Back Road Ramblings

by Donna Poole

I tried to keep my gnarled hands from trembling when I heard them coming and quickly hid my new MacBook under my sheets.

“It’s G and M,” I whispered to Beth. “Pretend you’re sleeping. I won’t let them hurt you.”

I didn’t feel a bit guilty about calling those night shift nurses Godzilla and Minion. They were monsters, and I had the bruises to prove it. Of course, I kept the marks well hidden from my children. I was relieved G and M had left Beth alone so far. Non-verbal, and paralyzed from the waist down, Beth was far more vulnerable than even I. I weighed only ninety pounds and was helpless myself against the “fun” G and M liked to have with me.

“You should be sleeping, honey,” Godzilla said to me, in a voice silky sweet. “Let me pull you up onto your pillow.”

She grabbed me under my arms and squeezed where she knew it would bruise but not show. She held her grip for a long time, watching my face for a tear I refused to give her, while her minion giggled.

“What have we here?” She yanked my laptop from under the sheets. “I bet your adoring children gave you this for Valentine’s Day. It’s a lot nicer than your old one!”

I clung to the MacBook with every ounce of strength I had.

G sent a smirk M’s way. “We must remember we’re in the presence of a published author. Maybe she’ll even write about us someday.

I might just do that.

“She wouldn’t dare,” Minion said. “She knows what you’d do to her.”

“She won’t write about us because she’s too ashamed of her nickname. Besides, she won’t have a computer to write on. She’s giving me a little gift for Valentine’s Day, aren’t you Warthog?”

That time I couldn’t hide the pain in my eyes. Godzilla had probed out all my weak points soon after she’d come to work at the care home. Sociopaths are geniuses at that. At my age there weren’t many things that troubled me about my personal appearance, but my warts did. I’d long been sensitive about them, especially the one on my nose. When I’d been a teen, my mother had tried to comfort me by telling me that even important people had warts; Oliver Cromwell had a huge one on his large very red nose. Her pep talk hadn’t helped my feelings.

“Thanks, Mom,” I’d said. “We just learned in history that Oliver Cromwell died in 1658, and people are still talking about his red nose and his warts? I really don’t want these stupid warts to be part of my legacy!”

Well, I’m not dead yet, but I’m eighty and people are still mocking my warts. At least Godzilla is. She’s right; I’m ashamed of that nickname, and I do hope no one ever finds out.

Godzilla snatched the MacBook from my hands. “Oh, thank you, Warthog. I knew you loved me. I’ll remember this gift forever.”

“Give it back. You’re not getting it.”

She dropped the computer on my toes, leaned over me, gripped my arms just above my elbows and squeezed. A tiny moan escaped.

“I don’t care what you do to me. You’re not getting my MacBook. You’re right; t’s a gift from my children. And let go of me, or I’ll tell.”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard nastier laughs than came from G and M.

“And just who you gonna tell, Warthog?” Godzilla jeered. “You gonna tell your kids? They’d yank you out of here so fast you wouldn’t have time to say no. And I know you don’t want to live with them.”

She was right. She knew too much about me. I didn’t want to live with my children because I loved them. I’d cared for my own mother and had loved doing it, but the strain on my family had been tough. I didn’t want to add to my kids’ burdens. People told me I was robbing them of a blessing. Maybe so, but I can be stubborn, and I wasn’t giving in on this.  

Godzilla let go of me and my skinny arms dropped to the bed. I wanted to slap her, but I was too weak to raise a hand, and I didn’t want to sink to her level. I prayed for her instead. She studied me, thinking.

Then she headed for Beth. “She never has any family who visits, does she?” she asked Minion. “If I’m careful where I bruise her, the bath aides will never notice, or they’ll think they did it themselves lifting her.”

“No!” My voice could have been heard rooms away.

“Shut the door.” Godzilla said to Minion.

She came back to me, a crafty look on her face. “Now, if you were to give me the gift you know I want….”

I sighed, more tired than I’d ever been. “How much time would it buy Beth?”

“Oh, I’d never touch her, unless you happen to get another gift you might need to be persuaded to give me, you know, because you appreciate me so much.”

I opened the MacBook to delete my files.

“Oh no you don’t.” Godzilla yanked it from my hands. “It’s slow tonight. The two of us need something to laugh at to keep us from dying of boredom. Your stories might amuse us, Warthog. What’s your password?”

They left the room, laughing.

Beth looked at me, tears rolling down her cheeks, her eyes saying all she couldn’t.

I eased myself out of bed and wiped her face with a tissue. “It’s okay, Beth. Sleep now. I promise, I’ll never let them hurt you. Don’t be sad; it was only a laptop.”

But Beth was sad. She knew what that laptop had meant to me. Writing was what kept me sane in this place.

A few days later Lacey was our day nurse. When she came in the room she went straight to Beth’s bed. It was the first smile I’d seen on Beth’s face since the night G and M had taken my laptop. I smiled too. We residents called Lacey an earth angel. When she walked in a door, it was as though God came with her.

Beth signaled for Lacey to raise her bed to a sitting position. Sadly, no one had ever taught Beth ASL, or she could have had a way to communicate. Beth held one hand flat like a piece of paper and pretended she was writing on it with a pen.

“Do you want to write me a note, Beth?” Beth nodded vigorously.

“I didn’t know you could communicate that way!”

Lacey looked at me. “Do you have any paper?”

“I have about ten yellow legal tablets in the top drawer there. I use them to outline my stories.”

“Hey, why aren’t you hard at work on your new MacBook?”

Oh boy, here it came. What was I going to tell her? And what story could I make up that my kids would buy the next weekend when they came to visit? Maybe I’d die before then. I half wished I would.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to answer Lacey’s question. She was distracted by Beth’s scribbling. Lacey waited several minutes. She chuckled. “I see this is going to take a while. I’ll go help a few other patients and come back, is that okay, Beth?”

Beth nodded without looking up.

When Lacey returned a half hour later, Beth had filled a few pages. Lacey read them, her face growing red, then a tear ran down one cheek.

I was puzzled. What had Beth written?

Lacey turned to me. “Is this true, dear? Why in heaven’s name didn’t you tell me this has been happening? There are laws to protect you! Elder abuse isn’t tolerated in this home, or this state. Those two will be going to prison!”

She handed me what Beth had written. Beth must have a near perfect memory. She’d written down every instance of my abuse, even ones I’d forgotten. She’d recorded the verbal abuse and the nickname of “Warthog.” She’d told about the theft of my new computer.

Lacey hugged me. “I wondered about that MacBook on the shelf in the nurses station. I didn’t open it because I thought it was none of my business, but it is now.”

In a few minutes Lacey returned. “Is this yours?”

I typed in my password and all my files were still there.

I tried to thank Lacey but couldn’t get the words out.

“It’s okay, honey. I know what it means to you. And my supervisor called the police. They’ll be in to talk to both of you later. Do you want to go down for breakfast?”

Beth nodded. I shook my head.

“I have something I want to write.”

Why had I let this happen to me without speaking up? What if I hadn’t been here to protect Beth? And how many others had G and M hurt? Were there people like them at other homes? Were there patients like me who weren’t being honest with their families and so enabling the abusers to keep hurting others?

Soon the room was quiet, and the only sound was my favorite one, fingers tapping the keyboard. I typed the title of my story, “They Called Me Warthog.”

by Donna Poole

We couldn’t say we didn’t know it was coming.

The meteorologists had been predicting the giant snowstorm for days, so John went to the store to stock up on a few things just in case we couldn’t get out for a few days. He did a good job of getting almost everything on the list and bought something not on the list he finds it intolerable to be without.

 Mustard.

It didn’t matter that we already had two other containers of mustard; what it the snow trapped us inside for, oh, I don’t know, a year or so, and we ran out of mustard? What then? People might die from mustard shortage!

When I was a child, I didn’t worry about running out of anything in a storm, especially mustard. Looking back, perhaps I should have been concerned because we never had much food in the cupboards. Mom and Dad shopped once a week when he got paid and bought only enough to last until the next paycheck. They didn’t have enough money to buy more.

I’m sure Dad was concerned when blizzards came. Sometimes the pipes under our house trailer froze, and he had to thaw them without burning down our dwelling place. Snow piled up by the foot when we lived in snow country in Taberg, New York, and Dad had to shovel it off the trailer roof. He also had to put chains on the car tires and try to get to work whenever possible.

But I was a kid. When blizzard winds howled, and sleet and snow pellets hit my bedroom window at night, I smiled and snuggled deeper under my blankets. This was going to be fun!

When morning came, I yelled, “Wahoo, no school!” collected a sister or two, and headed for the sledding hill. Storms were fun.

As I got older storms showed me the other side of their face. We lived in Maine, New York, when I was a teenager, and I was trying to navigate my nemesis, my untrustworthy fifty-dollar Renault, down Twist Run Road in an ice storm. That little car slid first one way then another. Finally, I managed to pull into someone’s driveway. A sweet older lady let me use her phone.

“Dad, please come get me. I’m on Twist Run Road, and I can’t drive this car home. It’s too icy.”

I refused to listen to any of Dad’s calm logic on how I could manage to drive home, and frustrated with me, he finally agreed to bring someone with him and get me home. In the amount of time it took him to get to me, it warmed up, and the ice melted. I didn’t realize it until we headed home on clear roads. It took me a long time to hear the end of that!

I’ve never gone hungry in a storm, although in the blizzard of 1978 we ran out of everything except the wonderful half a beef a kind church family had put in our freezer a month before. We ate beef three meals a day.

Our Angie voiced a complaint I’d never heard before and haven’t heard since, “I’m tired of steak! I want a casserole!”

Ready or not, storms will come, and often they blindside us. It’s then the things we’ve stockpiled help us survive.

You guessed it; I’m about to get all metaphorical on you. Along with God, the family and friends I’ve “stockpiled” through the years are my shelter in life’s storms. I know they’re praying for me. The Scripture I’ve read and learned by heart comes to my aid too.

As blind Fanny Crosby said shortly before she died, holding a Bible close to her heart, “This book has nurtured my entire life.”

I love to read and have saved hundreds, probably thousands of quotes on three by five cards I keep organized by subject in my antique library card cabinet. I’ve memorized so many of them, and they help me.

Quotes like this give me courage: “Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.” –Helen Keller

We had a college professor who said “G.I.G.O.” ad nauseum, but guess what? I still remember it; so, he achieved his goal, at least with one of us. It stood for Garbage In, Garbage Out.

The opposite is true too. Good In, Good Out. Let’s stockpile our souls with all good things that can come out to sustain us when we face the blizzards of life, because oh, my friend, we will face them. If we’re prepared, we can be like the “householder, which bringeth forth out of his treasure things new and old.” –Matthew 13:52

Don’t despair if you haven’t put many good things into your cupboards and your spiritual pantry is bare. It’s never too late to start. I have a wonderful promise for you to stockpile, and it’s one that will carry you through all of life’s storms and into eternity: “That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved. For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.” –Romans 10:9-10

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, our promised storm did come. And we didn’t run out of mustard.

by Donna Poole

There she was, just a tiny field mouse curled up in a bag in the garden. Kimmee found her and told us the mouse was grieving the loss of her family, and everything in the bag smelled like her loved ones and was making her life intolerable.

“Let’s put this in the bag.” John pulled out of his pocket a facemask he’d worn to the doctor. “It will smell different to the mouse and cover the old scents. She can build a new nest in the mask and be happy again.”

Kimmee nodded. “Okay, Dad. We could try that.”

I objected. “Honey, the poor mouse will think she lives in a hospital, and what kind of life is that? She’ll be even more miserable than she is now!”

Then I woke up.

The dream reminded me of another mouse tale. When I was younger, and our kids were small I was push mowing our yard. A scurrying movement caught my attention, and I stopped the small mower just in time. A trembling mouse stood on her back legs looking at me, front paws folded like she was praying. Her whiskers and the rest of her trembled in fright. Why, I wondered, wasn’t she running away?

Then I saw them, tiny, pink, hairless mouse babies. I called the kids to come see them. Even with the kids crowding close Mama mouse stood there, looking at us. Then she picked up one baby by the back of its neck, the way a mother cat carries a kitten, and ran off with it.

“Will she come back?” one of the kids asked.

“I bet she will. Let’s watch and see.”

A few minutes passed, and Mama mouse, still shaking with fear, came back for baby number two. I think there were five babies. It took her awhile to move them all, but Mama mouse saved every pink baby from us giant people and the monster mower. A mother’s love turned her mousey heart into a lion.

John and I both are rather mousey, at least regarding confrontation. We’d rather walk away. Though, when the occasion calls for firmness, we have what it takes, or rather, God gives it to us.

Mess with our kids and these two mice become lions.

When Johnnie and Danny were in grade school, two school bullies, we’ll call them “Billy” and “Larry” picked on them mercilessly. One day, John had all he could take.

He did something no parent could get away with now. He went to school when the boys were in gym class.

“May I help you, Pastor Poole?” the gym teacher asked.

“I need to talk to Billy and Larry,” John said.

The teacher sent the two boys to the rear of the gym, where they stood, backs against the wall.

“My boys are a lot smaller than you, aren’t they?” John asked.

Billy and Larry looked at each other. They knew exactly where this was going. They nodded.

“And I’m a lot bigger than you, right?” John asked.

More nods.

“I’ll tell you what. The next time you feel like picking a fight with someone, you call me. I’ll come right over.”

“Everything okay back there, Pastor Poole?” the gym teacher called.

“It is now,” John replied. “You can have these two back.”

Our sons were embarrassed because their dad went to school to fight their battles, but it worked.   

Until brain surgery left me without a filter—you know—that thing that says, “Stop! Don’t say it,” I was terribly shy. I never confronted anyone about anything, especially not at church, until that one day. When I needed my lion’s heart, I found it, just like the little mouse in our yard.

Kimmee was about five years old when one of her little friends got into trouble with her mother and told her Kimmee had done it. Kimmee told the woman she hadn’t done it.

I entered the room just in time to hear the end of the conversation, or rather, just in time to end it. The woman was screaming at Kimmee, calling her a liar. Kimmee’s eyes were huge, and she was shaking so hard she could barely stand.

“Whoa!” I pushed myself between the two of them. “You do not ever, ever scream at my daughter!”

She muttered something and stomped off. I expected to hear more about it later, but I never did.

When our kids are grown, they no longer need our protection, or do they?

After our four were adults, I kept having the same nightmare. They were all little again, and I could see a tornado coming across the fields. I’d get one child safely in the basement, and just as I was taking two more down, that one would laugh, run by me, and escape outside. The kids made it into a game and ignored my warnings.

One day I told our daughter-in-law, Mindy, about the dream.

“I know why you’re dreaming that,” she said. “You’re afraid you can’t protect them anymore now that all of them are grown up.”

Everyone should have a Mindy. She’s pretty wonderful and quite wise.  Her dream interpretation must have been right because I never had that nightmare again.

It’s an illusion, isn’t it, thinking we can keep our kids safe no matter what age they are? Like Mama mouse, we’ll grow a lion’s heart and risk anything to try to protect them, but so much of life is beyond our control. We couldn’t protect any of ours from the near-death experiences and accidents they had. Nor could we protect them from sorrow. And we still can’t, no matter how lion-like our mousey hearts grow.

What can we do for our family and friends, for all our loved ones? We can take them to God, the Lion of the tribe of Judah.

Oh God, who mends and uses broken things,

I don’t beg you spare my beloved the pain life brings.

I know they must travel a broken road,

Because that’s the only path there is, or so I’m told.

May tears show them the shortness of time.

Please, teach them to trust when life has no reason or rhyme.

Let heartaches make them tender to the weak

And more careful of any scornful word they might speak.

Please, give their hearts overflowing love to share,

Let nothing unloving feel comfortable there.

Hold them closely on these backroads of life,

And give them joy for the journey despite the strife.

I can’t always be here when things get tough,

But I know you’ll always be for them more than enough.

When life starts to crumble and fall apart,

Give them lion-like courage from your own strong heart.

If they must break, hold them, mend them, use them.

Keep on loving this hurting world through them.

by Donna Poole

dedicated to all my friends who have received difficult news lately and to one dear friend in particular

I’m one tough bird; just ask my mate! I’m a northern cardinal and live in Wisconsin. Surviving these harsh, frigid winters with below zero wind chills and frequent snowstorms isn’t for the faint of heart! I’m used to below zero temperatures in December, January, and February. I must keep my body temperature between 105—108 degrees Fahrenheit to survive. I fluff my feathers and tense my muscles and shiver to stay warm. I can even drop my body temperature a few degrees to survive. My Maker taught me to seek shelter in pine trees, and people often see the brilliant red flash of my mate against the pines in our nesting area.

The other day I left the shelter of the pine where I was cuddling with my mate and flew off to explore. It was lightly snowing but a balmy twenty degrees, so I felt quite warm. I missed my mate; he wanted to sleep in that day, but my Maker is always with me, so I’m never lonely.

I blinked to clear my vision. Surely that couldn’t be what I thought it was, a woman lying in the snow without even a coat or a blanket!

“Maker! Do you see that? Why is she alone; has she no mate? And why is she crying?”

“Her mate died suddenly a few years ago. She’s crying because she just got some very bad news.”

“She shouldn’t be alone! She’ll get sick, lying out here in the snow in the freezing cold. Has she no friends?”

“She is very sick already, the kind of sick that has no recovery. And she has many friends.”

“Why aren’t they here with her? Isn’t that what friends are for?”

“Little Cardinal, will you fly back in time with me? I want to show you something.”

“No, I won’t go with you. I don’t want to leave her alone like this.”

“She won’t be alone. I will be with her.”

“But, Maker, you just said you’d be taking me back in time.”

“I am everywhere. I am in what you call past, present, and future. It is all now to me. I hold it in the palm of my hand.”

I looked at Maker. I had no idea what he was saying but gathered he could somehow be back in time with me, and here with the poor broken woman. I didn’t want to leave her, but what could be so important that Maker wanted me to go?

“Okay, I’ll go with you if it won’t take too long.”

Maker laughed. It sounded like thunder, or waterfalls, or like music coming out of a great cathedral my grandfather told me he’d once heard.

“It will take less than what you call a minute.”

Suddenly we were at a pit, a hole in the ground. I peered down into it and saw an emaciated man sunk in mud up to his waist. His eyes had the glaze of a dying man. He looked reproachfully at Maker, but he said nothing; he didn’t even cry out for help.

“Who is he, Maker? Why is he in that horrible pit?”

“His name is Jeremiah. Wicked men threw him in that pit for preaching the words I told him to say.”

“And you let this happen to him! Why?”

“I would gladly explain, little cardinal, if you could understand. But watch. I brought you here to see something.” He nodded and I looked.

A group of men hurried to the pit. They hollered down, “Jeremiah, we’re throwing down a rope. Put it under your arms so we can pull you up. Pad your arm pits with these old rags we’re sending down, so the rope won’t hurt.”

“That’s what real friends do,” Maker said to me. “They came to rescue him and thought of everything possible for his comfort.”

Suddenly, we were back in the snow. The light snow that had been falling earlier had become a storm now. The woman wasn’t crying anymore, but a tear had frozen on her pale cheek. Her lips and eyelids had turned a pale blue. I knew she was alive though, because she was shivering, the way I do to bring my body temperature up.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it, Maker? She’ll be alright now that she’s shivering.”

He shook his head. “She is getting hypothermia. She will die alone here in the snow if a friend doesn’t come.”

“I don’t understand. You said she has many friends. Why don’t they come help her like Jeremiah’s friends did him?”

“It’s easier to come when you can actually do something to help. Her friends can’t change her diagnosis. They can’t pull her out of her pit. They can’t bring her mate back. They can’t change the fact the time she has left will be very painful for her. They feel helpless and uncomfortable, not knowing what to say or do. They have no idea how much she needs them now. So, they stay away when they could do something to help her today.”

“All of them? Won’t even one come?”

“Watch and see.”

I sat near my Maker, and he sat close to the woman, giving her warmth and comfort she knew nothing of.

Time passed, and I heard footsteps in the snow.

“Emilia, honey, do you want to talk?”

The woman shook her head and sat up. “Talking is the last thing I feel like doing. Go home, Kathryn.”

Kathryn was carrying a thermos and a thick quilt. She poured steaming tea from the thermos, and Emilia drank. She wrapped the quilt around Emilia and tucked her in until every inch of skin was covered.  

Kathryn sat in the snow next to Emilia and put her arms around her. She didn’t say a word to her. She just looked at the Maker, and he nodded and smiled at her. I think they were talking silently about Emilia. After a while, Emilia put her head on her friend’s shoulder and slept.

“Go home and back to your mate,” Maker said to me. “Cuddle and enjoy every minute I give to you. Your time will come too, as it has for Emilia. You will count yourself blessed then if you have even one friend who knows how to just suffer silently with you in the snow and pray.”

“But…will they be alright? Emilia and her friend?”

“They will both be more than alright. Their friendship will deepen here and continue forever.”

Cardinals don’t cry, but I hid my head in my wing for a minute.

“Master, when my time comes, will you sit next to me in the snow?”

“You do know who sits beside the dying sparrow, don’t you?”

And then he laughed his beautiful laugh again, Emilia’s friend heard it; her eyes filled with tears, and she smiled a grateful smile. Emilia woke; Kathryn helped her to her feet, and they walked back through the woods to a little house.

I don’t know what happened after that.

I flew home and talked to my mate about how Maker holds past, present, and future in his hand, and how he doesn’t let any of his children suffer alone in the storm. We cuddled and fell asleep counting our blessings, fearing nothing, not the cold, not the storm, and not our time to die in the snow.

by Donna Poole

What captures the souls of poets and lovers but makes policeman and prison guards apprehensive? You probably know; it’s the full moon.

I especially love the Harvest and Hunter’s moons of September and October when the moon rises huge and orange and makes me feel nostalgic and bittersweet. Those moons strum a forgotten cord and sing of my dozens of heartbreaking goodbyes and of thousands, millions of eternal hellos.

My love, my John is not poetic; he expresses his feelings more by tucking me in every night and pulling the covers up under my chin than he does by quoting sonnets, and in this, the winter of our lives, I’ve come to much prefer being tucked in. But even he notices the moon; he can’t help it. It’s because our oldest daughter, Angie, has loved the moon since she was very small. And she made sure we noticed it too.

An astronomer might tell you Monday’s full moon was a micromoon, the smallest we’ll see this year and is named the Wolf Moon; a poet might sing of its splendor; but Angie can tell you more. She’s known it since she was a toddler.

“Mommy, do you think we’ll see Ralph tonight?”

I searched my memory. Still in my twenties, forgetfulness didn’t plague me as it does now, and I was sure no Ralph shared our lives.

“Honey, we don’t know anyone named Ralph.”

“Yes, we do! Ralph Moon!”

“Oh! So, you think the moon’s name is Ralph?”

“It is his name. He told me so.”

I looked to see if Angie was lying. I could always tell because she pushed her tongue into her cheek and averted her eyes. Talk about a “tell” coming in handy for a first time Mom! She would have made a terrible player had there been a Toddler Poker’s Convention.

She wasn’t lying. She really thought the moon had said his name was Ralph, so Ralph it must be.

We had many conversations about Ralph in years to come. Sometimes Angie said he was “fingernail Ralph.” When he was full, she said Ralph was smiling at her. I doubt Angie still calls the moon Ralph, now that she’s pushing fifty, but her dad and I still do.

Statistics say we’ve raised four children, but wisdom tells us those four children also raised us. The wise ones among us say our artists, poets, and photographers help us see. I add children to that list. They show us things we’d otherwise miss on our backroad ramblings.

Listen to any child and sooner or later you will find yourself in the position of humble student. When our youngest daughter, Kimmee, was a toddler she was surprised I couldn’t see the angel at the top of our stairs, so real and visible to her. I thought of Matthew 18:10: “Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, That in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven.”

Kimmee smiled and waved at her angel and went back to her toys as though there were no barrier between that world and this, and for just a minute, the wall was down for me too. I stared at the place where she’d seen her angel. I saw nothing, but I saw more than I’d seen in a long time.

Years ago, when our Dan and Mindy’s children were very young, we took Macy and Reece to Walmart and gave them each a dollar. Their eyes grew huge at such a vast sum. We told them it wouldn’t buy much, but it would buy a matchbox car or a puzzle.

Reece folded his money carefully like the treasure it was to him, put it into his little pocket, and talked fast and furious about the matchbox cars he wanted to look at. Macy held hers in her hand; she already knew exactly what she wanted. She pulled my hand and hurried me to the back of the store. Electronics. My heart sank. Even back then I knew what a dollar would buy in electronics, exactly nothing.

“Look, Grandma, I want that!” she pointed at a tablet that cost well over a hundred dollars.

“Oh, Macy honey. You only have one dollar, and that costs more than one-hundred dollars.”

“Uh huh!” She nodded, face happy and expectant. We realized she had no conception of money. She had a whole dollar, and she’d picked out what she wanted to buy.  

Reece pulled his treasured dollar out of his pocket, dreams of matchbox cars overshadowed by a more powerful emotion, and held it out to me.

“Here, Grandma Donna! Macy can have my dollar too! Now you have enough money to buy it for her.”

I almost sobbed right there in electronics, not because we couldn’t get Macy the tablet, but because of a little boy’s unselfish, giving love. Those two small children were far from spoiled and accepted graciously the denial of the tablet. I don’t remember now what they did buy, but each was happy with a small gift, and this grandma treasured all these things in her heart.  

Shine on, Ralph moon. Shine on, children who see angels. Shine on, little boys who will gladly give their last dollar for love. You make this world a brighter, more beautiful place for the rest of us. We need all the light we can get as we keep walking each other Home.

Dedicated to all who are living in limbo

by Donna Poole

Lord, I’m tired; I’m grumpy, and I’m scared.

I’ve noticed. I know why; but do you?

I don’t know my own heart, and I don’t trust the parts of it I do understand. So no, I don’t know why I’m scared or grumpy. I do know why I’m tired.

Well, let’s start there. Tell me why you’re tired.

You know why! I’ve been fighting this cancer for nineteen months, and I’m tired of fighting, of treatments, of doctor visits, of tests. Most of all I’m tired of being in limbo. I know others suffer far worse and way longer, so I feel guilty even saying this, but I thought by now it would be over, one way or the other. I figured I’d be healed or in heaven. Now all I’m hearing is “no interval change” after every test!

So, you think maybe being tired of it all is what’s making you grumpy?

I don’t know! Maybe. Yes!

Did I say anything in my letter to you that can help with the tired and grumpy you?

Hundreds of things! You said to give thanks in everything. Come to think of it, I’m grateful for science. The modern technology of these tests is amazing! Did you know the CT and PET scans I’ve been getting every six weeks can look right inside and see if the cancer is growing or shrinking?

Yes, I think I did know that. I believe I gave Allan MacLeod Cormack, Edward J. Hoffman, and Michael E. Phelps the wisdom.

Who? Anyway, I’m grateful for my wonderful oncologist and nurses. They’re about the only people I get to talk to since they won’t let me go into public. I’m so tired of the isolation. I think I’m going to have to miss going to church forever!

No, you won’t. You’re being a bit melodramatic; don’t you think?

You made me this way! If I were a punctuation mark, I’d be the exclamation point!

Yes, I believe I’ve noticed that a time or two. So, now you know why you’re tired and grumpy. Can you leave your burdens with me as you’ve done so many times before? I see how heavy they are. You know I’ve offered to carry them. Why are you lugging them around yourself this time?

I can’t leave them with You this time. I really can’t. Because I’d have to say… you know. And I don’t want to say it.

You used to wake up every morning saying, “Lord, not my will but yours. Think through me, thoughts of God; love through me, love of God, and live through me, life of God.” What changed?

I guess maybe I’m a little angry with you. There were times I was so close to Home, ready for heaven, happy about coming—and thought you were ready and waiting to welcome me with open arms! This was my hope:

I’ve journeyed far; I’ve stumbled long—

But always hearing that distant song

Hummed in joy by heaven’s choir

Calling me to come up higher.

Softly I walk through cleansing snow

With chastened grace and faith aglow.

Hushed to silence the wind’s low moan,

I almost see the lights of Home!

But no! You weren’t ready for me to come Home. And now I don’t know how close the lights of Home are, and it’s dark here! I’m too tired! I don’t think I can do this anymore!

My child, have you uncovered the reason for your fear? Are you more afraid of living than of dying? You don’t want to say, “Not my will,” because you’re afraid the words I said in my letter might apply to you, “I shall live and not die and declare the works of the Lord”?

Yes! That’s it! It silly and ungrateful; I know life is a marvelous gift, and I have a wonderful life full of love and laughter; I have an amazing family and precious friends, but I’m just so tired. I want to come Home and rest. Living is hard. I’m afraid to stay here.

Did I say anything to you in my letter that helps with fear?

You said perfect love casts out fear. I know I should love you more. You are perfect, holy, lovely, forgiving, longsuffering, and have never given me a reason not to love you.

Stop. How about instead of trying to love me more, you think about how much I love you? I have loved you with an everlasting love. I’ve engraved your name on the palms of my hands. I notice every time you stand or sit. I care so much about your tears I save each one in a bottle. I love you in life as much as I will love you after death. Nothing can separate you from my love. I am infinitely more than sufficient for whatever you must face, living or dying, because I’ll never leave you. Whatever comes, I’ll love you through it.

Oh, my sweet Lord. How could I have doubted You? Not my will, my own selfish twisted will that wasn’t even thinking of others or You. I guess if You can give me dying grace You can give me living grace too until my work is done! Will you give me the strength to live in the joy of the Lord? And help me face the future with faith not fear?

I can do that.

But this being in limbo is really, really hard.

Please, my child, stop saying you’re living in limbo. You do have the prospect of moving to a better place.

When? Could give me just a hint about how long it will be before I see the lights of Home?

No.

-Sigh- That’s what I thought. Do you want to go for a walk with me that lasts the rest of today?

Always. Are you still tired, grumpy, and scared?

Not now, but I can’t promise about after lunch. Why are You laughing? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I love the sound of Your laughter. Lord, I love you. It’s far from perfect love, but I love you.

I know.

by Donna Poole

Lola, the little monarch larva, curled up inside the milkweed leaf and tried to make herself invisible, but Alan found her. He always did.

“Are you crying and hiding again? Come out and enjoy this beautiful Florida sunshine. You’re wasting prime eating time. Are you going to eat that leaf you’re hiding in or not? Because if you’re not, I am!”

“Go away!” Lola sniffed and a tiny tear dripped onto the leaf. “You fat old caterpillar! How can you even think of eating after what happened to Betsy yesterday? You saw that nasty bluebird bite her in half and eat both halves of her. We could be next!”

Alan looked around. “No bluebirds in sight. It’s safe to come out. You can’t hide forever!”

“Oh yes I can. I’m staying right here in yesterday. Yesterday I escaped with my life. Who knows what might happen if I come out into today? I might die!”

Lola shuddered and crawled deeper into the leaf, hard to do since Alan was eating holes all around her.

“It’s today whether you come out or not. And if you come out, you might not die. You might fly!”

“Alan, you’ve told me a hundred times your name means handsome and cheerful, but I think you’re ridiculous. Who ever heard of a caterpillar flying?”

“Grandpa Blythe told me. He said after we caterpillars hang in our J’s and go into our cages, we come out as beautiful flying creatures!”

“Did you ever see such a thing yourself?” Lola demanded. “Those cages are our tombs. No one who goes in ever comes out. Look around at all the cages of our friends! They’re all dead, Alan, dead! And you aren’t making anything better by living in your pretend world where we come out of our cages and fly!”

Alan kept calmly eating. It was infuriating the way that caterpillar refused to get angry. Finally, he mumbled with a full mouth, “You’re not making your life easier by assuming every change means disaster. Nothing wrong with having a little hope.”

“The world is full of trouble, Alan. Only one out of us ten eggs lives to grow up. Flies, wasps, parasites, viruses, bacteria, and…bluebirds can all get us! Hope is a lie, Alan!”

Lola started crying again.

Alan clumsily patted her head with one of his six feet. “Listen, Lola, I know the world is full of trouble, but it’s also full of survivors. Yesterday was terribly sad, but you survived. You might be one of the ten who lives, and you might even fly! But you’re never going to do it without eating. You better get chomping this milkweed!”

 And with that, Alan curled his chubby self into a ball and started softly snoring.

Lola looked at him sadly. He was the last friend she had left. He was getting so big; she knew soon he’d hang into a J, spin his death web, go into his cage, and die. Then she’d have no one. She missed all her friends, especially Sheri.

Lola looked at the milkweed plant next to her. That’s where she’d last seen Sheri, the place Sheri had hung in a J, spun her death web, gone into her cage and died.

What was happening to Sheri’s cage? It had turned transparent, and now a lovely creature was climbing from it. Slowly the creature opened and closed its wings, over and over, its beautiful colors catching the sunlight.

“Alan! Alan, wake up! You need to see this!”

But Alan kept snoring.

The beautiful creature climbed higher on the milkweed and looked directly at her. There was something familiar about it. It looked like…but it couldn’t be!

“Sheri,” she whispered, “Sheri, is that really you?”

Sheri opened and closed her wings a few more times, circled Lola’s head and then flew high into the sky.

Alan was right! There was reason to hope.

She looked for him, but he was hanging in a J shape and had already spun a web around himself. Could he still hear her?

“I’m going to be one of ten, Alan,” Lola hollered in her loudest voice. “I’m going to fly.”

Alan’s voice sounded so faint and far away. “Better get chomping then.”  

Yes. That was it. While waiting to fly she’d just do the next thing that needed to be done. In this case, it was stuffing herself with milkweed. Lola was going to miss Alan, but she had a feeling she might see him again.

by Donna Poole

Agatha raised herself on her elbow and gagged weakly into the bowl at her side. She heard the curtain to her room push back.

“Please, go away,” she whispered.

Mary and Dorcas heard her, but they did not go away. Dorcas dipped a cloth into cool water and held it to her forehead as Mary gently supported her shoulders until the rest of her breakfast left her body.

Tears ran down Agatha’s cheeks. She’d always been a strong, proud woman, and she didn’t want her friends to see her like this.

“Go, now, please,” she said.

Instead of leaving, they sat on the floor next to her mat.

“Jesus is back here in Capernaum,” Mary said with quiet excitement.

Dorcas nodded. “He can tell you what’s wrong with you, and He can heal you. You know He can.”

“Let us help you get to Jesus,” Mary begged. “You can lean on us.”

Agatha shook her head wearily.

“Just let me die in peace. I know what’s wrong with me. I’ve told you before. My father taught me that three-thousand years ago ancient Egyptians cauterized breast tumors with a tool they called the fire drill. Four-hundred years ago a Greek physician, Hippocrates, called tumors carcinos and carcinoma. And just in the last few decades the Roman physician, Celsus, translated the Greek word into the Roman word ‘cancer.’ I have cancer. It’s all through my body. Just look at me! No one can help me now, not even Yahweh!”

She closed her eyes and threw one thin arm over them. Agatha’s friends did look at her and then at each other with tears in their eyes. In the last year she’d lost a third of her body weight. Her soft snores let them know she was asleep.

“Mary,” Dorcas said, “sometimes I think her Greek father educated her too much for her own good. She has too much learning to have any room for faith.”

Dorcas shook her head. “I don’t think it’s that. I think she’s just too tired to have faith, so we’re going to have to have it for her. If she can’t remember the song of her heart, we can, and we’ll sing it back to her.”

“You speak in riddles. What do you have in mind?”

“Come,” Dorcas whispered, and the two friends tiptoed out of the house. As they walked down the dusty street, they made their plans.

“It might work,” Mary said excitedly. “We’d only need four good sized boys. She weighs barely more than a child.”

***

Agatha cried out in terror and woke from her dream. Let me die in peace I said to my friends, but there is no peace. My sins are like tormenting spirits haunting me waking and sleeping!

“Why did you name me Agatha, Father?” she whispered to his memory. “I am not a good woman. I have no sins of the flesh to confess, but oh these secret sins of the spirit eat at me more than the cancer. The envy, the spite, the selfishness in my heart! If only I could leave my sin behind when I die, I’d gladly die this minute to be free of it! But will it follow me into the great unknown? You taught me so much, Father. Why didn’t you teach me this? I’ve followed all of Mother’s Jewish customs, but were they enough? None of the sacrifices have set me free from myself!”

Agatha turned on her side and sobbed herself back to sleep. She was only semi-conscious when she felt her mat being lifted from the floor. Through tear-swollen eyes she squinted up at four smiling lads.

“Where are you taking me?” she cried in alarm.

“It’s alright,” Mary said, reaching for her hand.

Dorcas took her other hand. “We’re taking you to Jesus.”

“No!” She struggled to sit, but she was too weak. “He cannot help me. Please don’t carry me into the streets like this where people will see me.”

Her friends pulled soft coverings up to her chin and pleaded with their eyes. How could she refuse such love?

Through the streets of Capernaum they went until they came to the house where Jesus was teaching. It was one of the larger homes, able to hold about fifty people crowded closely together, but the crowd had spilled out of the door and stood deep around the windows, a quiet crowd, straining to hear every word of the Master.

“We cannot get through,” one of the lads said. “Shall we go back?”

“No!” Dorcas nodded at the outside staircase. “Carry her to the roof.”

The boys looked apprehensive but obeyed. Even Mary was alarmed.

“Dorcas, what do you have in mind?”

“Do you believe Jesus can heal her?”

“You know I absolutely do!”

“Then get ready to get dirty!”

Dorcas had to promise the boys they wouldn’t get into trouble with their parents, and she would pay for damages, before they agreed to help, but soon six pairs of hands were digging through the mud roof. Mud and debris began falling into peoples’ hair, and the crowd looked up in amazement. Jesus laughed.

As soon as the hole was big enough, two of the boys jumped down, while Mary, Dorcas, and the other two lowered Agatha on her mat. There she lay, in front of Jesus. He looked deep into her eyes.

“Welcome, Agatha. The Greek name meaning ‘good woman.’”

She shook her head, tears running unhindered down her face. Agatha was in the presence of pure goodness and had never felt her own sinfulness more. She groaned, and it wasn’t from the pain of the cancer. She looked away from Jesus. How could sin look at such holiness?

Jesus took her two thin hands in his two strong ones.

“Look at me, my daughter,” He said in a voice of love.

“Your sins are forgiven.”

Agatha could almost see them leave, those heavy condemning spirits, the ghostly chains of sins past, present, and future. She felt so light and free, so full of joy!

Agatha looked up through the hole in the roof at her friends. They were frowning. That is not why they’d brought her to Jesus. They were quite unhappy with this outcome.

Couldn’t they understand? She didn’t care about the cancer in her body anymore. Everyone died sometime. The cancer in her spirit was gone, and that was the true miracle! She was good now with a goodness not her own.

She could hear others in the crowd murmuring, some wearing the robes of the elite Pharisees.

“Who does Jesus think he is? Only God can forgive sins.”

Jesus nodded at Agatha. “Get ready,” He whispered.

Then with a commanding shout He ordered, “So they will know the Son of Man has power of earth to forgive sins, Agatha, good woman, take up your bed, and walk!”

Jesus stretched His hand down and lifted her up. She felt the cancers leaving her body and the strength of youth flowing into her.

“How?” she asked Him in a whisper. “How?”

Now Jesus looked sad. “You’ll know later when you stand at the foot of my cross. Go now. Live your life in joy.”

She’d never known, with all her learning, that holiness was just another word for happiness.

Agatha rolled up her mat and looked up at the roof. How was she going to get back up through that hole?

“You might try going out the door,” Jesus said. And He laughed. She laughed too, and then the whole room was laughing. The crowd parted, making a way for her to get through. People patted her back.

“Go with Yahweh, good woman!” Someone shouted.

That was exactly what she intended to do.

by Donna Poole

Growing up, we Piarulli kids never thought of ourselves as poor. We were like many other large families of the 1950s and 1960s when one paycheck had to stretch too far. It never occurred to us to wonder if other kids were still hungry when supper was finished; that was just how life was. It’s only in looking back and remembering snatches of conversations that I realize how hard my parents struggled financially. And yet, we were better off than many.

Somehow Mom and Dad managed to give the five of us children a wonderful Christmas every year. Perhaps my memory is tangled with stars and silver bells, but I recall most Christmas days as white with snow. Each strand of tinsel hung perfectly straight on our tree strung with lights, and the house smelled wonderfully of pine.

Carefully wrapped gifts, not many but more than enough, were piled under the tree, and for a few days of the year, everything was close to perfect.

Until the arrival of that hideous thing.

We came home from school one day, laughing, rosy cheeks, stomping snow off our boots, and stared. What was that?

Mom stood next to it, smiling proudly, waiting for our reaction. That hideous thing was a tree about three feet tall with skimpy, silver-colored branches. At its foot was a color wheel.

“Wait until you see this!” Mom plugged in the color wheel, and it rotated, turning the branches red, blue, green, and yellow. All ugly. All artificial. All hideous.

I wish we’d been more considerate of Mom’s feelings; she obviously thought she’d found a lovely treasure, but we hated it. And we said so. We disliked it more every year. There were no more real trees, no rooms filled with the scent of pine. The tree stood on an end table, not on the floor where a proper, real Christmas tree should stand.

True, as Mom pointed out, it didn’t drop needles and make a mess. We wished it would drop its needles, but it endured with the tenacity of Methuselah. It’s probably still alive in a landfill somewhere!

Christmas gifts were wonderful when I was a child. When we were very young, Mom always put two unwrapped dolls on the couch for Mary and me. The first one to the sofa got first pick. Aunt Mary, who owned a dress factory, gave each of us girls a beautiful thick sweater every year. One year Grandma gave Mary and me teddy bears we cherished.

When we went to bed at night, one of us would ask, “Does your teddy bear love my teddy bear?”

“My teddy bear loves your teddy bear if your teddy bear loves my teddy bear.”

Once it was settled that the bears and their owners loved each other, we slept, each holding close her bear. I don’t know what happened to my bear, but Mary had hers until just recently. Those bears were among our favorite gifts.

When I got a little older, I looked under the tree for a book shaped package and was never disappointed. My new Nancy Drew book was there, and I devoured it before Christmas Day ended. I loved those books.

One year Dad told us to come outside to see our gift, a lovely wooden toboggan. That was an amazing present!

My favorite gift didn’t come from Mom and Dad, Aunt Mary, Grandma, or any family member. It didn’t even come at Christmas. It came from someone who terrified me, Mrs. Green.

Mrs. Green was a fearful presence who ruled children’s church. I’m sure she must have been a nice person, but I couldn’t see it back then. Her stern persona and hawk like eyes made me shudder.

One Sunday Mrs. Green used a flannel covered board with flannel illustrations that stuck to it. We called them flannelgraph figures. She put up pictures of heaven and talked about how wonderful it would be. Next, she did something I don’t recommend for small children; she placed fiery pictures of hell.

“Boys and girls don’t think that because Jesus, God’s Son, came to earth as a baby, grew up. and died on the cross to pay for the sins of the world that you’re going to heaven. It doesn’t work that way. Don’t think that because your mom and dad bring you to church every Sunday, you’re going to heaven; it doesn’t work that way!”

She jabbed a bony finger at the flames.

What was she saying? I wasn’t going to heaven just because Jesus died for me, and I came to church every Sunday?

She had my attention. How was I going to get into heaven? Whatever it took, I’d do it!

Up went a picture of a cross, and the explanation that Jesus died for our sin. For my sin. Something stirred deeply in my young heart. What kind of love was this that someone would die for me?

Mrs. Green put flannelgraph gifts on the board. “Jesus died to give you salvation from sin and a home in heaven. But does just looking at a gift make it yours? No. You have to reach out and take it.”

So how did I take this gift? I had to admit to God I was a sinner. Well, God and I both knew that! I needed to tell Him I believed Jesus died for me and ask Him to save me.

Mrs. Green told us to bow our heads for silent prayer. “If any of you took that gift and accepted Jesus as your Savior, raise your hand. I’d like to talk to you.”

What? Talk to Mrs. Green all by myself?

I didn’t raise my hand. My heart was filled with faith and joy, but I saw no compelling reason to become a martyr for my faith on the first day I had it. Alone with Mrs. Green? That was worse than Daniel being thrown into the lion’s den!

I never did thank Mrs. Green for giving me the best gift of all! When I get to heaven, I’ll look her up and do it. Maybe. If she doesn’t still terrify me.

I read somewhere Patrick Henry said the gift he wished he could give everyone was his faith in Jesus Christ. I wish I could give that to you too, but you’ll have to accept the gift yourself. I hope you will.

Jesus grows sweeter to me every year, and He fills my heart with hope and joy that run clear and deep under the ice of life’s many storms. I’m still pondering the question my child’s heart asked so many years ago: What kind of love was this that someone would die for me?

It’s not just grace; it’s amazing grace, a grace that came to earth as a tiny baby who gave us a way Home to God

Merry Christmas, dear friends! See you at Home.

P. S. Mary, my teddy bear still loves your teddy bear, always.

by Donna Poole

Magic gently falls over our home like a blanket of snow each family Christmas. I can’t explain it, but even with thirteen grandchildren, no one ever gets sick. The twenty-three of us manage to gather every year without having to reschedule the date. The cousins play like the angels they are, and for just that one day, siblings don’t get frustrated with each other for invading personal space.

And the adults? The ten of us, who usually have twenty different opinions on almost everything, merge in a spirit of love and unity beautiful to behold. If people disagree, they smile and let it go. Not only do we love each other; we like each other. We like everything about each other because we’re family. After all, it’s Christmas.

Christmas carols play softly on someone’s phone, and the children wait quietly as each opens a gift in turn. It’s never too noisy. You’d hardly know thirteen children were here.

And then, we feast on the roast beast. Just for that one day, nothing burns or undercooks. As we gather at tables with only peace and love in our hearts, it’s not unusual for someone to say, “Look, Grandma! It started snowing!”

And if you believe that piece of fiction you just won GOTYA—gullible of the year award.

Let’s get real here. Getting the twenty-three of us together is a gymnastic feat not accomplished some years despite amazing contortions. Kids get sick and we try to reschedule, but sometimes we end up with two celebrations instead of one.

Kids wake up sick on family Christmas morning. Siblings remove each other from their personal spaces. And we ten adults? I know how to read faces. I’ve known these people a long time. I see the raised eyebrow; I can tell when someone is biting a tongue. And the kids’ noise? I love it, but I think next year I’ll put ear plugs in everyone’s Christmas stockings to prevent hearing loss.

One Christmas a little grandson started feeling not well and laid on the couch most of the time. He went home and threw up. Poor kid! We shouldn’t have laughed when we heard about the comment he made after getting sick, but we did.

“It’s still corn! How can it still be corn when I ate it!”

There was a Christmas John and I had to leave because a church member needed us.

There were two Christmases when a grandchild fell into the Christmas tree. The same grandchild. It’s one of my favorite memories. The same grandchild, when a bit older, told me at Christmas, “You’re getting really old, Grandma. I guess pretty soon you’ll be dead.” I adore him; he makes me laugh!

There was a not at all funny Christmas when parents had to rush a very sick child to the emergency room. And one when our fireman son had to leave. And one where a whole family of littles got sick because of germs caught at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

I could continue, but you get the idea.

I blame Mom and Dad Poole for starting the tradition of holiday trouble. Once Mom put dinner roles in the oven in a paper bag to warm them. The bag caught on fire, and she yelled for Dad. He came running in his underwear, grabbed the rolls, ran out to the back porch, and threw the burning mess into the yard. We all laughed about that for years, wondering how many of their neighbors laughed too. And my husband remembers the year of the famous seafood dip that gave everyone food poisoning.

We have enjoyed a few practically perfect Christmases when everything was like a storybook. But no matter what happens, they are all perfect for me, and here’s why.

As imperfect as the twenty-three of us are, we all really do love each other, and I love each one of them fiercely. I hold them in my thoughts, heart, and prayers always. I would do anything for them, and when we’re all together, no matter what happens, I catch my breath at the perfectly imperfect beauty of it all. Just having everyone together is magic for me.

And then the best part happens. Before we open gifts, a grandchild reads to us verses from Luke chapter two. Megan did it for many years. I think she was only four or five when she started. When she got older, we passed the honor down to her younger brother, Reece. When he began, he was so young he mispronounced some words, and anyone who snickered got a grandma scowl from me.

Reece is still our reader. John hands him the Bible, and Reece begins to read,

And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.

² (And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)

³ And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.

⁴ And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)

⁵ To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.

⁶ And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.

⁷ And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

⁸ And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

⁹ And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

¹⁰ And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

¹¹ For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

¹² And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

¹³ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

¹⁴ Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

¹⁵ And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.

¹⁶ And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.

¹⁷ And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.

¹⁸ And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.

¹⁹ But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.

²⁰ And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.

Yes, they are good tidings of great joy! When I hear my beloved grandson read those old familiar verses, the joy fills my heart and runs out of my eyes and down my cheeks. It’s Christmas. It’s not just practically perfect; it’s perfect in every way!

Come to think of it, the only perfect thing about the first Christmas was the baby born in the manger, born to die for our sins!

I leave you with a Merry Christmas from my heart, dear friends, and a thank you for traveling the back roads with me this year. Enjoy your imperfect Christmas! And now, please excuse me. The ham is drying out; the sweet potato casserole just caught fire, and someone, you know who, just fell into the Christmas tree.