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See You Next Morrow

by Donna Poole

“See you next morrow!”

When Reece, our grandson, was a little boy with golden curls he used to say that to us when we said goodbye. “Last morrow” was yesterday or any time past, and “next morrow” was tomorrow or any day in the future.

Sometimes we still use those two sweet phrases in our house just for the nostalgia of it because we hold close in our hearts those little boy days too quickly gone. Time gives; time takes away.

What is time, really? Our understanding of time and eternity is so limited. Past, present, future; what are those terms but just words? They are nothing to our God who holds them all in the palm of His hand as one. The Bible says to God a day is as a thousand years and a thousand years as a day.

To an author crafting a novel, time is relative. She knows what happened to her characters in the past; she writes about what they’re doing in the present, and sometimes she knows what they’re going to do in the future, although they often surprise her and do their own thing. When it comes to her novel, an author also holds past, present, and future in the palm of her hand. Time is a relative term; it’s of no consequence. Unless she has a deadline, and then time quickly goes from abstract to concrete!

Perhaps in heaven we’ll view time as God does, and a thousand years will be but a day, and we’ll no longer be slaves to time. But when we’re still walking the earth as mere mortals, there is a past, present, and future; time is very real, and sometimes it hurts.

We love someone dearly; as Erasmus said, “We had but one soul between us.” Suddenly, time is up. The train whistle blows, and our loved one is gone down the tracks, out of sight, into infinity. We can follow them only with our hearts, not our eyes. We have the memories of last morrow, but no next morrow to ramble a backroad together here on this earth. If we both knew Jesus as Savior we have the promise of eternity together, but eternity can seem a long way off to a mourning heart.

A dear pastor friend of ours said, “Death is a defeated enemy, but make no mistake, it is still the enemy.”

It’s the enemy because it tears apart the fabric of hearts knit together, and though time may mend, the scars remain. A song, a scent, a familiar shape turning a corner, and a tear comes.

In the past eight months death has claimed five people dear to us, our sweet friend Amber Jones, only twenty-two, our friend Pastor Don Harkey, my faithful friend, Chris Albee, our dear brother-in-law, Steve Post, and now, our beautiful friend Lois Pettit Trippet.

Each of these lovely people showed us a glimpse of Jesus. People said about Frances Ridley Havergal that when she came into a room you had a sense of two people coming in, her, and the Holy Spirit. When Jesus lives in us, we should bring the smile of spring into a room, the fresh scent of the Other Land we’re traveling to, and these five people did that for us. We grieve their loss.

Lois was an accomplished musician with piano, flute, and voice. Even her laughter sounded like music. We fought cancer together, and she was a song of hope to me. I don’t think either of us expected cancer to win; we thought God would heal us, but God took her Home. I won’t hear that melodic laugher again on this earth; I’ll never again see her beautiful face or lovely smile.

I wipe away tears but smile at the memories.

Lois was a wonderful piano teacher; I was her only failure in all her years of teaching. It took her from late summer until Christmas to teach me to play “Silent Night,” one finger of the right hand on the melody, and left hand doing a few simple chords. She was so patient with me.

Somewhere along the line we decided we were destined to be soul-mate kind of friends, not piano teacher and struggling student. I quit lessons.

I have so many memories. Lois laughing, singing, playing her flute, talking so seriously about the Lord she loved. Lois, still in her twenties, panicking at my surprise fortieth birthday party when she saw someone arrive she was interested in but hadn’t expected to see there, grabbing my hands, and asking me what she was going to do. Her hands were like ice, and her big blue eyes looked like a little girl who’d been suddenly told she had to sing the national anthem in Yankee Stadium. I laughed and told her she was going to be her usual charming self. And she was. Lois at our house having dinner the night I went into labor for our fourth child. I finished eating even though I knew I was in labor because I’d made a special meal; that was a decision I regretted later. After John and I went to the hospital, Lois spent the evening with our kids and helped them make a “Welcome Baby” banner to tape over the archway.

Lois married and moved out of state. I think the last time we ate together was at DJ’s, a cozy little restaurant in Pittsford. Mark, Lois, John, and I sat in front of the big window, talked and laughed, and the years we hadn’t seen each other evaporated like steam from a cup of tea.

Lois and I haven’t seen each other the last two years. My oncologist won’t let me have visitors, and sweet Lois kept wanting to come sing outside my window. When I heard she’d flown like a songbird to heaven, that’s what I cried about the most, that I hadn’t made that happen.

One of the last things Lois did before she couldn’t do anything but wait for Jesus to take her Home and end her suffering was write us a note and send a gift. That’s the kind of friend Lois was to us. Her life was a song; the echo lingers.

Lois, dear friend, I’ll see you next morrow. Amber, Pastor Harkey, Chris, Steve, see you next morrow. And to all my dear ones loved and lost to me now but known to Christ, see you next morrow!

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She’s a Goner

by Donna Poole

We were the Three Musketeers.

We three couples laughed, cried, and adventured together. We solved the world’s problems while enjoying coffee in our living rooms warmed by a wood burner or kerosene heaters. We sat in camp chairs pulled close to crackling campfires and watched the stars appear. We enjoyed countless meals together. John dearly loved our friends, La-Follettes, and Potters, and never got upset with them.

Except for that one time.

The phone rang. “John,” Audrey Potter said, “Marvin and I are at a garage sale. There’s a dryer here for $75.00. Either you’re buying it for Donna, or we are, but one way or another, she’s getting this dryer!”

A clothes dryer wasn’t on our list of must haves, and the must haves far outweighed the income. It’s probably a good thing Audrey couldn’t see John’s face.

“Where is it?” he asked. “I’ll come get it.”

I have no idea where John got the money, because back then we were lucky to have an extra five dollars!

I’d never had a dryer. We lived in the country, and clothes lines strung between trees worked just fine. Unless it rained, or snowed, or a bird pooped on the sheets, or everything got fly spots, or the laundry smelled like manure from the neighbor’s cows.

Did you ever get out of a hot shower, bury your face in a towel that smelled like manure, and come up gasping for fresh air? No? You should try it sometime!

Home came the dryer. John was even less thrilled when he found out the dryer was set up for natural gas and he had to buy a converter so it could attach to our LP gas. But finally, we got the old girl up and running.

Like our other old appliances, the dryer worked great, most of the time. When she didn’t, John learned a lot about repairs. And when the work needed was beyond him, he called Brad, our appliance guy.

Brad is a genius at finding old parts and fixing ancient appliances. We got to know him well, just as we did our furnace repair man. When people replaced old furnaces, he saved parts off them because he knew we’d be needing them. We have good people in our lives.

About a month ago the old girl started warning us. Towels that usually dried in one hour took two. Finally, she said, “Enough is enough; I need a rest.”

We weren’t worried. John tore her apart and thought he knew what the trouble was. He called Brad. Brad confirmed John’s diagnosis of the patient’s illness and added another John had missed; she was terminal.  

“I’ll try, but I really don’t think I can get parts for this anymore, John. This dryer was made in the late 60s or early 70s.”

“Do you have anything second hand available?”

Brad nodded. “I do, but it’s electric. I’ve gone over it, and it works well. I’ll tell you what though, with the price of LP gas as high as it is, you’re going to spend as much to run a gas dryer as you will an electric one.”

Audrey, you’ll be happy to know John is buying Brad’s dryer. You don’t have to threaten to come back to Michigan from Tennessee where you live now and buy it for me if he doesn’t. It costs a little more than $75.00, but it’s very reasonable.

I’ll miss the old girl. I wish I could remember how long we’ve had her, maybe twenty-five years? She gave us a good run for the money, and I’m sorry she’s a goner.

You know what I miss more? I miss the days when three young, then three middle aged, then three older couples cried, laughed, and adventured together. I miss solving the world’s problems while enjoying coffee in our living rooms warmed by a wood burner or kerosene heaters. I miss sitting in camp chairs pulled close to crackling campfires and watching the stars appear. Gone are the days of sharing countless meals together.

Those days will never really be a goner because they’ll live forever in our hearts. We’ll fellowship again someday around the Big Table when we all get Home to heaven. Pastor Potter is there already; we don’t know which of us will go next. There will be no problems to solve there, no tears to dry, but the love and laughter will last for eternity. And I can only hope for a crackling campfire, cups of coffee, and the sweet voices of my beloved friends.

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What’s Your Hurry

by Donna Poole

We have many non-negotiable June deadlines.

Time is a precious commodity right now, so John sighed when he realized we were out of a necessary medication and had to make a trip to town. He needed every one of his June minutes to accomplish his tasks, and an extra trip to town wasn’t part of the plan.

I knew I wasn’t going to see much of John this month, so I closed my computer. “I’m riding along with you.”

“Do you have time?”

“No, but I’m going anyway.”

On the way to town, I tried to sing, “Precious and few are the moments we two can share.”

I say “tried” because, as usual, the melody lost itself between my heart and my mouth.

We decided we’d enjoy what little time we had together and make the ride back home a mini date, so we stopped at Arby’s to get a favorite drink, a value size Jamocha Shake.

What! Four cars ahead of us at the drive-through? We definitely didn’t have time for this.

“Let’s skip it,” I said to John.

We hesitated, almost left, but stayed. The wait was only a few minutes, but the looming deadlines made it seem longer.

There always seems to be a reason to rush, doesn’t there? At those times, even fast food doesn’t seem fast enough.

Kimmee, our daughter, and I were sitting in the parking lot at church today, listening to John preach over the radio, when he mentioned restaurant food. He was talking about the Apostle Paul being imprisoned in Rome, chained to two guards, in his own rented house.

“There he was in Rome, Italy,” John joked, “and he couldn’t even go out to a restaurant for spaghetti.”

I laughed then remarked to Kimmee I didn’t think there were restaurants in Italy in Paul’s day.

“Mom,” Kimmee said. “They discovered food stalls in the ruins of Pompeii, and Pompeii was destroyed after Paul died. They had food stalls in Rome too!” She texted me some links to research.

I found out the Pompeii food stalls didn’t offer Jamocha shakes, but duck, goat, pig, fish, and snails were on the menu.

I suppose you could call those food stalls the first fast-food restaurants.

Did the people in line at a food stall in Pompeii sigh about the four people in line ahead of them? I wonder if people then forget as we do now that life is short and sweet? One midsummer day, August 24, 79, A.D., Mount Vesuvius blew its top and buried the city under thirteen to twenty feet of volcanic ash and pumice. Buildings, skeletons, and artifacts lay intact under that ash until archaeologists discovered the city in the mid-1800s. In recent excavations, archeologists found the remains of two people in a food stall. Had they been enjoying the August morning, or had the pressure of preparing food made them in too much of a hurry to notice the day?

I wonder if mankind has been in a hurry ever since God banished Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. That reminds me of a joke Tom told me today.

Despite his own physical pain, Tom loves to make people laugh. He told me the problem in the Garden of Eden wasn’t the apple in the tree, it was the “pair” on the ground!

Come to think of it, Eve was in a hurry when she grabbed that forbidden fruit. Satan had promised her it would fast track her into more knowledge.

Eve was just plain in too much of a rush. If only she’d waited to talk to God, or Adam, or even to have a chat with herself, the outcome might have been different.

Slow down, Eve; “you move too fast. You got to make the morning last.”

But Eve didn’t slow down; the morning didn’t last, and midnight came all too soon.

I wonder how many mistakes I’ve made when I’ve been in too much of a hurry. What precious things have I sacrificed? I do know that being too busy makes me forget to take the long look. I don’t remember two important things: the shortness of time and the length of eternity.

Yes, we must keep moving; some deadlines are non-negotiable. Life itself has an expiration date. But if we’re too busy for each other, too busy to worship, too busy for God, we’re too busy. If we feel frustrated by four cars ahead of us in a fast-food line; it’s time to slow down.

John and I did slow down…for a few minutes. We drove home from town a little slower. We noticed the wildflowers and remarked about the unusually beautiful day, sunny, and warm. The humidity hit a desert like low that afternoon, four percent. Was this really even Michigan? We enjoyed being together, and we enjoyed the Jamocha shakes.   

Yes, make your deadlines. But slow down a bit now and then. Take a backroad.

Next time you’re in too much of a hurry, remember Eve. And ask yourself this: who was the first one in a big rush to leave the Last Supper? Talk about bad decisions!

Photo Credit: Drew Kiefer
Photo Credit: Drew Kiefer
Photo Credit: Drew Kiefer
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One Step at a Time

by Donna Poole

Kimmee drove by the silver van parked on the backroad as we traveled home from parking lot church today. “That same van was here yesterday, and there’s a sign in the window.”

“I wonder what it says. Want to stop and see?” I asked.

Kimmee checked it out. “It says not to tow the vehicle because the owner is hiking on the North Country Trail and will return. What’s that trail?”

“I don’t know; I’ve never heard of it.”

Thank you, Safari search; before we got home Kimmee and I knew the trail is 4,800 miles long, the longest in the National Trails System. It extends across eight states from North Dakota to Vermont and includes Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York.

Our section of the trail in southern Michigan goes from the Kalamzoo/Barry County line to the Ohio/Michigan state line. Northcountytrail.org says, “Southern Michigan hosts a mix of forest and farm country that primarily follows multi-use pathways and temporary road walks. Hike over lush farmland and tramp the back roads of a part of Michigan where there are so many lakes they are referred to by number.”

“Tramp the back roads;” I like that. How have I lived here so long and not known about this amazing trail? Now I know why I’ve seen the occasional hikers on our gravel road, backpacks on, walking sticks in hand, looking half-dead!

I read more, wishing I could hike the amazing trail that “traverses through more than 160 federal, state, and local public lands, including 10 National Forests, four areas of the National Park Service, and over 100 state parks, forests, and game areas. It winds along three of the Great Lakes, past countless farmlands, through large cityscapes and vast prairies, and the famed Adirondacks.”

I’m ready to hike; who’s with me? Grab your walking stick!

There’s one tiny problem. Two years ago, before Morticia my lung tumor rearranged my life, I refused to go to bed until I’d walked my 10,000 daily steps. Pedometer in pocket, I kept walking the hall or around the living room every night until I hit the magic number. Back then, I was ready for a hike. Now I stagger from home to car to Rogel cancer center back to car to home to bed. That’s a slight exaggeration, but sadly, I no longer stagger down trails. That’s not to say I won’t hike again someday. I don’t plan to stagger either; I intend to walk the way I used to walk if I can only remember how!

Can you imagine the adventure of hiking the entire 4,800 miles of the North Country Trail from start to finish? Do you know how people accomplish that mighty feat? With their feet. Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Feat, feet, get it?

They hike those many miles one step at a time.

According to my research, if you’re an able bodied moderately active person, you’ll walk much farther than 4,800 miles in your lifetime. If you stay active until you’re eighty years old, you’ll walk 110,000 miles; that amounts to walking the circumference of the earth five times! Walking around the world five times sounds exhausting and impossible.

It happens one step at a time.

My husband, John, saw the lone hiker whose car had been parked on the backcountry road. She drove by us late this afternoon. I wish I could have talked with her to ask why she’d wanted to spend Memorial Day weekend hiking alone and how much of the beautiful North Country Trail she’d hiked. Was she a beginner? A seasoned traveler? Had the hike been difficult? I wonder if she found unexpected beauty, perhaps a fawn sleeping in a hedgerow.

I remember hiking a trail once I thought was going to kill me. The day was too hot for hiking; we were too tired, and we were probably too old, but we tackled it anyway. Down it took us into a steep ravine until leg muscles screamed. Up it forced us to the top until lungs panted and begged for mercy. Just when we thought we’d made it and were getting out alive, it took a cruel sharp turn and plunged us down again. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; both took too much needed energy. I suggested to John he carry me or call 9-1-1. He nixed both ideas; he said he couldn’t carry me so I’d have to keep walking, and he couldn’t call for help because we had no cell service.

When we finally emerged from the wilds into civilization, we saw two hikers about to begin that trail.

“Don’t do it!” I warned them. “It’s the trail from hell.”

They laughed.

“I’m not joking. It’s horrible. We barely got out alive.”

They laughed again. Down the trail they went. Poor souls, we never saw them again.

We did escape that terrible trail though. How? One step at a time.

In our metaphorical journeys we sometimes find ourselves on trails we never chose, expected, and don’t particularly like. We may even feel like calling them the trails from hell. But we aren’t walking alone.

We have a Guide who always comes when we call for help. And when we get too tired; He’ll carry us and point out beauty along the way. We may even see a fawn sleeping in a hedgerow. As soon as our Guide knows we’re strong enough to continue, He’ll set us down and tell us to keep walking. If we complain the day is too hot for hiking; we’re too tired, and we’re probably too old, He’ll tell us to get going anyway because that’s how our spiritual muscles become strong.

When I’m not especially fond of my trail, I trust my Guide and keep walking, because I know these byways, happy and sad, are leading me Home.

But if it’s all the same to my Guide, I wouldn’t mind hiking a little of the beautiful North Country Trail before I walk His streets of gold. Either way, I’ll keep walking. One step at a time.

“A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.” –Proverbs 16:9

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May Memories

by Donna Poole

Who doesn’t love the month of May?

Fifty-four years ago this evening was unforgettable, but the story actually began in April, so I’ll have to turn around and walk back up the road a piece.

Mom and Dad Poole, Mr. and Mrs. Poole to me back then, were traveling from cold New York State to beautiful Georgia where spring was already smiling. They were taking their son, John, and a family friend, Hope, and they invited me to go too.

I’d only been to New York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and the Canadian side of Niagara Falls, so that trip was a wonderful adventure to me. The views were spectacular as we drove through the mountains, and every time we stopped, the air was softer and warmer. I felt like we were driving right into heaven.

It was heavenly to be with John, too. We’d been friends since before kindergarten and had dated about a year. We were nearing the end of our second year of college, and at the age of nineteen, felt quite grown up and ready to conquer the world.

During our freshman year of college John had told me he loved me. That terrified me; we hadn’t known each other nearly long enough for that. I responded to his declaration of love with something less than he’d hoped.

“How,” I’d asked, “does a person know something like that for sure?”

John had even proposed to me, more than once, always as a joke. Once I’d almost taken him seriously until he brought the ring from behind his back and presented it with a laugh. It was in a clear plastic egg; he’d gotten it from the bubble gum machine.

Georgia was everything I’d hoped and more. I loved John’s sister Lonnie, warm and funny, and her kind southern gentleman of a husband, Truman. One day during our visit they took all of us to visit Stone Mountain. From the flat land around it, the quartz mountain, more than five miles in circumference at its base, juts 825 feet into the air. The 360-degree view from the top is incredible. You can see downtown Atlanta, the North Georgia mountains, and on a clear day, you can see sixty miles in all directions.

John asked me if I wanted to go to the top of the mountain, and I did. We took Hope with us. When we got to the top, I was exclaiming over the amazing view. Hope was just a few steps ahead of us when John asked, “Will you marry me?”

I gave him a quick look. I knew him. He wasn’t going to propose when he couldn’t kiss me, and he for sure wasn’t going to propose and kiss me with a friend along. That was totally unromantic. This was another of his jokes.

I laughed. “I’m not going to fall for that again!”

He wasn’t joking. He’d planned that proposal for months.

As I may have already told you, we were nineteen and oh, so mature. So, John responded as any mature man would; he refused to speak to me the rest of the morning. Or the afternoon. Or the evening.  

Awkward!

Mom Poole noticed; everyone noticed; how could they not? His face looked like a storm cloud and his silence shouted volumes.

“What did you do to Johnnie?” Mom Poole asked.

I told her. I don’t remember her response.

I do remember wishing I could be back in the cold state of New York where the atmosphere would be a lot warmer than it was sitting next to the guy who refused to say a word to me.

Very late that evening we ended up in a room alone together, and the storm cloud spoke. “Do you want to marry me or not, and this is your last chance!”

I laughed. “Yes, of course. I want to marry you!”

He didn’t yet have the ring; I didn’t realize it, but he was giving a little of each paycheck to a jewelry store in Ithaca, New York, where my beautiful diamond was on layaway.

Let’s leave April and Georgia behind now and walk ahead to 24 May 1968. Between college classes and work—I did both full time—it had been a long day. You know that feeling you get when you need sleep as much as you need air? I got home from work and almost cried when I saw John’s car at Mom and Dad’s. Yes, I loved him; I adored him, but I needed to sleep.

I went inside and managed a smile.

“I thought you might like to take a ride out to the airport!” he said.

“Oh, honey, I’m exhausted. Could we go another time?”

“No, I’d really like you to come with me tonight.”

I sighed.

“Donna,” Mom said, “If Johnnie wants to take you for a ride, you should go with him.”

That didn’t help my mood one bit. She always did like him better. Ever since I’d been a little girl my mom had been telling me when I grew up I should “marry that nice little Johnnie Poole.”

I’d told her on repeated occasions, when I was a little girl, that I would NEVER marry that “nice little Johnnie Poole.”

As I may have already told you, we were nineteen and oh, so mature. The drive to the airport was totally silent. John had his feelings hurt because he knew I hadn’t wanted to come with him. I had my feelings hurt because I thought he should have noticed how tired I was.

John parked where we could see the planes take off and land. Neither of us said a word. Finally, John spoke. Four curt words.

“Open the glove compartment.”

“What’s the matter, did you break your arm? You want the glove compartment opened, open it yourself.”

“Open the glove compartment.”

With an exaggerated, dramatic, and oh so mature sigh, I opened the glove compartment, and the light inside came on. There, in a box, sat a beautiful diamond solitaire in a tiffany setting.

“I could have gotten a bigger one for the same price,” John said, “but the jeweler had me look at both diamonds through his glass. The bigger one had lots of black specks. This one didn’t have any. He said this one was almost perfect. I thought you should have the perfect one, because it reminded me of you.”

Perfect? Had he already forgotten the way I’d behaved just minutes before?

“Love,” as the Scriptures say, “covers a multitude of sins.”

Our love has covered a multitude of sins for many years now, and it grows sweeter as we get older.

People can cherish their memories of fancy proposals made in five-star restaurants or on romantic cruises. I’ll take my two memories any day. “Do you want to marry me or not, and this is your last chance!” “You want the glove compartment opened, open it yourself!”

I remember, and I laugh. And then I thank God for all the love and laughter we’ve shared since.

John Poole, when you read this blog, and I know you will because no matter how busy you get you always make time to read what I write, I want you to know this. There’s no one I’d rather ramble the backroads of life with more than you. Happy engagement anniversary. You’re still outside putting siding on the porch at 6:41 PM and I’m still writing. We haven’t been together more than a few minutes today. If you want to take me for a ride to the airport tonight, I’ll open the glove compartment.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
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The Card that Wasn’t

by Donna Poole

“Oh, come on, Mary! We can do it!”

“Donna! Mom said we could ride our bikes fifteen minutes before supper. That store is fifteen miles away. There’s no way we can get there and back in time.”

“But I know we can do it if we ride fast enough. I want to buy Mom a real card for Mother’s Day.”

Passion won over logic; my sister Mary caved in, and we began pedaling the hills as fast as we could.

Strange as it sounds, I wasn’t lying to Mary. I honestly thought if we tried hard enough, we could get home in time. I was plenty old enough to know fairy tales don’t come true just by determination and wishing, but I didn’t. I’m not sure I know yet.

I can’t remember exactly how old we were when we set out on our grand pre-Mother’s Day adventure. We lived in Taberg, New York, middle of nowhere USA., when I was in fifth, sixth, and half of seventh grade. So, I must have been ten or eleven. Mary was fifteen months younger but years wiser.

The details get fuzzy. I remember we got lost; Mary thinks we didn’t. I recall getting tired and sitting on a bench outside of a closed laundry mat just as Mary hollered, “Don’t sit down!”

Mary saw what I didn’t. There was bleach on the bench, bleach on my long jacket, and soon to be bruises on my backside.

As you may guess, hours passed, and Mom panicked. I believe she called the police, the fire department, the boy scouts, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I may be exaggerating. Sadly for us, Mom was the one who found us.

Nothing makes a mom more furious than fear. She tossed our bikes in the back of the station wagon with strength I could only admire even though I knew what was coming.

“Get in!”

In we got. It was dark outside. Our futures looked dark. We were not to have any futures; this was to be our last day of living. It had been a good life. I looked affectionately at Mary, my sister, my best friend, my comrade in crime—though usually dragged unwillingly into said crime. It had been a good life. I was sorry to get her executed at such a young and tender age. And poor Ginny, our little sister, what was she going to do without us?

Mom’s voice pronounced our death sentence. “You girls. Will go home. You will eat your supper. You will get the worst spankings you’ve ever had. And then you will go to bed.”

And then Mary, sweet, quiet Mary, who usually only got into trouble with Mom when it was my fault, spoke. The audacity! The sheer bravery! I admired her, but my hero worship was going to grow when I heard what she had to say.

“What’s for supper?”

“Boiled dinner.”

Cabbage, potatoes, carrots. Mary hates the stuff. What a horrible last meal. Aren’t people on death row supposed to get steak?

Mary asked, “Can I skip dinner and go right to the spanking and bed?”

You, dear readers, most of you, did not know my mother. You have no idea how much courage it took to utter those words. I almost gave Mary a standing ovation. Mary, who unlike myself, never sassed or talked back? I didn’t know she had it in her. My fellow innocent prisoner had, in her last minutes, spoken with a true hero’s bravery!

Mary had to eat the accursed meal, every last bite. We both got the promised spankings; Mom always kept her word. Off to bed we went. Mary may have repented; I don’t know. I did not.

There I lay, sore and angry, and thinking like a true ten-year-old martyr.

And all I wanted to do was buy her a Mother’s Day card so she’d know how much I love her, even though I disobey, drive her crazy, and talk back. We rode our bikes so far and so hard; between that and the spanking, there’s nothing on me that doesn’t hurt. I’ll probably die tonight, and so will Mary. Mom will be sorry when Mother’s Day comes, and two of her kids are gone.

I couldn’t hold the martyr’s pose long; I never could. Soon I was grinning, thinking of what a grand adventure it had been, and not regretting a bit of it, not even the bleach on the jacket I knew I’d have to keep wearing.

Mother’s Day came, and Mom still had all her children. I woke up the way I always did back then and sometimes still do, thinking something wonderful was going to happen. If it didn’t happen by itself, Mary and I could always think of a way to make it happen, couldn’t we?

Poor Mom, you always said we were going to drive you crazy. I remember telling you more than once we weren’t going to drive you crazy because you were already there. That never ended well for me.

Mom, I did love you; I still do love you, and I’ll see you in heaven someday. Maybe I’ll bring you a card, a real card, one from the store. You’ll probably look at it and ask me if I ever learned that to obey is better than to sacrifice. And I’ll have to be honest, because I can’t lie in heaven, and tell you I hope so, but I don’t know.

***

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

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

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

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She Gave Me Diamonds

by Donna Poole

There she stood at my car window one Sunday, tiny and beautiful, with a smile that rivaled the sunshine for warmth that early spring day. The breeze blew her blonde hair into her face, and she brushed it back with a small hand.

“Grandma, these are for you!”

One at a time she carefully put three diamonds into my hand. I turned them this way and that, and we both admired the way they sparkled in the sunlight.

“Thank you, Ruby! I love them!”

She nodded, smiled her shy smile again, and ran off down the church sidewalk to find more adventures the way only a five-year-old can.

Did I drop the three sparkly stones back into the parking lot the minute her back was turned? I did not! I treasure the gift, given with love. Ruby seems to be continuing the heritage of others in her family, some in heaven, some still here; Ruby is a giver.

The other day I got a text from a friend. She’d been at school picking up her friend’s daughter who’s in Ruby’s class. She wrote, “I was out of my car talking to my niece whose daughter is also in Ruby’s class. Suddenly I realized I was holding up the line. When I pulled up and looked at the kids there was Ruby smiling and holding her hands in the shape of a heart. For me! It blessed me so much I wanted to get out and hug her!!! Instead, I waved so she would know I saw her! I felt so loved! And as I thought about it, I thought what a great reflection of her parents!!! With God’s help they are doing a great job. I prayed God’s wisdom and protection over them as I do my own. Anyway, can’t you just see her sweet smile.”

Yes, I could see Ruby’s sweet smile, and I smile again now just thinking about it.

So, what exactly did Ruby give that warmed my heart on a Sunday, my friend’s heart on a weekday, and Ruby’s parents’ hearts when I passed the text on to them? Three rocks and two tiny fingers and thumbs shaped into a heart, is that what she gave?

Ruby gave love. Anything given with love makes a memory, and memories are precious.

I remember well when our kids were young how wealthy we were, rich in everything but money. We were rich in friendship, and our friends sometimes ate supper with us several times a week. My friend said to me, “You’re the only person I know who can feed a dozen people with a third of a cup of hamburger.”

Our friends were rich too, the same way we were, in everything but money. Looking back, I don’t know how they managed to feed and clothe their family of four children. Yes, I do; it was the grace of God. In dry times, they sometimes didn’t have enough money to buy postage stamps.

During one of those dry times, they called and asked if they could come over for a cup of coffee.

“We’d love to have you come. Please do, but we don’t have any coffee, and John doesn’t get paid until Sunday.”

Later, our friends knocked on the door. Smiling, they held out coffee, not the generic or store brand we usually bought, but Maxwell House.

My eyes filled with tears. “Where did you find the money to buy this?”

They looked at each other and smiled. “We managed.”

Can you guess how long ago that was? I wish you could, because I can’t remember, but I know it was at least forty years.

I’ve forgotten so much of my life; it’s like a giant hand erased half the blackboard of my memories, and those of you who know me through my writings understand why. Open brain surgery started the job; seizures took the eraser to do their part, and then aggressive chemo said, “You can give that eraser to me now, I’ll wipe out a few more!” But despite all I’ve forgotten, I remember that coffee in my friend’s hand like it was yesterday. I remember it better than yesterday; what day was yesterday?

Why do I recall such a simple gift when I’ve been given many elaborate ones? Because it was given with so much love.  

The kindness of family and friends has enriched my long life. I’ve lived many years, but I honestly don’t think of myself as an “old lady” or even a woman in poor health. Perhaps I dream-walk in a Pollyanna world, but when I look at my life, past and present, I see diamonds. I’ve been given so many diamonds, so many expressions of love. Even the heartaches and tears God has allowed have passed through His loving hands before they touched me, and I’ve never cried a tear He hasn’t treasured and kept in His bottle.

Someday, God will do for me what George Matheson prayed so many years ago, “Show me that my tears have made my rainbow.”

Do you know what I see when I look at my life through my tears? I see diamonds, sparkling in the sunlight of God’s unfailing love. And I’m blessed!

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When Push Comes to Shove

Wherein the writer breaks every writing rule in the book, and never say “never” or “every.”

by Donna Poole

Not to overuse the idioms or anything, but when push comes to shove, you want someone in your corner you can count on.

My husband, John, knows a thing or two about pushing, shoving, yanking, and pulling when it comes to his yard equipment. His senile push mower, chain saw, and weed whip conspire in the shed all winter and behave worse every spring and summer. They refuse to start on the first or even the twenty-first pull.

In the evenings, back in the shed, they have a heyday.

“I made him sweat like a pig!”

“Oh yeah? That’s nothing! I made him double over and gasp for breath!”

“You pilgrims! I scared his wife so bad she called the squad! They diagnosed…wait for it…whip lash!”

Then they all laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and slap their personified or is it anthropomorphic knees.

The ancient rototiller contributes to John’s woes with its baby-bottom smooth tires and uncooperative “you can’t tell me what to do” attitude. Even after he puts chains on the tires, John struggles to force it to dig into the heavy clay soil.

And the doddering old man riding mower? Its favorite trick is getting stuck in the ditch. After pushing, shoving, and muttering, John must quite often swallow his pride and pull the thing out of the ditch with his truck. And don’t even get me started on the antique truck!

Inside appliances aren’t John’s friend either. All the beastly old things conspire to break down, but at least they usually do so one at a time. His most recent fix was the furnace. Before that it was the washer.

John doesn’t give up easily. Someone asked a famous old preacher; I forget who, his secret of success. He replied, “I can plod.”

John can plod; he has what it takes; he can stay by the stuff!

My man’s no spring chicken; he’s pushing seventy-four, but when push comes to shove, I can count on John to give a situation his best, whether the breakdown is the yard equipment’s, the appliances’, or mine. John is in my corner; he always has been, and I’ve always known it.

My fascination with idioms sends me down a rabbit trail. Want to come?

Grammarphobia says “when push comes to shove” means “when action must back up words.”

“It originated in 19th century African American usage…. The expression wasn’t recorded until the 1890s…, but no doubt it was used conversationally for years before it ever showed up in print.”

You probably know that “in your corner” is a boxing term. If I’m in your corner, I’m the one to encourage you in the fight, patch up your wounds, and make sure you and your boxing gloves are ready for the next round.

A “real” writer knows not to overuse idioms lest the reader groan, slap a virtual forehead, and slam shut book, computer, or phone. Obviously, I’m ignoring that rule of thumb.

Rule of thumb originated…oh, never mind.

If you have someone, a human, you know—a being with skin on—in your corner, be grateful. If you don’t, how about trying to be there for someone else when push comes to shove?

If you’re a long time reader, you knew I’d get around to this eventually. If you belong to God, He’s always in your corner.

“Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness. For I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.” –Isaiah 41:10, 13

You can count on Him when you’re in dire straits, at your wits’ end, facing a catch—22, or grasping at straws.

And now I’m going to type the end, because even I am sick of these idioms. It seems to have become a vicious cycle.

The End

***

You can find my books on Amazon:

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

If the Creek Don’t Rise: Corners Church Book 2 https://amzn.to/3jqarv2 The Tale of Two Snowpeople: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09GJKG83R

When John and the mower were both a few years younger

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What He Heard

by Donna Poole

What were the first sounds Jesus heard?

Perhaps it was the soft bleating of a lamb, the whispered love of His mother, or a Jewish blessing from Joseph. He surely heard awe and joy in the rough voices of His first visitors, shepherds from a nearby hillside, whose hearts were overflowing with wonder at this Savior in a humble manger.

As Jesus grew, He heard the familiar sounds of saw and hammer in the carpenter shop where He worked with Joseph. I wonder if He loved the beautiful things He made with His hands in that shop, even though before He’d chosen to limit Himself in a body, He’d created the stars of the universe just by the breath of His mouth!

Jesus heard lovely things in His short life; the crashing of waves on the seashore where He loved to walk, the quiet sounds of mother robins singing babies to sleep, the night sounds of owls hooting in the trees.

He heard the fluttering wings of tiny sparrows and taught us God the Father cares about each little bird that falls to the ground. He noticed the rustle of the lilies swaying in gentle breezes and preached about a heavenly Father who dresses flowers in beauty and can take care of us.

Jesus heard sad things. Cries for help; pleas for mercy, and sobs of the bereaved—Jesus heard all of these.

Jesus heard terrifying things. He listened to the crazed sounds of demons and the voice of Satan himself and emerged victorious and unsoiled.  

Noise, Jesus heard noise. Crowds of 4,000 and 5,000 clamored with need; yet He often made time for just one voice. He held a quiet conversation with one woman at a well that transformed an entire city.

Jesus heard what no one else did. He always listened for words too deep to be spoken. When a sinful woman washed His feet with her tears and dried them with her hair, she couldn’t say a word. But He heard the prayer of her tears and answered, “Your sins are forgiven.”

When crowds of people surrounded Him in Jericho, Jesus saw a short man, a tax collector, and a cheat, who’d climbed a tree just to catch a glimpse of Him. The little man never said a word. Jesus heard his unspoken need and changed his life forever.

Jesus heard His Father’s voice. He went alone to quiet places where He heard only the sounds of nature. There, He prayed, sometimes all night.

Jesus heard praise. What joyful sounds surrounded Him on the day we call Palm Sunday! As He rode into Jerusalem, shouts echoed through the streets. “Praise God! The Messiah is coming!”  

But Jesus knew what was really coming. The people weren’t going to accept Him as their king, their Messiah; quite the opposite, and He needed to prepare. It would be the spiritual battle of His life and could be won only by prayer.

Jesus loved to pray in the Garden of Gethsemane, but He wasn’t enjoying the beautiful sounds of nature His last night there as He begged His Father for strength to endure.

Jesus heard the hostile crowd coming before He saw them, swords and staves clanging, feet stomping. Then he heard the treacherous words from a man He loved, one of His own disciples betraying Him for money, “Hail Master.”

Jesus felt the traitor’s kiss.

That was the sign Judas had given Jesus’ enemies. “Grab the one I kiss; He’s the one you want.”

Grab Him they did.

The sounds Jesus heard next were sounds from hell; blows to His face, clothes being torn from Him, a razor-sharp whip whistling through the air and cutting into His back. The sound of a crown of thorns being pounded into his head.

And then came the blood thirsty cry of the crowd; “Crucify! Crucify! Crucify!”

Jesus heard His own labored breathing as He struggled to carry His cross up the hill, until He fell under its weight, and they forced another to carry it for Him. Then came other horrific sounds: the pounding of nails into flesh, the tortured screams of the two being crucified with Him, the jeering of the crowd.

Finally, after an agony of suffering, Jesus heard His own victorious shout, “It is finished! Father, into thy hands, I commend my spirit.”

And then, blessed, sweet, peaceful silence.

“All night had shout of men and cry/ Of woeful women filled his way; Until that noon of sombre sky/ On Friday, clamour and display/ Smote him; no solitude had he, No silence, since Gethsemane.

“Public was Death; but Power, but Might,/ But Life again, but Victory,/ Were hushed within the dead of night,/ The shuttered dark, the secrecy./ And all alone, alone, alone/ He rose again behind the stone.” –Alice Meynell

Then came Resurrection Morning.

Jesus didn’t have to wait to hear the grating sound of the stone being rolled away to leave the tomb; He was already outside. Joy had washed the world with newborn glory! Did Jesus breathe the fresh air and rejoice in the songs of the birds He’d created?  

Jesus heard a woman weeping; His dear friend Mary Magdalene was sobbing because she thought He was dead. Through her tears He showed her a brighter rainbow of hope than a weary world could ever have imagined in its wildest dreams.

“Jesus lives!”

Oh, my sweet Lord Jesus, you still hear all our voices; hear my voice now. You said you died for sinners, so you died for us all. You took our sins into your own heart on that horrible cross; you felt our guilt and shame and paid what we owe.

 “The wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.” –Romans 6:23

I took that gift God offered as my own in a short prayer of faith many years ago. It was a simple child’s prayer, but He heard it!

On this Resurrection Morning we call Easter Sunday, I read the promise of my own resurrection not just in God’s Word but in every springtime flower. I fall to the knees of my heart in joy, and I sing today! I want Him to hear it!

My praise is so imperfect; I stutter and stammer, and sometimes tears shorten my song to just a word. But just as a mother loves to hear her baby say his first, “Mama,” God loves to hear even my broken notes. And so, through all the seasons of my life, I sing.

Jesus heard everything when He walked our planet; He hears everything now. What’s He hearing from us?

Lord, sadly, our country church has no choir to praise you this year, but we join our hearts with millions of others to make a magnificent cantata. Do you hear the music, Lord? This Easter your people are singing your praises all over the world! I hope the sound is sweet to your ears!

“God sent His son, they called Him, Jesus/ He came to love, heal, and forgive. / He lived and died to buy my pardon/ An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives.

“Because He lives, I can face tomorrow. / Because He lives, all fear is gone. / Because I know he holds the future, / And life is worth the living/ Just because He lives.

“And then one day, I’ll cross that river. / I’ll fight life’s final war with pain. / And then, as death gives way to vic’try, / I’ll see the lights of glory and I’ll know He reigns.” –William J Gaither and Gloria Gaither

The End

***

You can find my 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

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
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God Loves Donkeys

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

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Martha Town, taken on her recent trip to Israel