Author: gettingofftheinterstate

by Donna Poole Title by Laura Cooper

Spring fought hard for the win in Montana this year. It snowed five times in April; we got a foot on the twenty-second. My rows of daffodils bloomed that day in the snow. Stupid things, I hadn’t watered or weeded them in ten years, and still they thrived. They were always the first signs of spring.

“May we all be blessed with the resilience and determination of daffodils.”

I pushed away the thought. I’d had a friend named Lonie who’d liked to say that. Well, my resilience and determination died a long time ago along with my friendships. And so did my fondness for inspirational quotes. And for reading. And for everything else.

This Hal Boreland quote had once been a favorite: “No winter lasts forever, no spring skips its turn.”

Yeah, right, Harold Glen Borland. You never met my heart. Spring has skipped right over it for a decade.

I never realized until my entire family shut me out of their lives what a cold, unforgiving place the world really is. So, I’d been a terrible Christian; I admit that.

Back when I’d still loved my books, I’d read something by C.S. Lewis that stuck with me: “The sins of the flesh are bad, but they are the least bad of all sins. All the worst pleasures are purely spiritual: the pleasure of putting other people in the wrong, of bossing and patronising and spoiling sport, and back-biting, the pleasures of power, of hatred.”

There can be a perverse sort of pleasure in hatred. My family hates me for what I did, but I hate myself more. Part of me understands why they turned away when I begged for forgiveness. My husband moved out of state to try to start over. My children, teenagers then, chose to go with him. As years passed and I realized forgiveness wasn’t coming, I tried to forget that part of my life had ever existed.

Sometimes I’d wake at night, though, thinking I’d heard a voice calling, “Mom!”
Sometimes, when I woke in the morning, my pillow was wet with tears.

What had I done? It doesn’t matter to this story. Was I sorry? Ridiculous question.

I guess you could say I’d repented, though I hadn’t talked to God for ten years. I’d think, now and then, about the Bible story of the Prodigal Son and how his father welcomed him home and smothered his apology in a hug. I knew that story Jesus had told pictured God waiting to welcome me back, but I wasn’t having it.

I tried to stuff all thoughts of God into the icebox that had once been my heart.

Music was my enemy. One song returned to my memories every May with the lilacs; it would have made me cry if I’d let it: “Lord, to my heart bring back the springtime. Take away the cold and dark of sin. Oh, refill me now, sweet Holy Spirit. May I warm and tender be again.”

Every spring the lilacs and that song threatened to crack the ice protecting my heart. I hated them both.

Back home, Mom used to say, “My favorite time of year is when lilacs bloom!” She’d fill every room with vases full of them. During the long, cold winters that followed, she’d say, “My heart still smells spring.”

Lilacs were the scent of my childhood and Mom’s favorite flower. She called them “purple sunshine.” Corny, I know, but sweet. My mother was like that.
She’d bury her face in a bunch of lilacs and say, “The sweet smell of spring. Promise me, honey, you’ll always listen when lilacs speak.”

I’d roll my eyes. “Mom, lilacs don’t talk.”

“They do. They say spring always comes.”

Mothers and Daughters. You know how it is; we weren’t much alike, Mom and I. She lived in the sunshine of God’s love, always sure of his smile. She woke every day certain something wonderful was going to happen. I got out of bed expecting the worst.

I’d been hard on myself as a child. If I’d done something wrong during the day, I’d refuse to eat the ice cream our family enjoyed together each evening. No amount of coaxing from Mom could get me to touch that ice cream I loved.

She’d sigh and say, “Honey, don’t be harder on yourself than Jesus is.”

I grew up to be like Mom in one way, though. Lilacs became my favorite flower. I’d married in May and carried a bouquet of them, burying my face in them after we’d said, “I do,” and my new husband had kissed me.

The lilacs had been in bloom ten years ago when my bitter, disillusioned husband had left me, and the children had gone too. I knew from social media I now had a granddaughter I’d never met, a beautiful child with my mother’s smile. Would my daughter even tell her about me? Would my granddaughter, when she was grown, perhaps want to meet me? I tried not to hope. For me, hope was a four-letter word.

Mom had been right and wrong. Lilacs do speak, but they didn’t say what she’d said they would. Their words were memories tearing me apart. I would have prayed the bushes would die if I’d still prayed.

Spring fought hard for the win in Montana this year, so the lilacs were late, but when they bloomed, it was like nothing I’d ever seen. The blossoms were enormous, and the smell hung so heavy in the air I couldn’t bear to open the windows. Memories threatened to leak out of my eyes. One tear, just one, and I’d be undone.

I had to get rid of those cursed flowers. I dragged the ladder out of the shed and clipped off every lilac. Arms full, I headed for the burn pile, but I thought about Mom and couldn’t do it.
So, I set up cinder blocks in the front yard and laid boards between them. I had dozens of vases stored in boxes; in my other life I’d filled my house with lilacs the way Mom had done. I arranged the flowers in vases, added water, and lined them up on the board with a sign that said, “Free.” I left the boxes there too.

Exhausted, I sat in my lawn chair quite a distance behind the lilacs. I couldn’t wait for someone to stop and take them. I knew I wasn’t being rational, but I thought perhaps if the lilacs left, the memories threatening to win this year, the song wanting to bring back the springtime, the tears trying to come, the prayers struggling for release—maybe all these things would leave with them. I didn’t want spring to thaw my frozen heart. Spring hurts too much.

It didn’t take long for someone to stop. An old man got out of his van and began putting my vases into the boxes. He was taking every single one. I watched him for a time. Then something in me snapped.

Just take everything. This was selfishness! This was people for you! This was me!

What if someone else might like a vase? What if one little girl with her great-grandmother’s smile wanted to give a vase of lilacs to her grandma? And this… old lilac man…was going to take them all. Probably he was going to sell them at the farmer’s market.

You could have heard my voice a country mile away as I charged toward him. I called him every name in the book, names I certainly never learned in Sunday school. He listened quietly to my accusations then slowly began taking the vases from the boxes with trembling hands and putting them back on the board.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I live in a nursing home where most residents can’t drive. Many never leave their rooms. I thought I’d take the flowers to them, but you’re right of course. I wasn’t thinking of others who might want them.”

I stared at him for a moment. And then I started to cry. The old man patted my back and mumbled comforting sounds like you’d make to a small child. I thought my tears would never stop.

When I finally finished sobbing, he asked, “Can I do anything to help?”

My whole story came tumbling out to this stranger. He didn’t interrupt; he just listened with compassion growing in his eyes.

I finished. “And there you have it,” I said. “The whole rotten story of me.”

He patted my hand. “Do you know about Jesus?” he asked. “When God’s Son died on the cross for us, he did more than gain forgiveness for our sins. He took sin into his heart and made it not to be. For those of us who believe Jesus died in our place, there’s nothing left for us but the sunshine of the Father’s face.”

I nodded and wiped my face. “I’ve believed that since I was a little girl.”

He said something. I was sure I hadn’t heard him correctly. “What did you say?”

“I said, then don’t be harder on yourself than Jesus is.”

And then, I kid you not, in an old, quavering voice, he started singing, “Lord, to my heart bring back the springtime.”

I started crying again, but this time my tears were a prayer. And while I cried, I loaded the vases back into the boxes. All but one.

Lilacs might not be flowering in my heart quite yet, but there were signs of spring. Rows of daffodils were definitely blooming in the snow.

“Mom,” I whispered as the old man continued to sing, “I think maybe my heart still smells spring.”

The old man stopped singing. “Did you say something to me?”

“Do you like quotes?” I asked. And then I shared the Hal Boreland one. He liked it. He liked it a lot.

After he left, I took the last vase of lilacs and got into my car. My friend Lonie had tried to keep in touch, but I’d been ignoring her for a decade. She’d always loved lilacs, and I had taken her some every May. Would she remember? I could only hope.

What would I say when she answered the door? Maybe I’d say, “Hi, Lonie. Spring fought hard for the win.”

The End

Thank you to everyone who contributed title ideas for this story. Laura Cooper won with her title, “Signs of Spring,” but all your ideas were creative!
Even though your ideas didn’t win for title, the following people will find your titles used somewhere in the story: Mark Trippet: “Back Home,” Bill Baker: “The Old Lilac Man,” Joan Russell: “Behind the Lilacs,” Ron Kratz: “When Lilacs Speak,” Peg Ramey: “Would She Remember?” Carolyn Wescott: “Mothers and Daughters,” Susan Blazer: “Purple Sunshine,” Jackie Pearson Pickinpaugh: “My heart Still Smells Spring,” Linda Barvinchak Hackley: “Scent of My Childhood,” Elisa Margarita Eppstein: “When Lilacs Bloom,” and Ruth Kyser: “The Sweet Smell of Spring.”

“May we all be blessed with the resilience and determination of daffodils”.—Lonie Hutchison

One idea in this story came from a true tale Joan Tejkl told me.

I had fun! I hope you did too. Let’s do it again sometime.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

by Donna Poole

Lucilla felt like she was swimming up, up, up from somewhere deep and quiet.

How long have I been sleeping?

Semi-conscious now, Lucilla was once again aware of her surroundings, but she was still too tired to open her eyes.

I wish the nurses would stop calling my family and telling them I’m dying. I have no intention of leaving until I’ve finished writing my Meme’s Maxims.

She listened to her family talking quietly; it was a comforting sound. Then she heard the quick footsteps she recognized.

Oh, no, not young Pastor Osten, my least favorite pastor from church. Please, Lord, help me be gracious.

Lucilla hoped her inner grin wasn’t showing on her face as she remembered how many times Jerry had asked her to stop calling Pastor Osten “Pastor Ostentatious.”

“Honey,” he’d said, “I know you only call him that at home and would never hurt his feelings on purpose, but what if you slip up and call him Pastor Ostentatious at church sometime?”

“I know you’re right, but he brags about everything, his suits, his car, his degrees; he even said he has more books in his library than all the other staff pastors combined! I don’t know how they put up with him.”

Jerry said, “He’s young, honey. Give him time.”

Memories were forgotten as the footsteps came closer, too close. She could feel his breath on her face.

Ugh! Personal space. His nose must be about touching mine. I can’t stand the smell of that flowery fragrance he calls his signature scent. And he even brags about how much it costs. How does he even afford that stuff on an associate pastor’s pay?

Lucilla held her breath to keep from gagging.

“Oh no!” Pastor Osten shouted. “Is Sister Lucilla no longer with us?”

She forced her eyes to open. “Perhaps,” she said, with just a tiny edge to her voice, “Amazon might have a book on pastoral hospital visitation etiquette.”

She winked at the granddaughter who’d giggled then closed her eyes again, so she didn’t have to converse. She was too tired, and besides, supposedly dying people can die in peace if they so wish.

Pastor Osten mumbled a few hasty words to her family and then prayed for her. It was a sweet prayer, minus his usual formality, and he stuttered a few times, something she’d never heard him do. She felt sorry for him, but she didn’t open her eyes again until she heard his footsteps going down the hall.

Then she looked at her family, blue eyes sparkling with life, and grinned.

“Mom!” a daughter said. “You’re terrible!”

Then the whole room erupted into laughter.

“I guess you have no intention of dying today?” a son asked.

“I do not. So, you might as well all go home and wait for the next call from the nurses. Go on, now. I think you’ve probably been here all night.”

They looked hesitantly at one another. “Well, if you’re sure….”

“I’m sure. Now, go.”

With hugs and kisses they left. Last to leave was a granddaughter, the one who’d giggled.

She hugged Lucilla and kissed the top of her head. “I love you, Meme.”

Lucilla sighed. “I shouldn’t have said that to Pastor Ostentatious.”

“Meme!” Her granddaughter roared with laughter. “What did you just call him?”

Lucilla groaned. “God still has a lot of work to do on me. Please, honey, don’t grow up to be like me.”

“Too late. I already did.”

Lucilla smiled at her, their first-born grandchild, the one Grandpa always called “Number One.” “I’ll love you forever and like you for always,” she said to her.

The room felt a little darker and colder when her granddaughter left, even though a bright warm sun was pouring through the windows.

Then Lucilla took out her notebook and pencil. “Now, let me see, where was I?”

At the top of the page she’d written, “Meme’s Maxims.” There was so much she still wanted to say to all her family, things she couldn’t remember if she’d said a hundred times before or not at all.

So far, she’d written just one thing on the paper: 1. Always do everything you can do and then do a little more.

She tapped the pencil on the paper and wrote, 2. Via con Dios—always go on with God.

3. Remember I love you.

4. Show love to everyone, even people you don’t like. I’m still learning this.

5. You don’t have to let every thought in your head come out of your mouth. I’m still learning this too.

Thoughts tumbled over each other in her mind.

 I think I’m going to need another notebook to get all this down!

She felt the pencil slipping from her fingers.

It was dark when she woke again.

A voice whispered, “Is she still breathing?”

She felt a hand on her chest. A tear dripped on her face.

“I’m still here,” Lucilla said to her daughter. “Have you been taking lessons from Pastor Osten?”

Her granddaughter giggled, and then the entire room erupted in laughter.

A nurse came into the room smiling.

“Nurse, you people need to stop calling my family. I’m not going to die until I finish writing my Meme’s Maxims, and at the rate I’m going, that’s probably going to take me at least another year.”

The nurse laughed. “Hospice has been wrong before. We had another patient, a lot like you. Only every time she had a spell she fell out of bed. Her heart stopped beating; she’d signed a DNR, so we did nothing. She’d wake up and be upset because she wanted to go to heaven. She’d say, ‘Oh no, am I still here?’”

“Well, I want to go to heaven too, just not quite yet,” Lucilla said. “How long did that other woman live after the first time she almost died?”

“At least two years,” the nurse answered.

“What did I tell you?” Lucilla said to her family. “Now you people go home and get some rest.”

“We’ll be back tomorrow,” a daughter-in-law said. “Tomorrow’s Mother’s Day!”

Lucilla smiled. “I’m too tired this year, but next year I’d love it if we could all go to church together on Mother’s Day!”

When everyone was gone except the nurse Lucilla picked up the notebook and pencil. “I want to finish this. I have hundreds of things I still want to say.”

“You look tired. Why don’t you write more tomorrow?”

“Okay. Was that story about the other lady you told me really true? And do you think I might still be here next Mother’s Day?”

“It was true, and I think maybe your family better decide where you’re all going to go to church together next year.”

Lucilla smiled. “I think I want to hear Pastor Ostentatious preach next year. Maybe he and I will both be more grown up by then.”

The nurse chuckled. “Is that really his name? That’s a funny name for a pastor.”

But Lucilla was already asleep and dreaming of heaven, the place she wanted to go, just not yet.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

Our three oldest children played the “What in Case” game with their dad when he drove them to school in the mornings.

Sometimes the questions were serious, “Daddy, what in case you and Mommy both die? What would happen to us?”

They worried about the free-range chickens they saw near the road. “Daddy, what in case one of those chickens runs into the road and we hit it?”

Most often, though, they laughed as they tried to out do each other with ridiculous questions like, “Hey, Daddy, what in case a plane falls on our car?”

John and I were on our way to one of the many doctor appointments we’ve had in the last month when we started our own half laughing half serious “what in case” conversation.

What in case you die first? What in case I die first?

“Hey, honey,” I said, “sometimes I wonder what will take me out. Do you ever think about that?”

We laughingly discussed some bizarre ways to die; gallows humor runs in our family. Curious, I decided to do a little research on unusual ways to die.

You probably know that most people in the United States die of heart disease or cancer. But some people take far more unusual exits. Allan Pinkerton, who founded the famous detective agency, fell, and bit his tongue. Infection set in, and it took him out.

Basil Brown died of too much of a good thing. In 1974, during a ten-day period, he took 70 million units of Vitamin A, and drank ten gallons of carrot juice. Shot his liver, it did. It turns out too much Vitamin A is as bad for your liver as too much Jack Daniels.

Jack Daniels, yes, the Jack Daniels you think it is, got so angry when he forgot the combination to his safe that he kicked it, mangled his toe, got an infection, and died of blood poisoning. I wonder why that’s not in any of the Jack Daniels commercials.

You’ve heard the catchy tune, “I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas”? Don’t get one. They kill over 300 people every year.

And don’t shake a vending machine either. They’ve killed more than a few people.

Please don’t shop on Black Friday. Greedy shoppers injure and even kill several people each year. I can think of better ways to go out.

You can die by getting hit with a golf ball; that happens, or more often by falling out of bed.

Laughter is good medicine, but don’t overdo that either. Apparently, there’s an entire list of people who’ve died from laughing too hard. But I say there are worse ways to go!

I often tell my family I don’t plan to die of cancer, but I have no idea what will take me out; few of us do. I do wonder what my last words will be if I’m conscious. Being an author, I think it would be funny if my last words could be, “That’s all she wrote.”

There are so many things I’d like to say to my family and friends, paragraphs, and books full of last words, but I don’t imagine at that point I’ll have enough strength left to speak volumes! I guess I hope I can say just this to them, “I love you. Via con Dios—go with God.” That’s what I want for everyone I love, for them to always go on with God.

But it’s not my time to die yet, as far as I know, unless the roof of this century plus old farmhouse suddenly collapses on me. Now that’s one “what in case” John and I didn’t discuss.

“What will take me out?” I asked John. “Hey, maybe we could write a country song about that and get rich.”

It took him about two seconds to start singing his original lyrics to his original tune.

“I don’t know what’s gonna take me out,

But I know who’s gonna take me in!”

(He sang those words three times, the third time in a loud, high falsetto.)

“It was settled long ago,

When my Lord said come to him!”

He looked at me laughing. “That’s the chorus. I don’t have the verse yet. I want to sing it and sit on that box drum thing and play at church.”

“You’re going to get fired from being pastor if you do that. That’s not going to fly in our conservative church.”

He just laughed.

“And,” I warned him, “if you start doing choreography I’m going to get up and walk out.”

He laughed again. He’d been to our grandkids’ school concert the night before and had been impressed with the boy who’d played the box drum and with our first-grade granddaughter’s choreography. He’d even demonstrated it for me. I’m sure it was cute when she did it. But the reenactment by an almost three-quarters of a century old grandpa who’s never danced….

John’s original song was much better than his choreography. The tune and the words stuck in my head. Maybe he does have a million-dollar tune going for him. I know his words have eternal value: “I don’t know what’s gonna take me out, but I know who’s gonna take me in. It was settled long ago when my Lord said come to him!”

I’m impressed, honey. But work on that vibrato! You sound like Tiny Tim!

by Donna Poole

Mistakes. Authors dread them. We might call a character Rose all through a book but for some reason name her Lily on page 103. Not even the best of editors can catch every mistake.

I was pretty proud when our local newspaper published an article I’d written about an Easter ice storm on the front page until I noticed that every time I’d typed “friends from church” they’d printed “fiends from church.”

Then I wondered, had the mistake been theirs or mine? I’d sent them the only copy of my manuscript—beginner’s mistake—so I’ll never know.

Writing mistakes are nothing new. I recently read Daniel Defoe made a rather big blunder when he wrote Robinson Crusoe. When that famous castaway found himself on the Island of Despair he looked out at the ocean and saw the ship sinking. Knowing he’d need supplies to survive, he stripped, swam to the ship, hastily grabbed what supplies he could get, and shoved them into his pockets.

Wait. What pockets?

Poor Daniel Defoe. If only he’d lived in the twenty-first century and had published his book on Amazon. Some helpful reader would have pointed out to him the error of his ways and he could have gone back and edited the manuscript before the next printing. Simple fix.

If only life’s mistakes were such simple fixes.

I’d rather be an author than an inspirational speaker, a teacher, or a preacher. At least we can edit our manuscripts before they appear in public. Someone standing before a microphone doesn’t have the luxury of backtracking a botch before the audience howls or gasps.

Perhaps you’ve heard the true tale of the preacher who, referring to Psalm 6:6, said, “David wet his bed. David wet his bed every night. David wet his bed every night with his tears.”

On the way home from church the preacher asked his wife her opinion of his sermon.

“Honey,” she said, “the tears came three sentences too late.”

Some mistakes are funny; some are awkward, but some are devastating.

We even trip up in casual conversation. Yesterday, the mechanic working on our new to us truck called.

“Wait and let me put John on the phone,” I said to the mechanic. “You guys don’t speak English.”

Silence. Dead. Silence.

“You aren’t laughing,” I said.

More. Dead. Silence.

Kimmee, who overheard the whole conversation because I had it on speaker, later said, “Mom, he could have interpreted what you said as a racist remark.”

I winced.

Of course, he could have. I meant to convey I don’t speak mechanic.

Well, the mechanic called again today, and John wasn’t home. He was perfectly friendly, and we both ignored my yesterday’s gaffe; I didn’t try to explain it. He did explain to me the work that needed to be done, and I learned some words in mechanic, the language I don’t speak. Now, I could tell you what “idler arm” and “pitman arm” are. I could explain today; though, I’ll probably forget by tomorrow since mechanic isn’t my native language. It should be my second language by now, as often as we have our vehicles in for work!

The mechanic had the parts; John wasn’t home, so I told him to go ahead and start working. Let’s hope that wasn’t a mistake. Though from my new understanding, people can’t just go around driving with defective idler and pitman arms; they may encounter a complete loss of steering ability.

We do make some mistakes so disastrous we experience a complete loss of steering ability. We crash and burn; relationships lay mangled on the side of the road. And sometimes they can’t be resuscitated. There’s no going back then and editing out the words or actions that led to the demise of the job, or the friendship, or the marriage.

What then? We apologize to God and others. We spend the time we need to mourning beside the side of the road, but then, with God’s help, we move on and begin to heal.

Scars remain; most of us have memories we wish we could rewrite. But Robinson Crusoe is still a beloved classic, though flawed—a fantastic tale of survival even though the castaway put his loot in his non-existent pockets.

We don’t have to be perfect to be beloved. We’re all sinners; Jesus loves sinners, and he gave his life to wipe our hearts clean of sin.

And if we’re blessed, we’ll find people who will love us too, just like we are, flawed classics made beautiful by Christ in us, the hope of glory.

And what if we don’t find someone to love us? We can find someone who needs our love; broken lonely people aren’t hard to find. If we don’t know where to start, we could visit the nearest nursing home and ask for a resident who doesn’t get any visitors. If we don’t know what to say once we get to that person’s room, we could always read them Robinson Crusoe. We might save them and ourselves from the Island of Despair.

by Donna Poole

Spring in Michigan is a guy with hairy legs sticking out of a pair of shorts, feet shoved into flip flops.

Spring in Michigan is a guy with hairy legs sticking out of shorts, feet shoved into flip flops—and wearing a winter jacket, a John Deere knit beanie, and gloves.

Spring in Michigan is that same guy, head down against driving snow, trying not to step on his wife’s tulips as he runs to the mailbox and hurries to get back into the house before frost bite gets his toes.

This April we’ve had summer and winter in Michigan, and that’s what we call spring in these parts. It’s not unusual to have eighty degrees one day and thirty degrees the next. We can say this about our weather: It’s not boring.

When will real spring come, warm weather we can count on to stay with us and not turn fickle tail and run as soon as a north wind blows? This morning the meteorologist said we’ll have it by the second week in May. I say I’ll wait and see.

We have a photo of our oldest daughter, Angie, when she was perhaps three. She’s playing outside in the snow, wearing a yellow fuzzy winter jacket, hat, and mittens. The leaves are fully out on the trees.

The old timers, now long gone, told me to plant peas on Good Friday but not to plant beans until after Memorial Day.

In our part of Michigan, it’s never snowed after Memorial Day in my lifetime, though I don’t doubt it’s happened.

People in Michigan boast about our beautiful summers and then add, “Last summer was fantastic. It happened on the Fourth of July.”

In all seriousness, summer in Michigan is lovely, though sometimes a bit too hot. But for people who can spend time at one of the beautiful Great Lakes that make our state a peninsula, a Michigan summer is pretty close to heaven.

I love camping near Lake Michigan. At one of our favorite campgrounds John and I take our morning coffee, sit on a bench, and watch the large ships and the yachts navigate through the channel and out into the wide blue lake. We like to sit on that same bench in the evening and watch the boats come back in.

Sometimes we hike down the long pier stretching out to the lighthouse and watch the sunset over the lake. When the flaming orb seems to touch the water, I wonder if I can hear a hiss if I only listen carefully. Then we double time it back to get to our campsite before dark.

Breathless and laughing, we make a campfire, relax in our chairs, and talk awhile before bed.

There are few things I enjoy more than camping. For most of our married life we camped in a tent. I loved tent camping, still do. The nostalgic part of me agrees with whoever it was that said, “If you can’t smell the canvas, it isn’t camping.”

We tent camped with our children and sometimes with friends in a rustic state forest in Michigan, a place with no running water or flush toilets. It more than made up for its lack of civilization with a beautiful lake and quiet trails weaving through the forest. The canopy of leaves made it feel like a cathedral.

The kids rode bikes, swam, split wood, and picked blueberries. Now that they’re grown-up they have happy memories of those years…I hope.

Come to think of it, two of our four grown up kids don’t camp and the other two camp in large campers in places that have full hook ups: water, electric, and sewer. Maybe being uncivilized for a week is fun only in retrospect.

We took the kids tent camping in the Smoky Mountains. By then the zipper was broken and we had to pin the flap shut with clothespins. We watched the sun rise over the mountains. We took a hike and saw a mother bear and her two cubs. She took one look at us; we took one look at her, and time stood still. No one moved. Then she growled a warning to her cubs. The first obediently scurried up a tree. The second started up but stopped and looked curiously back at us. She growled louder at it, took her paw, and swatted it on its hind quarters. It let out a yelp and followed its sibling.

We slowly backed away. It was a closer bear encounter than was safe, but oh what a wonderful memory!

No bears entered our tent held together with clothes pins, but we watched a skunk almost go in.

After our kids grew up and our bones grew older it became a bit more difficult to sleep on a tent floor in a sleeping bag. We bought a camper.

We named the camper we have now Old Bertha. She’s a 1988 fifth wheel, and don’t even get me started on the number of repairs she’s demanded John make on her. On some vacations he’s spent more time working on the camper than he has relaxing.

Bertha has no working furnace; we use a space heater. Her main drawback right now is her hot water heater is broken, but we haven’t bothered to fix it. We didn’t think we’d ever be able to go camping again. We last camped in the fall of 2020.

That last camping trip was beautiful. We camped in the remote part of Brown County State Park in the “Little Smokies.” My head was bald from chemotherapy, and I wore a beanie to keep warm. I didn’t have the strength to hike any trails, one of our favorite activities. I could barely climb in and out of the truck.

But the weather was beautiful, and the leaves were gorgeous. We spent hours reading, talking, playing card games, and dreaming around campfires. John drove me through the park countless times so I could see the fantastic views.

When we left to come home, I cried. I had one of my gut feelings we’d never be back, and my gut feelings are seldom wrong.

Our old truck died after that, and at times we weren’t sure I was going to make it either.

But when spring came, I wanted to camp. Without a truck we couldn’t haul Bertha, but we still had our tent, and I begged John to let us try tent camping again. It’s a good thing one of us has common sense. He knew neither of us could get up off the floor, or even a cot, let alone make it to the campground bathroom or outhouse however many times needed in the middle of the night. John seldom vetoes my ideas, but he did that one.

So Old Bertha stayed home, and so did we. There was no camping for Bertha or us, spring, summer fall of 2021; spring, summer, fall of 2022. We mourned the loss of our old truck.

Used trucks are expensive, especially ones heavy enough to pull Old Bertha

Yes, we prayed about a truck, and so did family and friends, but God isn’t Santa Claus, and I really dislike the attitude some people have that he is. I heard a preacher say once that as God’s children we don’t have to take a parking place far from the store, we can demand one close by, and he’ll give it to us, because we deserve it. Say what? I never listened to that preacher again. And no, that preacher wasn’t John!

We don’t demand, as some do, that God do anything for us. We don’t command him to give us a truck, or make my cancer disappear, or help the people we love—and their needs are many. We do ask, with love in our hearts, for him to do those things, but always end a prayer by asking for his will.

Life for everyone is a guy with hairy legs sticking out of a pair of shorts, feet shoved into flip flops.

Life for everyone is a guy with hairy legs sticking out of shorts, feet shoved into flip flops—and wearing a winter jacket, a John Deere knit beanie, and a pair of gloves.

Life for everyone is that same guy, head down against driving snow, trying not to step on his wife’s tulips as he runs to the mailbox and hurries to get back into the house before frost bite gets his toes. And sometimes he doesn’t make it. And sometimes toes need to be amputated.

Through it all we have God. No, he isn’t Santa. He doesn’t promise to rescue us from all life’s troubles, or give us a charmed life, or hand us everything we want. But God does promise to stay with us, to give us strength, and to help us find joy. And if we start to lose hope, he reminds of  the cross and empty tomb and promises to those who believe that an eternal spring is coming.

And sometimes God gives us springtime surprises here on earth too. Today we’re buying a 2007 Chevy Silverado truck with plenty of guts to haul Old Bertha wherever we want to take her. Its rockers are rusty, but what do you expect from a Michigan truck that’s weathered fifteen snowy winters with its salt covered roads? The price was the best we’ve seen, an answer to prayer, and John is pretty happy. Why not? He’s a guy with a truck.

Who knows what other good things may be just ahead? Cancer hasn’t won yet and maybe it never will. Sometimes gut feelings are wrong. Life, like spring, is funny. We never know what’s coming, and every now and then it’s something so wonderful joy runs out of our eyes and down our faces.

Lake Michigan! Brown County! Here we come, so look for us. We’ll be the two people wearing flip flops and winter coats….

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

Follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

When I open a new jar of Noxzema to wash my face two magical things happen.

First, I’m a little girl again, and I’m with Mom.

Mom smells clean, like soap and Noxzema. She doesn’t wear perfume. Her aprons smell like sunshine and fresh air because she hangs them outside to dry, even in the winter. Mom’s not much of a hugger, so when I stand on tiptoe to reach the clothes pins and take down the laundry, I hug her aprons and pretend she’s inside.

Mom’s a wonderful cook! I love coming home from school and smelling her homemade spaghetti sauce that’s been simmering for hours on the back of the stove, or her fresh yeast donuts spread out on the kitchen table, or butter browning for potato pies. The kitchen smells wonderful, unless Mom has been cooking meat. Dad won’t eat a hamburger or a pork chop that isn’t crispy black!

The house always smells like Pine sol and Pledge. And when she unrolls the damp clothes waiting to be pressed, I like the scent of the steam coming up from the freshly ironed clothes, but Mom looks so hot.

***

Mom is probably the reason I wash my face with Noxzema every morning; she did the same thing, and I really do think of her many mornings. I’d love to go back to that kitchen one more time. It, like everything else, was impressively clean. A college friend joked that Mom hung everything from the ceiling everyday and hosed down the entire place until it was clean enough to eat off the floors.

Mom always wanted everything neat and clean, inside, and out, including her children. She hated sin in all its forms and didn’t want any part of it to touch us. I didn’t agree with Mom on many things, including her definition of what was and wasn’t sin, but looking back, I do see why my rebellious behavior upset her so much.

Someone said, “Sin ruins everything it touches.”

Mom didn’t want sin to ruin me. The Bible says, “Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft,” and I stepped across every line Mom drew in the sand as soon as I could walk. A stranger, observing Mom and me in my growing up years would have doubted love was part of our equation, and yet it was there. I knew it, even in our most furious arguments, and I hope she knew it too.

I last talked to Mom forty-nine years ago this February. She didn’t call often; long distance was expensive. Besides, Mom didn’t always feel comfortable conversing. A stroke five years previously had left her right arm paralyzed, her right leg weak, and her words sometimes elusive. At first, after the stroke, she couldn’t speak at all. Her speech returned, but she felt embarrassed when the right word wouldn’t come.

“How’s John?” Mom asked me on that last call in February of 1974. She knew he’d graduated from Bible college the previous May and was hoping to become a pastor.

“Honestly, Mom, he’s a little discouraged. He hasn’t heard from any churches, and he’s wondering if maybe God isn’t calling him to be a pastor after all.”

“You tell him for me he’s going to be a pastor. I’ve known it ever since he was a little boy.”

I don’t remember what else we talked about. I do remember tears came to my eyes when Mom said those loving, encouraging words.

The stroke changed Mom in many ways. The tough disciplinarian Mom who hadn’t dispensed many hugs was forever gone. A tender, loving Mom took her place.

Mom was right. John became a pastor in July of 1974, but Mom didn’t live to see it happen. A second stroke took her home to heaven in March, a few weeks after she’d called me.

I told you when I open a new jar of Noxzema two magical things happen.

The second thing is a magic carpet takes me from the past to the future.

When I open the jar, I wonder if I’ll live long enough to use it all. Living with refractory cancer isn’t easy, but it has its blessings. It gives gifts, and a realistic grip on the shortness of time is one of them.

 We don’t know how much time we have left to love the people in our lives. Neither do we know what tiny thing might mean the world to them after we’re gone.

I treasure a scrap of paper in Mom’s handwriting.

After Mom’s first stroke I often asked her to try to write to me, but I never got a letter. After Mom died, my sister found a small piece of paper. Mom had tried to start a letter to me. It began with one “D” crossed out. Then she wrote, “Dear Dona.”

Did Mom notice she’d misspelled my name? Or did she just get too tired to continue? Either way, she’d tried. I treasure that scrap of paper, the last communication I have from Mom until she hugs me in heaven.

So now, I look back from the future where my magic carpet has taken me. I try to guess what my kids, in-law kids, and grandkids might remember about me. Yes, I smell like Noxzema. And unlike Mom, I wear perfume. I’ve worn the same kind for many years, a vanilla scent.

I was wearing that vanilla perfume when our son Danny, now forty-five, was a little boy. He hugged me when he came home from school.

“Yum!” he said. “You smell good, like you’ve been cooking!”

That made me laugh. Just what I’d hoped for, that my perfume would make me smell like the kitchen. I’m sure he’s long forgotten that remark, but I remember. I remember too how he and his siblings loved it when I made homemade bread, and they enjoyed eating it warm from the oven when they got home from school. What things will they remember?

I hope my family and friends will remember my love and my hugs. And I hope they’ll remember that I want the same thing for them mom wanted for me, I want them to be clean, to run from sin, because it really does ruin everything it touches.

And then I tumble off the magic carpet and finish washing my face.

“It’s just a jar of Noxzema, Donna,” the towel says as I bury my face in it. “So quit with the remembering and the forecasting already. And get to work. You have a blog to write.”

by Donna Poole

A mathematician would tell you there are fifteen boxes and begin counting the number of books in each box.

A minimalist would wrinkle a nose and comment about old people hoarding old dust collectors.

A book lover, especially if the book lover were a Bible teacher or preacher, would be in heaven.

But only John and Donna could tell you the true value of those books. They are part of what’s left of their once far more extensive library. They’d sold their beautifully bound sets during a lean time.

Now they’re downsizing their still considerable library. As they dust and sneeze their way through piles of books, Donna wistfully thinks of those beautiful volumes they’d sold and the way the sets had looked on the shelves, the white Alexander Maclaren with gold titles, the red bound books by Charles Haddon Spurgeon, the black volumes by F.B. Meyer, and many more.

She’d exchanged so much of her life to pay for those books when they’d been new, and she’d loved doing it. She’d done it by writing Sunday school curriculum. The job began with hours of research and notes taken in long hand that sometimes trailed off into illegible scribbles when she’d fallen asleep. As much as she’d loved research, it’d been hard to stay awake in the after-midnight hours. Then had come the many rough drafts, rolling paper into the old typewriter, and pounding out word after word.

The final copy had been tedious, because the publisher had required an exact word count for each section of the assignment. It had been good training for a young writer who’d tended to ramble off into flowery descriptions. She’d sometimes winced when she’d had to cut a beautiful passage because it wouldn’t fit into the allotted space.

The final copy had to be typed on the publisher’s paper, the heading repeated on each page, the twenty-five lines one column wide to leave room on the right-hand side of the paper for copious comments and corrections made by the editors who worked for the publisher.

Donna had tried to make the final copy as neat as possible; if the publisher didn’t hire her for more assignments there would be no more book buying. Nor would there be any more special gifts for the children in the family who always looked forward to the “big money” coming in the mail box. Once, instead of books, the “big money” had bought new bikes.

But neat had been hard. The old typewriter had letters that had fallen off, and John had repaired them as best he could, but they hadn’t quite lined up. The many mistakes Donna had made, despite careful typing, had to be corrected with “white out.” Nasty stuff, that white out. Thin it too much, and it wouldn’t cover the letter enough so she could type over it. Thin it too little and it left a raised glob on the page.

John had boxed a finished assignment, and they’d mailed it with a prayer that God would use it and give Donna another one. Then had come the fun of pouring over the Christian Book Distributor’s catalog. They’d often chosen a new set of books long before the money arrived from the publisher. Other times they’d waited for the check, cashed it, and had taken a trip to the Mecca for lovers of Christian books: Grand Rapids, Michigan. They’d always given the kids money to buy a book too.

Donna remembered all this and much more as she helped dust the library and pack it up to give away. She remembered a young pastor, his enthusiasm, the mistakes he’d made, some humorous in retrospect, like his Mother’s Day gaffe.

John had meant to say at the end of his ill fated sermon, “If any of you are not Christians, I sincerely hope you’ll become one before you leave this place.”

Instead, he’d said, “If any of you aren’t mothers, I sincerely hope you’ll become one before you leave this place.”

He hadn’t known he’d misspoken. But he’d seen Donna and her friend Maribel shaking a pew with suppressed laugher.

Donna thought about all the hours, days, weeks, months, and years John had spent, hunched over his desk, studying from those books, so focused on his reading he hadn’t even heard anyone else in the room speaking.

She thought about young John, middle-aged John, and now senior citizen John standing behind the pulpit, sharing with all his heart what he’d learned from his Bible and those study books. She thought about the many years of ministry—nearly a half-century—the laughter and joy, the tears and heartbreak, but all of them good. Good years. Gone years.

How many more will there be?

And then she cried.

John looked up from his dusting. “What’s wrong, babe?”

She couldn’t get out many words. “It’s the memories.”

He nodded.

Their daughter Kimmee saw the tears. She hugged her parents.

“Hey! You guys know you don’t have to get rid of your books if you don’t want to, right?”

They knew, but it was time.

John kept the books he used most; he wasn’t ready to retire from the ministry yet. Besides, he did most of his studying online now, and Donna no longer used the books; she didn’t write Sunday school curriculum anymore. Why not give them to someone who would use them instead of letting them sit on shelves gathering dust?

It was parting with all that the books represented that brought the tears, the laughter of kids running back from the mailbox shouting, “The big money came!” It was the many years of ministry blowing away as quickly as white fluff from an old dandelion.

Forty-nine. That’s how many Palm Sunday sermons John has preached at the old country church on the corner of two dirt roads.

A mathematician would comment another year would make a half-century.

A minimalist might wrinkle a nose and say that’s too long to stay in one place; think of all the junk you’d be tempted to collect.

Palm Sunday was the day John announced his fifteen boxes of books were on tables in the fellowship hall, free for the taking.

“No, I’m not resigning or retiring yet,” John explained. “I kept the books I use most, and I do a lot of my research online now, sometimes three-hundred pages of it for one chapter.”

Dan, the pastor’s son, was leading the singing. He joked, “Now that the pastor is giving away his books, the board has decided to hand out cards to the congregation so you can rate his sermons and say what you think of them.”

Donna listened to her husband preach Palm Sunday sermon number forty-nine. He’d titled it, “The King is Coming.”

It was a good sermon. Donna decided if she had a card, she’d rate the sermon a solid ten. She’d tell him so.

She didn’t feel sad about the fifteen boxes of books anymore. They were a sweet memory, and a memory never becomes a dust collector.

“Please, Lord,” she whispered, “love through us all our days so when it’s time for us to pack up and move on we’ll be a sweet memory too. Because someday, the King is coming.”

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

Follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

It was a different time.

The women wore pastel-colored suits to church in the spring; yellow, pink, turquoise, often paired with white lacy blouses. Purses and heels often matched. They all went to the beauty parlor every week, and most had short, permed hair. With powdered cheeks and a touch of lipstick, they looked like a bouquet of spring flowers. Each wore her own brand of perfume, many in flowery scents. Ruth’s favorite perfume was “Charlie,” and she splashed it on with abandon.

Then there was Old Bertha. If the others were flowers, Old Bertha could have been the gardener. Her clothes were worn and dirty, and she wore rubber boots to church with no socks. Ruth and her husband Clayton collected Bertha from her dilapidated house each Sunday and brought her to church with them.

Bertha adored Ruth and often sat next to her in church. One Sunday, during the sermon, Bertha decided to write Ruth a note. She’d never learned cursive, so in her arthritic, crippled printing, she wrote, “Hello Ruth.” But she left off the “o.”

Ruth managed not to laugh, but when she showed the note to her grown children and grandchildren later, they howled.

“Mom! How did you keep from laughing?”

“I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

Unlike the other ladies, Bertha wore no perfume to church. She had a distinctive odor all her own; it could best be described as au scent la skunk cabbage.

One Sunday, after church, a bouquet of pastel-colored suits surrounded Ruth. Fortunately, Bertha was not with her.

“Ruth,” the spokeswoman said, “you must do something about Bertha. She stinks.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“You’ll have to figure something out. You bring her to church. You talk to her.”

Ruth didn’t say anything about it to Bertha for a few weeks. How do you go about telling someone they smell bad? She didn’t want to do it.

Once again, the bouquet surrounded her after church.

“Ruth, Bertha smells even worse. Have you said anything to her yet?

Ruth sighed. “I know she doesn’t smell very nice. I’ll talk to her. I just haven’t thought of what to say.”

On the way home from church that Sunday Ruth said, “Bertha, some people like baths, and some like showers. I prefer showers myself. Which do you like?”

“Oh, I don’t take either. I use my bathtub to store my canned goods. I just sponge off now and then when I feel like I need to.”

“Oh,” Ruth said.

The next Sunday Ruth approached her flowery smelling friends. “Listen. Bertha keeps cans of food in her bathtub. I’m not talking to her about how she smells. If one of you wants to talk to her, go ahead. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“She keeps food in her bathtub?” a pastel suit asked.

Ruth nodded.

“Oh, my.”

Ruth nodded again. She didn’t mention the note she’d gotten printed in a childish scrawl. No one joked that Bertha was a brick shy of a full load, or that her elevator didn’t go all the way to the top, or that not only was she out to lunch, but she was out to supper too.

The sweet-smelling ladies and Ruth exchanged glances of compassion.

“At least she comes to church,” one flower said.

The others nodded.

Old Bertha continued to attend church every Sunday, wearing her rubber boots without socks, and looking like the gardener amongst the bevy of fragrant flowers. Maybe that’s exactly what she was. She never knew she’d cultivated the fruits of kindness and compassion in their hearts.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

Follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

Ivy willed her muscles to relax. It didn’t work.

The padded seats in the church auditorium were comfortable, but Ivy always felt uncomfortable here. And this was her first time being here without Zoe.

She’d hardly recognized Zoe’s voice on the phone. “I’m sick, Ivy, but please go to church without me.”

“I’m not feeling the best myself. I might stay home too.”

Ivy knew it sounded lame, but it was true. The thought of going without Zoe made her stomach churn.

At the last minute she’d run her fingers through her hair, pulled on a pair of jeans, and gone to church.

The sermon had been good, but she’d been unable to relax. This was still so new to her. At this time a year ago, she’d stumbled into the city mission.

Zoe, a counselor, had greeted her. “Welcome! It’s a beautiful first day of spring, isn’t it?”

Ivy had responded with a four-letter word, puked, and passed out. Zoe had caught her on the way down.

How many times has Zoe caught me on the way down since that first time?

Ivy’s thoughts wandered as she sat in church. The sermon had ended, and they were having a praise and testimony time.

Zoe hadn’t flinched when she’d told her about her years of life on the streets. Zoe had stuck with her through the ups and downs of the drug and alcohol rehab programs. And Zoe had introduced her to Jesus.

You’ve come a long way, baby, Ivy thought.

But Ivy didn’t feel proud of herself. She’d made it through withdrawal and hadn’t touched a drink since. Some people had said she’d never be able to kick the Big C, but with counseling and God’s help, cocaine wasn’t her master anymore. But there was one addiction she hadn’t been able to overcome.

She’d complained often about it to Zoe. “Why can’t I quit smoking? I’m a Christian now. I have the power of the Holy Spirit in my life. I should be able to do this.”

“Be patient with yourself, Ivy. How many perfect Christians have you met so far?”

“You. You’re close.”

“You know better. You heard me yell at Doug when you were at our apartment the other day.”

They’d laughed and hugged.

No, Zoe isn’t quite perfect, but I sure wish she was sitting next to me now instead of this stranger. I know I reek of cigarettes. She’s probably judging me.

Ivy had picked an aisle seat, so she’d only have to sit next to one person, and she hadn’t even looked at the woman. But she supposed she looked like most of the other people in this church, a throwback to the 1950s. Her seatmate had arrived quite late.

Ivy tried to pay attention to the testimonies. An older man was talking.

“I wasn’t sure I’d live to see the new building project completed. I’ve been praying for years for this. God is such a good God; isn’t he?” He paused, pulled out a hankie, and wiped his eyes.

He sounds sweet. I wish I’d had someone like him in my life instead of all the foster parents. I might be a different person. I should chew gum. It might help my nicotine breath.

Ivy reached in her bag for her gum and jammed her fingernail into the edge of her wallet. Two things happened. Her nail bent back causing excruciating pain, and Ivy swore.

The expletive wasn’t a cowboy swear word; it was a nastier one that had been part of her street life. Ivy hadn’t used it in a year, but out it came now. And it was loud.

A woman two rows ahead of her stood up and gestured to her three daughters to follow her. The four of them looked like ads for Mary Kay makeup, but the mother’s face was disfigured with anger.

She stopped and glared at Ivy. “I try to protect my daughters from language like that, and I don’t appreciate them hearing it in church. I hope the leadership here does something about you, or we won’t be back. Come, girls.”

And the entourage swept out of the auditorium.

The frail old man giving his testimony began praying and raised his voice louder. “And in addition to your grace in supplying the money for the new building, Lord, I want to thank you for loving sinners, because no one in this building is a bigger sinner than I am.”

Despite his kind words Ivy felt she must have offended everyone in the place. She wanted to get up and leave, but her shaking legs refused to move.

I don’t want to cry. I won’t cry. I will not cry.

But her face was wet, and she could hear her own sobs. The pastor was closing in prayer. She felt a hand cover her own.

When the prayer finished Ivy still sat there with her head bowed, praying.

Lord God, I don’t belong here in your church. This place is for good people. I’m not good people. I promise you I won’t come into your holy place ever again.

She kept praying. Suddenly, she realized the auditorium was quiet and empty, but a hand was still holding hers.

“Hey!” a voice said. “I’m Daphne. Want to talk?”

She shook her head.

“You sure?”

She looked at Daphne’s face, expecting to see another perfect Mary Kay rendition. Instead she saw messy red curls that looked like they’d never been combed, a smudge of peanut butter on a cheek, and mascara smudged eyes.

It was too much. Ivy no longer had any control of her emotions. She laughed.

“What?” the puzzled woman asked.

“You…” Ivy gasped. “You have peanut butter on your face.”

“Oh,” the woman grinned. She was beautiful, despite a gap between her two front teeth. She wiped the peanut butter with a tissue.

“Well, if you don’t want to talk, I will. I had a wum dinger of a morning.”

Ivy was still giggling. “You mean a hum dinger?”

“Call it what you want, I had it! I bet my mascara’s a mess too, isn’t it?”

Ivy stopped laughing. “Maybe a little, but you still look nice.”

“In these clothes?”

Ivy’s eyes widened. The woman was wearing a denim skirt and what looked like a red flannel pajama top with snowmen on it, an unusual choice for the first day of spring.

“Yep. This is a pajama top. We have a new baby, and the laundry kind of gets away from me. I started a load of laundry this morning after I got dressed for church. The washer sprung a leak, and water ran all over the floor. I mopped that up; it took every towel we had. Then I decided to finish my coffee and somehow managed to spill it down the front of my shirt. The baby is teething; he was screaming, and I was crying. Mom stopped by and told me she’d stay with the baby, and I should go to church. I told her I couldn’t; I didn’t have anything clean but one pajama top.

“‘So?’ Mom says, ‘you think God cares what you wear? Go to church.’ So here I am. Why don’t you come home with me for dinner. I’m sure Mom’s fixed something good, and I think my husband’s getting hungry.”

She nodded toward the back.

Ivy looked. The only man standing there was the pastor, looking professional in a suit. She looked again at Daphne’s messy hair, smudged mascara, and pajama top.

The words came out before she could stop them. “You two don’t look like you go together.”

“Oh, we do, believe me. We make a great pair.”

“But aren’t pastor’s wives supposed to dress to impress?”

“Not this one.”

“And aren’t they supposed to sit in the front of the church?”

“Not this one.”

“And why would they invite such a terrible Christian as I am to dinner?”

Daphne smiled. “How would I know what kind of Christian you are?”

“Oh, come on. I know you can tell I smoke. And don’t pretend you didn’t hear the word I said.”

“Oh, I heard it. I think everyone did.”

Tears sprang to Ivy’s eyes again. “Then how can you say you don’t know I’m a terrible Christian?”

“Look, I don’t know your story. For all I know it might take more of God’s grace for you to keep from shouting a four-letter word every Sunday than it takes for my husband to get up there and preach his sermon. And if anyone in this church is a terrible Christian, I’d bet it’s a certain person who walked out, not you.” Daphne snapped her fingers and sighed. “Now I’m judging. Please forget I said that. I don’t know Mrs. Mary Kay’s background either. But I have a hard time with pharisee people. I’m more of a publican one myself.”

“What’s a pharisee? And if you’re a republican and all political, forget me. I haven’t voted in years.”

It was Daphne’s turn to laugh. “I said I was a publican, not a republican. I could explain over dinner. Are you coming or not?”

“You want your house to smell like cigarettes?”

 Daphne shrugged. “There are all kinds of addictions. I eat too much chocolate. Hey, did you know Charles Spurgeon smoked?”

“Who?”

“He was a famous Baptist preacher.”

“In this church?”

Daphne laughed again.

“We have lots of interesting things to talk about. You really should come home for dinner. You can tell me your story if you want. If not, I’ll tell you about pharisees, publicans, and why Spurgeon quit smoking. And be glad Mom fixed the food. I’m a terrible cook.”

“Aren’t pastor’s wives supposed to be good cooks?”

“Not this one.”

The man in the back hollered, “Daphne, bring your new friend and come already! I’m about to die of hunger.”

“We’re coming,” Daphne called back.

She looked at Ivy. “Aren’t we?”

Ivy hesitated only a moment longer. “We are.”

Daphne pulled her to her feet. Ivy noticed there was still a smudge of peanut butter on Daphne’s face.

I’ve regretted accepting some invitations, but I have a feeling I won’t today. Not this one.