Johnny said quietly, “I still want to get to know you, Kat Jones. What do you do in your spare time?”
“I’m writing a novel based on the years my grandparents spent at their country church.”
“I’d love to have you read it to me.”
“Maybe you could come for dinner sometimes. We could invite Mr. Ken too. He’s terribly lonely.”
He smiled. “I’d like that.”
Ken said, “My hearing’s pretty good for an old man. I better warn you, Johnny, she’s a terrible cook.”
“Yes,” Sheri said proudly, “she gets that from me.”
“I’ll bring takeout,” Johnny said.
“Wise decision,” Ken said, laughing.
“Oh, Grandpa, I almost forgot,” Kathleen said. “I want to show you how all this started.”
She tried to reach into her purse.
“Johnny, you’re going to have to let go of my hand.”
He flushed again.
Kathleen pulled out the antique red pen. “Mr. Ken fixed the pen you gave me.”
Ken nodded, pulled from his shirt pocket the pen that matched it, and showed it to Bill.
Bill’s eyes filled with tears. “You kept that pen I gave you all these years?”
Ken choked on the words. “I never forgot you. I kept the pen to remind myself of the man I was before your love and the love of Jesus changed me. Can you ever forgive me?”
“Forgive you? That happened on a long-ago Christmas afternoon when we got home from church, noticed the missing gifts, and saw the torn Bible under the tree. Sheri and I dropped to our knees and told God how much we loved you. We’ve prayed for ‘our Sam’ every day since.”
Kathleen went and hugged Ken who was crying. “It’s no wonder I loved you almost as soon as I met you. From the time I was a tiny girl, I’ve been praying for Grandma and Grandpa’s ‘Sam.’ And here we are, all together, because of the Christmas pen.”
Next, she hugged her grandpa. “Here,” she said, handing him the pen, “this belongs back with you, Grandpa. It’s a great reminder prayer can mend broken things. Even broken hearts.”
Kat sat on the loveseat and took Johnny’s hand. The sweet talk of the older ones flowed around them like a warm blanket until suddenly it became very quiet.
Johnny chuckled. “Look. They’re all sleeping. Do you think you should take Ken home so he can get a real nap?”
“I will soon,” she whispered, “but tell me. How did a Physician’s Assistant become a chaplain?”
“Well, I came here often to visit my grandpa who’s in heaven now. He was in the room next door, and one day I came into your grandparent’s room by mistake. Your grandpa was cleaning his collection of fountain pens, and I was intrigued. We got talking, and one thing led to another. He told me he’d been praying for someone to be a volunteer chaplain and. . . .”
The three old ones kept napping. The two younger ones kept talking. Outside the snow kept falling. And the angels kept listening to another Christmas miracle just beginning.
“Third Sunday in a row we’ve had snow,” Kathleen said to herself, as she closed her computer. She liked her job as a biomedical engineer, but her real passion was writing. She’d been working on her novel in snatched minutes of time for almost two years and sometimes got so engrossed in the story she lost track of time. Like now.
“Wow, I’m running late!”
Kathleen detested being late for anything, but the prelude was well underway when she slipped into her pew at Christ Calvary Cathedral for the Christmas service. Mr. Ken smiled at her. She felt uneasy about the elderly man; he was still wearing his overcoat and red and green plaid scarf and looked pale. It was plenty warm enough in the building.
Is he sick?
“You okay?” she whispered.
He nodded and patted her hand. His gloves were still on too.
The program started. Without words, accompanied only by the orchestra, children in tailor-made costumes acted out the manger scene.
The production was beautiful, but Kathleen had to stifle a giggle. She couldn’t help remembering the year at Grandpa’s country church when there weren’t enough boys and she’d had to play Joseph. She’d been upset; she’d wanted to be Mary or an angel. And then the bath towel someone had wrapped around her head had fallen off halfway up the aisle and everyone had laughed. She hadn’t thought it was funny then, but it was one of her favorite memories now.
The perfectly dressed children exited, and the choir sang the beautiful song by Ron Hamilton, “Born to Die.”
“On the night Christ was born, Just before break of morn,
As the stars in the sky were fading,
O’er the place where He lay, Fell a shadow cold and gray,
Of a cross that would humble a King.
Born to die upon Calv’ry
Jesus suffered my sin to forgive
Born to die upon Calv’ry
He was wounded that I might live.”
As the choir finished, a hush fell over the auditorium. Two teenage boys dressed like Roman soldiers came up the aisle carrying a big wooden cross. They took slow, deliberate steps in the silence. When they got to the large, decorated Frasier Fir in the front, they raised the cross and dropped it with a loud thud into a stand that had been set up next to the tree. The boys stood quietly, looking at the cross. Then the younger of the two fell to his knees and began crying. It obviously wasn’t part of the script. The older boy looked around awkwardly for a minute; then he knelt next to the younger boy and put an arm around his shoulder. He whispered something and the other boy nodded. They stood, both crying now. They faced the congregation, raised their right arms high, fists clenched, then tapped their hearts.
The boys shouted in unison, “Jesus is Lord!”
Kathleen reached in her purse for a few tissues. Mr. Ken needed one too. She heard sniffles all around her.
The pastor stood head bowed. Finally, he said, “My sermon today was titled, ‘The Perfect Tree,’ but I don’t need to preach about the cross. These boys have done a far better job than I could ever do.”
To the soft music of “Silent Night,” the congregation filed out quietly.
Mr. Ken sat in the pew, head bowed, praying. Kathleen waited for him.
Finally, using his gold tipped cane, he struggled to his feet, smiling at her through the tears on his face.
How can I love this old man I’ve only known a few weeks? But I do. Even his smile reminds me of grandpa.
“Aren’t you feeling well?” she asked.
Mr. Ken chuckled. “Just an old man who can’t get warm. Am I still invited for that awful dinner? You said you’re a terrible cook.”
She laughed. “You are and I am.”
Once again Johnny Dryden was waiting to help them into a cab, and Kathleen’s eyes widened when Mr. Ken invited him to her apartment for lunch.
Johnny’s incredibly blue eyes met hers and he laughed. “You’re safe. I have to get to work.”
She nodded. “I guess physician’s assistants have to work Christmas Sunday?”
“It’s my other job. My volunteer one,” he said, as he helped Mr. Ken into the cab. “But Kat Jones, I still want to get to know you. What did you think of the sermon?”
“Best I’ve ever heard.”
“Same.” He smiled and waved as the cab pulled away.
As promised, Sunday dinner was terrible. Kathleen sighed. “This is the first time I’ve goofed up spaghetti.”
Mr. Ken laughed. He took another bite of the undercooked pasta covered with the too salty sauce. “It’s not that bad, Kat. It’s nice to eat with someone. This more than repays me for fixing your grandpa’s pen. It should work for many years now. The one I have just like it wrote love letters to Ruth and thousands of sermons, and it’s still working.”
“How did you become a pastor, Mr. Ken? I have to leave at three o’clock, but we have time for your story.”
He took a crunchy bite of the too dark garlic bread, coughed, and grabbed his water. “It’s a long story. What do you say you keep eating and I’ll tell it? I’m kind of full myself.”
He’d barely begun talking when Kathleen’s face paled and she pushed away her own plate. He’d been a runaway, hated his abusive parents, hated the church that knew what was happening but did nothing to stop it, and hated God. Then he decided there was no God. A confirmed atheist at the age of sixteen, he’d lived on the streets, a tough kid who’d do anything for food or a bed. Then he got sick.
“It was a bitter cold winter, a lot like this one. I intended to mug and rob whoever answered the door that night, but I was too weak to even knock. I guess I made a lot of noise falling into the door, because a woman opened it. She called her husband to help her, and they half-carried me inside.
“I could see right away they were poor, and I cursed my dumb luck for not stumbling into a place where I could take something worthwhile. They asked my name. I was sick and half out of my mind, but street smart enough not to give my real name. I told them my name was. . . ”
Kathleen interrupted him. “Sam.”
Her mind was racing.
How did I not see this before? The pen. The phrases he uses. The scarf!
He raised his white bushy eyebrows and stared at her. “How’d you know that? Lucky guess? Anyway, they took me to a walk-in clinic that night and got me some antibiotics. I heard Bill, that was his name, tell Shari he was sorry he’d had to use some money he’d been saving for Christmas to pay for it. She hugged him and said she didn’t care; he’d given her a gift she’d never forget by helping me.
“I thought they were a huge joke. Like people from another planet, you know? How could they be for real? They said I could stay with them as long as I wanted. They fed me. She was a terrible cook, and I didn’t let them know it, but I enjoyed every meal. They gave me a warm bed. But they kept talking to me about God, and every time they did, I got mad. I told them there was no God and no good people either. Everyone had an angle, and I’d figure out theirs sooner or later.
“Sometimes I’d hear Bill and Sheri praying for me late at night, and that made me angry too. I didn’t think I needed their prayers. They said they’d always pray for me.
“Bill was a seminary student. He was going to be a pastor somewhere when he graduated. I told him it was a fool’s job.
“I’d been with them about a month. It was Christmas Day. They begged me to go to church with them, said we’d open gifts after we got home. I refused. I’d had it with their God talk. As soon as they left, I raided the gifts under the tree. Sheri had wrapped a gift for Bill, a scarf. I took it. I wear it to this day to remind me of what I was before God saved me. Bill had wrapped a gift for me, the red fountain pen you see me write with. His gift for Sheri was a Bible. I tore pages out of it, left it under the tree, and hit the streets.
“After a few more years of alcohol, drugs, and street life, I was a mess. I ended up in the Rescue Mission. I’d never been able to forget Bill and Sheri and the love and kindness they’d shown me. They’d made God seem real to me, and I hated what I’d done to them. When I finally understood God’s love in sending His Son and asked Jesus to save me from my sin, I looked for them to thank them and ask forgiveness, but they were gone. They probably forgot all about me, but I never forgot them.”
Kathleen had to clear her throat twice before she could speak. “Mr. Ken, we’ll eat dessert later. It’s almost three o’clock. There’s somewhere I have to go, and I’d really like you to come with me.”
“Old men need afternoon naps, Kat.”
He looked at her pleading eyes.
“Okay. Let me get my coat.”
She smiled. “And your scarf, Mr. Ken. Be sure to wear your scarf.”
The End
Be sure to come back for The Christmas Pen Part Four
***
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole
