Cookies in Bed

by Donna Poole

Pa in his kerchief and I in my cap had just settled down for a sweet spring nap when what to our wondering ears should appear but a knock on the door of our boudoir-ere!

It was our son-in-law, the one who lives with us.

“Hey, we’ve got these two cookies left. Want to try them?”

I took one look at the deliciousness. “Thanks, Drew!”

Forget the fact that I’d already brushed my teeth. Never mind the fact I’d just commented to the aforementioned “Pa,” who I never call by that name except in absurd poetry, that sleeping in clean sheets was one of my favorite feelings. We’d just washed ours that very day.

I mean, how old are we? Surely people almost three-quarters of a century old have mastered the art of eating cookies in bed without leaving a trail of chocolate crumbs between clean sheets.

Those cookies were delicious. Fantastic. They didn’t measure up to our daughter’s homemade ones, but for store bakery cookies, I’d never had anything like them. And yes, I did get up and brush my teeth again. I remember Dad saying he had a goal of dying with as many of his original teeth as possible. At the time, I thought his aspiration was pretty funny, but now I share it.

We got up in the morning and started making the bed, John on one side, I on the other. We looked at the bed. We looked at each other. And we laughed.

I still don’t know how two small cookies could have left so much chocolate or how we managed to get it in that many places, both on the bottom and the top sheets. I wish I’d taken a picture. But you can use your imagination.

How old are we? Apparently, we aren’t old enough to know better. We had to strip the bed and wash the sheets again. But it was worth it! When we told Drew how much we’d enjoyed the cookies, he went out and bought us a whole package of them. Had we learned our lesson? Did we refrain from eating them in bed? Keep reading.

In spite of our combined health problems—we won’t bore you with the list but their name is legion—there’s something fun about growing older together. The simple joys are more delightful than ever.

Remember being young and spending the day at an amusement park? When the lights came on, and the moon rose over the roller coaster, you knew the day was ending. Everything looked more beautiful than it had at high noon.

Then a voice came over the speaker: “Park closes in thirty minutes. Make your way to the gates.”

Maybe there was time for one more ride; what would it be? That last ride was the best of the day. Then with sore feet and a sunburned face you trudged out of the gate. Perhaps you looked wistfully over your shoulder at the Ferris wheel still spinning against the stars and listened for the last strains of music as you walked through the parking lot to your car. One last glance; you’d be back, or would you? Nostalgia can sweeten life even for the young.

I think growing older is like that; nostalgia sweetens life. At least it does for John and me. I don’t call us “old” just yet; someone said “old” is always at least ten years older than what you are. But we can’t deny that we’re older. And so, the simple things bring delight: morning coffee together, a drive down a country road to admire the wildflowers, a cool morning breeze, and mama robins singing their babies to sleep at twilight.

Times with family become the sweetest part of life. Change comes too quickly; we don’t want the park to close so soon.

A while back, our little Ruby held my hand with her tiny one as I walked on uneven ground. “I don’t want you to fall, Grandma.”

I wish I could paint you a picture of Ruby’s energetic sweetness; tiny, cartwheeling through life, brushing blonde hair away from beautiful brown eyes, always in a hurry, but always ready to stop and help anyone in need.

“I don’t want you to fall, Grandma.”

I smiled at her seriousness. In her mind her tiny self could keep Grandma from falling.

“Ruby,” I said, “please don’t grow up.”

“I can’t help it, Grandma. When you turn six you grow up. That’s just the way it is.”

Ruby’s right, you know. That’s just the way it is; life changes, and when we get closer to the end of the day than the beginning, we know it. Even kids know it instinctively; that’s why they beg for “just one more ride.”

Knowing life has an expiration date is a feeling that deepens with age, and that’s not a sad thing. It makes us love deeper and live sweeter. It makes us enjoy laughter as we never have before.

I tried to put it all into words to the medical assistant who was checking my vitals before my last cancer treatment. He nodded and smiled.

“And the wisdom? Did you get that?”

I laughed. “I’m still waiting for that to show up.”

At least we’re wise enough to know this: those little grudges and hurts? We don’t have time for them anymore. We’re too busy looking for the last bits of beauty before earth’s sunset and the eternal sunrise.

A little boy asked his grandpa why he read his Bible so much. The grandpa told him he was studying for his final exam.

That’s a cute reply, but we aren’t worried about the final exam. Jesus passed the test for us when he died on the cross in our place, and we made his substitution ours when we accepted it by faith. We’re ready for the eternal sunrise and looking forward to it, but meanwhile, we plan to enjoy every minute before sunset.

So, we eat cookies in bed. Even if we must wash the sheets in the morning, it’s worth it.

Those cookies though! They’re life’s sweetness baked and packaged. I ate one just now.

Our daughter and son-in-law knocked on the door of our room while I was sitting up in bed typing this story.

“Mom,” Kimmee said, “you have a chocolate chip on your shirt.”

Not anymore, I don’t. I ate it. I hope there aren’t more chocolate chips between the sheets, but there probably are.