Fifteen Boxes

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

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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

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