Back Road Ramblings

by Donna Poole

God Loves Donkeys

by Donna Poole

You won’t think it’s funny without a little backstory.

Our kids grew up in the home of a conservative Baptist preacher; that would be my husband. In the same way the mayor in the Music Man wanted his daughter to watch her phraseology, John wanted our kids to watch theirs. Certain words were taboo. I won’t list those words here, because unfortunately or fortunately John reads my blog.

We were driving down the road one day when our eldest exclaimed, “Look at that ass!”

Her younger brothers, who often found reason to laugh at her and always made her furious when they did, howled with laughter.

“What? All I said was look at that ass!”

She pointed at a donkey in the field.

Trying to stop laughing, one of her brothers said, “We don’t say ‘ass’ in this family, and you should know that by now.”

“What’s wrong with the word ‘ass?’ It’s in the Bible!”.

She had a point. The word ‘ass’ is found 436 times in the King James, and that’s the version she grew up reading.

Her dad managed to keep a straight face, told her brothers to stop laughing at her, and suggested donkey was a more appropriate word.

The family I grew up in was all about appropriate words.

We didn’t speak Italian, but we all called my Italian dad “Chooch.” He called my sister, Mary, “Little Chooch.” A pastor who did speak Italian visited us one day and looked shocked when he heard us using that word.

“Do you know what that word means, Dominic?”

Dad laughed. “I know.”

 “Ciuco” is the Italian word for donkey but also the other word no one used in my home growing up! I don’t think Mom knew the word’s alternative use, or she would have shut it down faster than she slammed a door to keep flies out.

In my home if you even thought a bad word, Mom somehow sensed it, and out came the bar of soap. I can’t remember if the soap was Dial or Zest, but Mom never dialed it down and she had a zest for using it! Not only did she wash out our mouths at the merest hint of a bad word she made us bite down on the stuff, and we weren’t allowed to brush our teeth afterward. It wasn’t even a clean bar; it was the one everyone used to wash their hands! That’s what Mom thought of foul language.

Mom was nothing if not consistent, so you’d think the threat of biting that disgusting soap would have cured us from bad language for good, wouldn’t you? You’d think…. Remind me to tell you a few stories another day about a song I sang to Mary whenever I got mad at her. It starts with “Bloody Mary is the girl I love,” and ends with what I dare not type lest Mom return from heaven with zest and a bar of Dial! And then there was the time Mary and Ginny were taking down laundry and telling each other in no uncertain terms where they could go. It wasn’t to the grocery store. They didn’t realize the window was opened. Mom had the bar of soap ready when they came inside, and their mouths were soon cleaner than the laundry though not as well rinsed.

I digress. Back to the lowly donkey. The chooch. The ciuco.

God spoke to his disobedient prophet, Balaam, through his donkey, and it puzzles me that Balaam wasn’t even surprised his beast could talk. Either Balaam was insane with anger, or it was common for animals to talk in those days, and perhaps they will again in God’s kingdom on earth. I choose to hope for the later.

On Palm Sunday Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey colt just as God had prophesied through Zechariah five-hundred years before: “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion; shout, O daughter of Jerusalem: behold, thy King cometh unto thee: he is just, and having salvation; lowly, and riding upon an ass, and upon a colt the foal of an ass.” –Zechariah 9:9

I’ve made a donkey of myself more than a few times in my life.

I inwardly wince when a reader wants to meet me. Like some real author said—I forget who—perhaps C.S. Lewis, “Don’t hope to meet me. You’ll be disappointed. You have the best of me in my books.”

Meet me and you’ll discover a heehaw of a person who too often says and does the wrong thing. It’s easy to correct my mistakes in a blog. Someone tells me they’re there, and I go back and fix them. If only life were that simple.

I take great comfort in these two thoughts: If God could speak through Balaam’s ass, perhaps he can still say a few words through this one. If Jesus could ride a donkey into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, perhaps even this donkey can help advance His kingdom.

I wave a palm branch with that joyous crowd of two millennia ago. I throw my coat in the road for Jesus’ donkey to walk upon, a humble carpet for its noble feet.

I bow my head and heart low as Jesus passes and whisper, “It’s me Lord, your donkey, standing out here in the field, trying to bind up wounded hearts with my four clumsy feet. I’m right here, my Lord, if you ever need me.”

He calls back, “I love you, my child. Keep showing sad hearts where to find me; I’ll take care of their wounds.” And then with the clip clop, clip clop of tiny hooves He’s gone. I think a sentence floats back to me on the breeze, “And watch your phraseology!”

The End

***

You can find these books on Amazon:

Corners Church: https://amzn.to/36ImxOj

If the Creek Don’t Rise: Corners Church Book 2 https://amzn.to/3jqarv2

Tale of Two Snowpeople: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09GJKG83R

by Donna Poole

Spring finally arrived, and I didn’t care.

Kimmee, our youngest daughter, knows how much I usually love springtime. Just as she has done every year since she was a little girl, she took me outside and pointed out all the first signs of spring. I nodded. I smiled.

And I felt nothing.

The cold numbness encasing my heart frightened me. What’s wrong with me? Where’s my usual springtime joy, my delight in the warm breezes, the birds calling to their mates, the first flowers turning adoring faces to the sun?

I felt even more afraid when I realized I didn’t feel much emotional response to anything. Me! Donna! The person who, had I been born a punctuation mark, would have been the exclamation point! Now I was just the ellipsis, the dot dot dot, the yawn, the nothing.

I. Felt. Nothing.

Perhaps the open brain surgery I’d had a few months before had changed me forever; I’d never be my exuberant self again. I took myself back inside and had a serious sit-down with me, myself, and I. This wasn’t the first time I’d felt emotionally numb, was it? My wounded brain struggled back through its maze of memories. I’d felt this way other times, after great emotional pain and loss. Joyful feelings had eventually returned, though in a more chastened, less exuberant form, making a quieter, gentler, and perhaps more compassionate me. I’d heal from this brain surgery. The ice around my heart would melt. And the ice did melt, but not that spring.

Cancer treatment has sometimes left me feeling wintery too. I understand aggressive cancer requires aggressive chemo, but …I’ll just leave the ellipsis, the dot dot dot, and you can fill in the blanks.

Life’s blows hurt and may make us wonder if spring will ever return. Nothing wounds the heart more than the death of a loved one. As a dear friend says, “For a Christian, death is a defeated enemy, but make no mistake; it is still the enemy.

From the depths of physical suffering or of emotional grief, God’s children cry out, “Lord, to my heart bring back the springtime!”

If you, through faith in Jesus Christ, are one of God’s crying children, I can’t promise you the ice will melt in this life, but I can promise the ice will melt. An eternal spring is coming. When it does, a north wind will never again freeze a tear on your cheek. Love will never again frame the bitter word, “Goodbye.”

I wish I could describe God’s eternal spring to you, but I don’t know much myself. God tells us only a little about it, but the little is enough to give us a sturdy hope no ice storm is strong enough to kill.

“And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.” –Revelation 21:3-4

Songs of the Spring Days

“A gentle wind, of western birth

On some far summer sea,

Wakes daises in the wintry earth,

Wakes hope in wintry me.

“The sun is low; the paths are wet,

And dance with frolic hail;

The trees—their springtime is not yet—

Swing sighing in the gale.

“Young gleams of sunshine peep and play;

Clouds shoulder in between;

I scarce believe one coming day

The earth will all be green.

“The north wind blows, and blasts, and raves,

And flaps his snowy wing;

Back! Toss thy bergs on arctic waves;

Thou cans’t not bar our spring.” –George MacDonald

See you in the spring, my friend. Don’t pack your winter coat; you won’t be needing it!

by Donna Poole

We call them “the Southerns.”

That’s our affectionate term for our family who lives south of the Mason Dixon line. We use the term as in, “The Southerns are coming!”

Three of our Southerns came for a visit this past weekend, and with efforts rivaling that of a professional contortionist, our Michigan kids and grandkids were able to arrange schedules so we could spend two whole days together. One Michigan family couldn’t come because they have a wonderful new baby—and a terrible stomach flu. We missed the nine of them, but the other eighteen of us ate enough Kimmee desserts to last us through the month of April. We shared burdens, and between all our extended families, there are some seriously heavy ones. Two have cancer. One is moving into assisted living. A few of us have memory problems. Everyone is dealing with stress and loss of some kind. We had some quiet conversations, a few tears, and some silent prayers.

We shared meals together, and you don’t realize what a sweet joy that is until circumstances and distance make that possible only every few years. Eating together has a deeper significance than we may realize at the time. At our first meal this weekend, my heart hummed the old song, “Let us break bread together on our knees; let us break bread together on our knees; when I fall down on my knees; with my face to the rising sun; O Lord, have mercy on me.” 

O Lord, have mercy on everyone I love, for they are many. O Lord, bless everyone who made this gathering possible, especially Kimmee who worked so hard.

We ate meals here and at two other houses because our kids opened their homes too. Wherever we were, I heard the quiet hum of conversation punctuated by laughter, and I was happy. Deeply happy. In the laughter of loved ones, I heard the echo of heaven.

We laughed like carefree kids in the kingdom of our God. We played, “Doggie, doggie, where’s your bone?” Even the youngest grandkids quickly learned to disguise their voices and sound like opera singers or Kermit the Frog. We tried “Big Bootie, Big Bootie,” a clapping game, but discovered some of us didn’t have enough rhythm for that one. The kids played Limbo. We used a broom for a couple of fun games, and no, none of us flew on it. We told a story where each person added a sentence as soon as he or she could stop laughing long enough to get the words out.  

Leg wrestling was the most fun to watch. Our strong fireman son found himself flipped by his slender female cousin in less than three seconds, and I’m still grinning when I remember the shocked look on his face. He laughed so hard. Now he calls it “the game of humiliation.”

Laughter is one of God’s sweetest gifts. It’s a promise. I can almost hear the ringing laughter around the Big Table in heaven. Listen! Can you hear it too? It sounds as clear as bells, doesn’t it? That’s because there’s no minor key accompaniment of tears to laughter’s song in heaven.  

After our last meal together, we looked at old slides our patriarch, John’s dad, had taken, smiled at the memories, and laughed at the clothing styles. I don’t think I was the only one whose eyes stung a few times to see a smiling face looking back at me that has been in heaven for many years.

All too soon the slide show ended; someone turned off the old machine’s light and silenced its whirring noise. It was time to say goodbye.

It was hard. We hugged like it was the last time because we never know when it might be. We whispered prayers and words of love and encouragement. We cried, wiped our tears, and went out to our cars.

Our son, daughter-in-law and family came out to wave their goodbye blessings from the porch. A couple of them scooped up our twenty-two-year-old granddaughter and held her in their arms.

And then we laughed.

One of the Southerns jumped out of the car and snapped a picture of the family on the porch who were still waving goodbye, holding their twenty-two-year-old, and laughing.  

“Laughter is like a windshield wiper; it doesn’t stop the rain but allows us to keep going.” –Unknown

“Oh, blest be God for love and laughter, today, tomorrow, and hereafter.” –Amy Carmichael

by Donna Poole

“In this family we don’t say ‘can’t!’”

We Piarulli kids heard Mom say that one or a thousand times. Mom was born in March, the lion-lamb month, and she could roar like a lion when the occasion warranted. She didn’t like quitters!

Mom absolutely believed I could do anything if I made up my mind to do it and tried hard enough. Perhaps I should reword that. Mom believed I could do anything if I trusted God and tried hard enough.

Mom was an avid reader; I don’t know, but perhaps she read about Oliver Cromwell and adopted his can-do attitude. You’ve probably heard the old saying, “Trust God and keep your powder dry.” When England invaded Ireland in 1649, Cromwell said to his soldiers, “Put your trust in God, my boys, but keep your powder dry.”

Wet gun powder was useless in battle. The saying has come to mean, “Trust God, but do your part!” Proverbs 21:31 combines the same two ideas: “The horse is prepared against the day of battle, but safety is of the LORD.”

Mom was a huge proponent of faith. But had I dared tell her I hadn’t studied my spelling words for a test but had instead prayed and trusted God, she would have knocked me into the middle of next week. (Mom sometimes threatened to do just that, and being a curious child, I often wondered if the middle of next week might be more fun than present circumstances.)

Mom taught us well. We Piarulli girls don’t give up easily. Some might say we share a streak of stubbornness a mile wide, but I prefer to call it our can-do attitude. I’ve seen all my sisters face adversity with a daunting combination of determination and faith.

And I suppose we sisters can all be a bit stubborn about everything, the others more than I. Funny, something just made me choke.

But can even the stubborn Piarulli girls really do anything we make up our minds to do?

Let me tell you about my piano lessons. There was a time, back in the day, when we needed a piano player at church. Every other pastor’s wife I knew could play the piano, so God must want me to learn, right? I tackled those lessons with determination, enthusiasm, faith, and prayer. No matter how busy I was or how I felt, I practiced the piano. If the teacher said practice thirty minutes five days a week, I practiced forty-five minutes to an hour seven days a week.

I took to the piano like the proverbial fish takes to water; it was glorious. My concentration was borderline obsessive.

Once, when I was practicing, John said, “I’m going to town now, honey. Love you.”

I intended to say, “Okay, honey, love you too.” Instead, as I kept staring at my music and playing, I said, “Okay, 2,3,4.”

John still laughs when he remembers how I called him “2,3,4.”

I took to the piano, but the piano did not take to me. I think it actually hated me. My first piano teacher is now in glory, and no, I didn’t drive her to an early grave, but my second teacher is still alive. You can ask Lois Pettit how hard I tried and how miserably I failed at learning to play the piano. After three years I finally… I, gulp, can barely write the word—sorry, Mom—I QUIT!

Some things take more than determination. I admire the tiny snowdrops that push up through last years leaves and this year’s melting snow to announce spring is coming even here to Michigan where March is at her lion-lamb best. To me snowdrops are a metaphor for a can-do attitude. But are they really? They don’t do their work alone. They push up through our heavy clay soil because of sunshine and God’s grace.  

So many things require grace. My best efforts won’t get me to heaven. I can’t get to heaven by doing good deeds or being a good person. Sorry, but neither can you. God says all our self-made righteousness is like a filthy rag. –Isaiah 64:6

True, we might be better people than a serial killer, but here’s the thing. Trying to get to heaven by a can-do attitude is like trying to jump the Atlantic. You can jump farther than I because I’ve been unable to jump since brain surgery nine years ago. Tajay Gayle can jump farther than you. He holds the record for the long jump. On September 28, 2019, he won the World Championship in Doha, Qatar, with a jump of 28 feet 6 inches. That’s impressive!

But even a Tajay Gayle jump won’t get you far if your goal is to jump across the ocean.

I can’t get to heaven by being good and thank God I don’t have to. I’d be really tired of even trying by now. Jesus, God’s Son, lived the perfect life I can’t, died on the cross for my sin, and rose again. All that’s left for me to do is accept God’s grace freely offered.  

“For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast.” –Ephesians 2:8-9

Do my sisters and I still have our can-do attitudes? That attitude got me into a lot of trouble when I was a kid. Once Mom said we could ride our bikes for fifteen minutes before supper. I convinced Mary we could ride fifteen miles to a store and be back in fifteen minutes. It didn’t end well. No grace was extended.

I remember a sister who shall remain unnamed who determined with her can-do attitude she could eat a dozen potato pies, each one half the size of a dinner plate. She did it. Her name wasn’t Mary. Her name wasn’t Eve either.

Perhaps we sisters have learned to temper our can-do attitudes with a bit of common sense. The last time we were together we ordered take-out from Little Venice, our favorite Italian restaurant. We ate. And we ate. And we ate. Then someone said the “can’t” word. None of us finished our meals.  

When it comes to life, though, we may be old, battle-scarred soldiers, but I think Mom would be happy. One sister finished her fight and is in heaven, but the three of us who remain are still trusting God and keeping our powder dry.

by Donna Poole

The Long Goodbye

by Donna Poole

I noticed the other day how white his hair looks in the sunshine, almost as white as mine. I caught my breath. Oh John, dear John, how did we arrive so quickly to the years of the long goodbye?

So much of what we do now is bittersweet because we wonder if this time may be the last time.

I cried when we left our campsite in Nashville, Indiana eighteen months ago. It was a chilly fall day, and my head, bald from chemotherapy, was cold. My heart shivered too. I pulled my beanie down over my ears.

“Don’t cry, honey.” John hugged me. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m afraid this is our last time camping here.”

I couldn’t say more words, but my mind was seeing the miles of trails we’d hiked, the scores of campfires we’d coaxed to light, and the thousands of quiet conversations we’d enjoyed there in Brown County State Park during our many years of camping there.

“This isn’t our last time, honey. We’ll be back.”

As we drove the beautiful curving road through the park one last time, I tried to memorize it all, the steep ravines, the hills aflame with color, the hundreds of acres of uninhabited wilderness—all made by the extravagant hand of God. The falling leaves were saying goodbye too, but they weren’t crying like me. They seemed to be dancing their way down with joyful abandon. It was time to go, so why not celebrate with one last dance praising their Creator? Once again, God spoke to me through His creation.

We haven’t been back. Our old truck informed us in no uncertain terms it was done hauling Bertha, our ancient camper.

I don’t know if we’ll ever camp again in Brown County or in Muskegon State Park or at Goose Lake or in any of the other campgrounds I’ve loved so through the years.  

We never know, do we, when the last time is the last time. There have been too many funerals lately. We never guessed the last time we smiled, hugged, laughed, waved, or texted an “I love you” it would be the last time.

I sent our beautiful, brilliant granddaughter, Megan, a text with a photo the other day. “Hillsdale Academy Colts won the trophy tonight! Six years ago today! Look how cute!”

Megan texted back, “There’s no way! Wasn’t that yesterday?”

“It WAS yesterday,” I replied, “so cherish today, dear Megan. Hug your parents and siblings, yes, ALL of them. I’ll hug you when I see you! Love you forever and like you for always!”

“Ah man!! If I have to! 😊 Hopefully I’ll see you AND hug you tomorrow night! Love you forever and like you for always!”

The tomorrow night didn’t happen; plans were postponed, but I’ll hug the stuffins out of her when I see her because I always do. And I never know when the last time will be the last time.

Today is all we have.

Today is a good day to live, to love, to laugh.

Today is a good day to sigh, to grieve, to cry.

And today is a good day to remember we don’t walk these backroads alone. Others need our love and prayers. Now is the time to rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep.

Tears often fall on our paths as we ramble these backroads, but perhaps a violet to cheer the next traveler grows from every teardrop that falls. Life is a gift; even when it crushes us like a grape sweetness may come from our hearts to encourage others and to show them the way Home to heaven. The directions Home aren’t complicated; even a child can follow them. “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” –John 3:16  

John and I feel we’ve entered the years of the long goodbye, the bittersweet season of our journey together, but the reality is the years of the long goodbye began with the first breath we took as newborns. It’s just that age and loss are good teachers. They are teaching us the shortness of life and the length of eternity.

Life is a gift, and I’m going to take a lesson from the leaves. I too want to celebrate with abandon, praising my creator, dancing in my heart until my last breath.

Oh, and all those girls in the photo are cute, so in case you wonder which one our Megan is, she’s sitting on the floor, the last one on the right as you look at the picture. And she’s probably going to move me to her list of least favorite relatives for sharing this information! But I’ll still love her forever and like her for always!

by Donna Poole

At the wise old age of sixteen I ran the refund and exchange desk at Grand Union. That store was kind enough to give me a job, but I was too young to run a register or even work the lunch counter, so returns and exchanges it was.

If it wasn’t tough enough to let disgruntled customers take their angst out on me as though I had personally manufactured the faulty item, I also managed the Kiddy Korner at the same time. Kiddy Korners, thankfully, are a relic of the distant past, so I’ll have to elaborate. A parent opened a half-door, shoved seven screaming, snotty nosed offspring into my cubicle, left to blissfully shop for seven hours, and then relaxed with a hamburger and a cup of coffee at the lunch counter. Already in my cubicle were an assortment of other screaming, fighting, playing, children. Some clung to my legs terrified to be there while I said, “Yes, sir,” and “No, ma’am,” to the aforementioned disgruntled refund and exchange customers. Oh, and the Kiddy Korner had only half-walls. Stock boys threw heaps of boxes behind the walls. More than one adventurous child managed to climb over a half-wall and disappear into the boxes, and I had to dive over myself and retrieve escaped prisoners.

Now, here’s the funny part about my job. I loved it. Honestly, I did. At sixteen, who isn’t up for a challenge? I aimed to make the angry customers smile, calm the crazy littles, and comfort the terrified ones. When I turned seventeen, the store promoted me to the lunch counter and dismantled the Kiddy Korner. Even though I’d never lost a child, I think someone with a brain realized Kiddy Korners might equal insurance liability.

That job taught me to be considerate of weary clerks running return and exchange counters. Yesterday, when we were both twenty-something-young, I went with Lonnie, my sister-in-law, to return a gift at a store in Ithaca, New York. Think of the kindest, nicest person you know, multiply that by ten, and you may come close to imagining Lonnie. She held her return in her arms and stood quite a distance back from the next person in line. Leaving a considerable distance between yourself and the person in front of you in a line must be a family trait, because my husband, John, does the same thing his sister Lonnie does. Not me. I’m Italian. We don’t mind close.

Lonnie stood so far back that other people, many of them, cut in front of her. Lonnie didn’t say anything to them. The Italian part of me said things like, “Hey, rude dude! Back off! She was here first!” But I didn’t say anything out loud for two reasons. I was with Lonnie, the nicest human God ever created, and I was shy yesterday, when I was young.

After we’d waited in line about a half hour with people cutting in front of us, I said, “Lonnie, maybe we should move up closer. I don’t think the other people realize you’re waiting in this line.”

“Oh, you don’t think they know I’m waiting?”

Actually, I did think they knew. They were just being rude and taking advantage because that’s what some people do, but I didn’t want to tell Lonnie that. She was too nice to hear it.

I haven’t been to a store’s refund or exchange department in years. I’m all for supporting local businesses, but because my oncologist sealed me in a bubble, I haven’t been in a store for two years. I’ve discovered the ease of Amazon. (Please, small businesses, don’t hate me.) I love Amazon’s return and exchange policy. You notify them you’re returning an item and send it back. There’s no long waiting in line.

I’ve used another even easier exchange department for years. I remember well the day I discovered it. I was sitting in the rock garden at the little house we used to live in next door. The tiny white lilies of the valley were in bloom. I breathed in their beautiful fragrance. Gentle, peaceful, patient, trusting, beautiful—I thought how unlike them I was. Unloving, selfish, impatient me—definitely not beautiful or fragrant.   

Exchange what you are for what I’m waiting to give you.

The thought came suddenly and with joy. I could do that, couldn’t I!

What was that Amy Carmichael had written? “Love through me, Love of God; /Make me like thy clear air/Through which, unhindered, colors pass/As though it were not there.” And this? “Think through me, thoughts of God, /And let my own thoughts be/Lost like the sand-pools on the shore/Of the eternal sea.”

What a wonderful God, willing to pour His love, His life, His thoughts through me! So, I gave it a try, right there in the rock garden, among the lilies of the valley.

Lord, here’s my selfishness. I’d like to exchange it for your love. Love through me! Here’s my impatience; please, may I exchange it for your patience?

I prayed a long time in the rock garden that day. Did I leave with saintly behavior? Not exactly; ask those who live with me! God takes His time making us like Jesus. But now I pray often, “Love through me, love of God; think through me thoughts of God, live through me life of God.”

When a nasty attitude creeps in, I know just where to take it. I march right up to the exchange department; Jesus accepts it with a smile and gives me His own sweetness. I trade despair for courage, criticism for compassion, and harshness for tenderness. Often, I trade fear for faith.

I’m sure there must be lines a million miles long at His desk, but I never see another person. Why? Because, as someone said, “God loves each one of us as if there were only one to love.”

So, no long waiting in line for me. There’s no one to cut in front of us at God’s exchange department, Lonnie, although I’m sure you need to visit it far less often than I do!  

I wonder what happened to all my refund and exchange customers and those children who bounced off and over the walls in my Kiddie Korner. I haven’t thought about them in a long time. Bless them, Lord, bless them all.  

by Donna Poole

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

I heard that often when I was a child. I’m still trying to decide on my answer!

I didn’t want to be president. Talk about a thankless, stressful job! Why would anyone want to be president of the United States? It’s a reasonable question to ask on President’s Day. Your answer depends on whether you’re a cynic, an optimist, a psychiatrist, or a combination of all three! A cynic says a candidate is in it only for money and power. An optimist objects: no, it’s altruism; the person really cares about the country. The psychiatrist may say whatever the motive, the individual must be crazy!

I had no aspirations to be president. I did think it would be fun to be Queen Elizabeth so I could use the editorial “we” when speaking of only myself, as in, “We are not amused.” My sister Mary and I thought that phrase was hysterical and used it at every opportunity; Mom was not amused.

I remember for a time wanting to be an Amelia Earhart and fly solo across the Atlantic, an ambition my family laughed at because I’d been getting lost since pre-school days. At a young age I got angry with my parents about something and informed them I was running away.

They shrugged. “Go ahead.”

We lived in town at the time. I marched out of the house, and my anger dissipated into delight in my newfound freedom as blocks passed. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. Dad! I hadn’t been free; he’d been following me!

“Time to go home.”

I was furious. “You said I could run away!”

“Now I’m saying it’s time to go home. Where were you going anyway?”

“Aunt Virginia and Uncle Tom’s!”

He laughed. “Well, you were going the wrong way.”

Our family was visiting Aunt Virginia and Uncle Tom when I was a little older. They lived in a charming row house in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I was an outdoor girl, a tomboy, and I got restless and probably rambunctious. Someone told me to go outside and play.

I had so much fun running up and down the block in front of their house getting rid of the excess energy accumulated from spending too much time indoors. It took a while, but I got tired. Time to go inside. That proved to be a problem. Row houses all look alike. I wandered aimlessly, up the block, down the block. What to do?

At last, I saw a familiar figure standing in front of one of the houses. Uncle Tom! I ran to him, trying to keep relief from showing.

He chuckled. “You got lost, didn’t you? Your secret’s safe with me.”

I’ve outgrown many things in my life, but I still have zero since of direction. Once I started driving the few short miles to our Michigan church and ended up hopelessly lost in Ohio. My tales of getting lost could fill a tome. Let’s just say some of my back road wanderings have been unintentional.

It’s a family trait this getting lost. My older sister Eve and I were supposed to serve the food at our baby sister Ginny’s wedding reception, so we left the wedding as soon as the ceremony ended to get things ready. By the time we got to the reception almost everyone was gone. Our husbands had served the food. They looked cute in aprons.

I gave up on flying solo across the Atlantic. I remember wanting to be a detective like Nancy Drew. I also wanted to be an airline stewardess. That’s what they called them back in the fifties; there were no positions for men.

Dad worked for an airline, and he dashed my hopes.

“Honey, there’s a height requirement to be a stewardess. You’ll never be tall enough. And you must be able to see fairly well without your glasses; you’re legally blind without yours. And besides, those stewardesses are glamorous!

What are you saying, Dad? I can be glamorous! Just let me get out of these jeans and wash my face a few times!

After I thought about it, glamor didn’t appeal to me, so I discarded that ambition too.

I was pretty shocked when we were newly weds and John said he thought God was calling him to be a pastor. Wait! That would make me a…pastor’s wife? God hadn’t said a word to me about that! Weren’t pastor’s wives everything I wasn’t? As a joke I went and put on the most old-lady looking outfit I could find and wound my long hair into a severe bun. I came back into the room, stood pigeon-toed, and tried to look saintly.

“What are you doing?” Mom Poole asked.

“Practicing. For when I’m a pastor’s wife.”

She was not amused. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit…sacrilegious?”

No, I didn’t. And that’s exactly why I thought God should maybe have given John a different wife if He planned to make him a preacher! But we’ve both survived and thrived these almost forty-eight years in the ministry, and despite more than a few tears, I confess, it’s the life for me. I’ve loved it. I guess God knew what He was doing after all.

My sister Mary remembers when I was a kid, I said I wanted to be a hermit and a writer. Well baby, look at me now! I’m a writer, and my oncologist has enclosed me in a hermit’s bubble for almost two years. I keep trying to connive my way out, but nothing works. I think he’s heard it all before.

I look back at my life with a heart full of joy. I look to the future with anticipation. I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. Not the president; you’ll never have to call me Madam President. I don’t suppose I’m English enough to qualify to be the queen either; nor was I born into the royal family, and you know what I say to that? We are not amused!