Back Road Ramblings

by Donna Poole

There I was, enjoying the Fourth of July parade, when a freak snowstorm came from nowhere. Sometimes it rains on the parade, but snow? The first few flakes quickly turned into a white-out. As winds howled and the temperature dropped sixty degrees in six minutes, bystanders rushed for cars. The parade halted, and participants hurried to find the closest shelter.

Okay, so that didn’t exactly happen, but it’s true metaphorically speaking. There I was, enjoying the long, lingering summer of my life. Winter was far away, or so I thought, and the blizzard caught me unprepared, still wearing my summer flip-flops.

Are we ever ready to get old? Isn’t old always at least twenty years older than we are? That’s how I used to think. I’m still shocked at the little old gray-haired lady who stares back at me from the mirror, and then we both start singing, “The little old lady from Pasadena, go Granny, go Granny, go Granny, go!” And we laugh.

This is, I think, just the beginning of my winter; it could be the end. I don’t know. No one really knows how long a winter may last. When I was young, I planned this winter in my imagination. I’d be a briskly walking-still jump roping-up for any adventure-grandma. When I wasn’t having adventures with my grandchildren, I’d sit by a fire and read and write. I’d enjoy the short but sweet winter twilights and then smile myself to sleep with happy memories of yesterday and robust plans for tomorrow.

I didn’t imagine cancer, or what it would do to dreams of the kind of old lady I’d be. I still have adventures. It’s an adventure to get from the bed to the car in one piece! It’s an adventure to fit all the doctors and test visits into the calendar. Sometimes, when I’m feeling extra daring, I even take a shower…and skip the nap after!

This is not, however, the winter of my discontent. I’m not unhappy. I find happiness in different ways than I’d imagined. Today I woke from a nap to hear feet on the stairs. I don’t know which of the three people who live with me was going upstairs, but I smiled. It made me feel warm and happy to hear footsteps on the stairs and know they belonged to someone dear to me. Had I been the jump-roping-always-busy-grandma I’d imagined; I don’t think I’d have ever known how sweet it is to hear footsteps of a loved one on the stairs.

Small blessings bring grace to my heart and instant tears to my eyes. Today my sister told me my brother-in-law, who’s alone in a hospital in New York City and very sick, was out of an expensive skin cream he really needs. The hospital doctor, without being asked, went to a drugstore, used his own money, and bought the cream. When my brother-in-law tried to pay him, the doctor said, “Nope. We’re good.”

I’ve been thinking about that often today, the kindness of strangers, and how much more it means when someone is sick and hurting. God has many earth angels, and as someone once said, “Human kindness is Jesus showing His hands.”

I’m grateful for human kindness and hundreds of other small things I never thought much about before. Smiles. Waves. Hugs around the knees from a tiny granddaughter. A text from one of my adult kids or in-law kids. The changing slant of light with the seasons. The quiet, country view out of my bedroom window.

Yes, I’m sick. Yes, I’ve lost people dear to me. Yes, this is hard. But when I lie in my cozy bed, even when my sore bones don’t exactly let me get comfortable, the music starts. Under the ice of my storms, a spring stream flows, and it sings to me. It sings of grace and mercy. It hums of love and laughter. Sometimes lyrics run through my mind, as eclectic as I am: old hymns, Ron Hamilton, southern gospel, old time country, music from high school. Occasionally I sing along; “You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch.”

With each new medical test, I’m like the Grinch’s cartoon sleigh tipping back and forth on that impossible precipice of a mountain.

Which way will I slide? And yet, I’m at peace. I’m wrapped in a cozy blanket made of the kindness of family, friends, and strangers. The music grows faint sometimes, but it’s always there when I get quiet enough to listen. The winter winds howl, and everything freezes, but the spring stream flows under the ice, and I am contented.

These days the stream under the ice is lit with tiny white lights and sings Christmas songs to me.

The winter of Jesus’s life came when He was so young. The shadow of a cross fell over the manger; His birth was the prelude to His death. Yet what joy He found along the way, even though the road led to Calvary.

“Those who watched Jesus dying saw nothing but loss and tragedy. Yet at the heart of that darkness the divine mercy was powerfully at work, bringing about pardon and forgiveness for us. God’s salvation came into the world through suffering, so his saving grace and power can work in our lives more and more as we go through difficulty and sorrow. There’s mercy deep inside our storms.” –Timothy Keller

Oh, that’s for sure. There’s mercy deep inside our storms. And that’s why this is the winter of my content. God is at work, and all is well.

by Donna Poole

“Emma,” Mia whispered, “you still awake?”

“Yep. Just looking for a happy minute from today to think about before I fall asleep.”

“You do that every night. Well, you can stop trying to find your happy. I’ve got one for you. Mom and Dad are taking us to Alabama for Thanksgiving! We’re staying in an ocean front condo. But don’t tell Mom I told you. Maybe she wants to surprise you.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the ocean! What’s it like?”

“You know how much you love Lake Michigan? It’s like that only way better. And we’ll walk the beach and collect shells. We’re going to have so much fun!”

“Mia, you’re the best foster sister I’ve ever had!”

Mia laughed. “I think I’m the only foster sister you’ve ever had. Didn’t you say all those other foster homes had only boys?”

Emma shuddered at the memory of what had happened in some of those homes, things she’d never tell Mia. In her thirteen years she’d been in eight different homes, and this was the first place she’d felt safe. But she wasn’t going to think about those places now, not when she could imagine sinking her toes into white sand in Alabama!

Emma usually woke long before Mia and helped Nancy in the kitchen before everyone left for work or school. She’d long ago learned things went better for her in the foster homes if she made herself useful.

As she hurried to the kitchen, Emma wondered if Nancy would tell her about the trip. Thanksgiving was just a few days away.

“Sit down, Emma.” Nancy sighed.

Have I done something wrong? I can’t think of anything, but she looks so upset!

“Mia doesn’t know this yet. Her dad’s company has transferred him to Alabama. We’re going down there for Thanksgiving, and we’ll be looking for a home to buy. It’s going to be hard for Mia to leave her school, her friends, and you. We can’t take you out of state, Emma. I want to make this as easy as possible for Mia. I’m trusting you not to say anything to her; we’ll tell her when we’re in Alabama. You’ll go to the sitter’s when we leave for our trip. By the time we return, you’ll be in another foster home. I think it’s better for Mia this way. It’s going to break her heart, and that’s partly my fault. I’ve let her get too close to you. I thought she understood you were just a foster child, but I’ve heard her refer to you as ‘my sister’ several times lately. Can I trust you not to say anything to her?”

Emma nodded mutely, tears running down her face. Am I just a piece of furniture to be shoved aside or donated to someone else? Don’t you care about me at all?

Nancy raised surprised eyebrows. “Don’t take this so hard, Emma. You’ve been in more foster homes than I can count. Surely you didn’t expect us to adopt you?”

It was only when she heard the words Emma realized that was exactly what she’d hoped. Mia was like a sister to her, perhaps Mia’s parents would learn to love her too.

Now I’m gong to be alone again.

Emma remembered words she’d memorized as a little girl when someone had taken her to church. It felt like God Himself was standing next to her, lifting her chin, putting steel into her spine.

I will never leave you or forsake you.

She heard Mia coming downstairs. Nancy gave her a sharp, warning look.

Mia hugged Emma. “Good morning, sister!”

Emma’s heart twisted.

“You girls need to pack right after breakfast,” Nancy said. “Mia, you’re packing for Alabama, and Emma’s going to pack to stay with the sitter.”

“What! Emma isn’t coming with us? Then I don’t want to go.”

“Mia,” her mom said, “we need to spend some time as a family. Emma understands. We’ve talked.”

Mia was furious and crying. “Emma is family. She’s as much family as you and dad.”

Nancy’s lips tightened into a thin line. “This is exactly why we need to spend time as just a family.”

Mia knew when she’d lost a battle. She sighed. “Emma, I’ll bring you back lots of shells, okay?”

A few hours later two thirteen-year-old girls parted in the driveway, one to go on vacation, the other to go back into an overwhelmed foster system. Mia thought they were parting for a few days. Emma knew it would be for years, or maybe forever.

“Mia, I want you to remember something Abraham Lincoln said.”

Mia smiled through tears. “You can’t go on vacation with me, and you want to talk about Abraham Lincoln? Sometimes you’re too funny, Emma. Okay. What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.’”

“So that’s why you try to think of a happy every night before you go to sleep? You’ve made up your mind to be happy?”

“Enough goodbyes!” Nancy said. “We need to get going, and the sitter is here for Emma.”

Emma watched Mia and her parents get into the taxi. The last leaf fell from the Maple and danced its way down to the driveway. In her heart, Emma was the tree, lifting bare arms in mute appeal to heaven.

The sitter tossed Emma’s luggage into the car and backed out of the driveway.

“Will I be at your house for Thanksgiving?” Emma was surprised at how timid her own voice sounded.

“Sorry, Emma. Your case worker is picking you up tomorrow. I don’t know where you’ll be for Thanksgiving. I hope you’ll get a good turkey dinner wherever it is.”

Emma stared out of the window at the bleak November landscape. She thought for a minute about warm, white sandy beaches, Alabama sunshine, and collecting shells with Mia. She let herself feel how wonderful it would have been to be Mia’s adopted sister. Those dreams were gone, and who knew what else life might take from her. Well, no one was going to get her grateful heart. That belonged only to her and God. She was barely more than a child, but somehow, she knew her survival depended on keeping it.

“Open your hand,” the sitter said softly. She placed a tiny, beautiful shell into Emma’s outstretched palm. “I went to Alabama once and brought back a few shells. I want you to have this one.”

Emma whispered her thanks and stared at the shell; its pale pink center swirled into smooth pearl, fragile as a dream, beautiful as hope. Her hand closed around it.

by Donna Poole

It had been a glorious autumn day at the little church, the last day of October. The trees in the countryside were still wearing their best colors; their dress had never looked more radiant. Still, as the sun began to lower in the west, the little church on the corner of two dirt roads sagged on its foundation and began to quietly weep. Tears streamed out of its windows and traced paths through the dust on its white sides.

A man with a long black coat flapping below his knees walked rapidly down the road. His walking stick barely touched the ground as little clouds of dirt stirred up around him but didn’t seem to settle on him. His white hair touched his shoulders and made a startling contrast to the coat. He stopped suddenly, looked at the tears of the little church, and glanced up. Then he nodded, turned the corner, and sat on the church’s cement steps.

“Do you mind if I rest here awhile, my friend?”

“All are welcome here,” Little Church said, trying to keep from sobbing.

“I noticed your tears. What seems to be the problem?”

Little Church was used to solving problems for others, not telling others its difficulties. It studied the man sitting on its steps. He had kind, blue eyes above a neat, white beard. Little Church was sure he’d never met him before. Did he dare share his burdens with this stranger?

“Are you from around here?”

“No, my friend, I’m just passing through. I hold many secrets in my heart. Yours are safe with me.”

At that Little Church stopped trying to hold back its sobs. Out spilled its whole bitter story of better days, of days when little children filled pews, of days when there was barely enough room to hold all the people.

“Those were my better days. But there were so many things I couldn’t do that other, bigger churches could. I couldn’t have a variety of Sunday school classes. I couldn’t have wonderful programs and activities for each age group; I didn’t have the room or enough help. I couldn’t keep up with what the people wanted, and I’ve lost so many. They left for bigger and better. I’ve failed the Master, and I’m worried about tomorrow. We have so few children now; who will keep me going so I can be a light here on the corner until Jesus comes?”

“Why do you say the former days were better than these? Can you judge like our Master can judge? And as for tomorrow, like my friend Elisabeth Elliot once said, ‘Tomorrow belongs to God. Tomorrow is none of your business!’”

“Do you know Elisabeth Elliot?”

“Oh yes. We talk often.”

“You speak in present tense, but Elisabeth Elliot is dead!”

“And you are a white frame building, but we are talking, so there is that. Just remember, tomorrow is none of your business!”

The words were stern, but the merry laughter and the kind tone soothed the heart of the little church. Where had this wise man with white hair and long black coat come from?

“You don’t know which of your days will count most for eternity,” the man continued. “God isn’t finished with you yet. So, perhaps you should major on what you could do in the future instead of what you couldn’t.”

All was quiet for several moments. A soft breeze blew from the west where the sun was becoming a glowing, red orb. The very air around the little church seemed to hint of heaven.

The man spoke again. “When Jesus lived on earth, He walked dirt roads much like these. He didn’t have any big programs to entertain people. He had no involved children’s clubs that required many workers; He just took the children on His lap and blessed them. Jesus was a servant who taught with love. Can you listen each Sunday for the ‘whisper of His sandaled feet’ and follow Him? Can you teach, love, and serve?”

“I could. I can listen for Him. Teach, Love, and Serve—that has always been my song, but fear stole my words. Thank you for singing them back to me.”

“You’re welcome,” the man said. “I best be on my way before darkness falls.” He stood, stretched, and picked up his walking stick.

He headed west down the dusty road into the sunset.

“Wait!” Little Church called. “I want to always remember the man who put the song back into my heart. What is your name?”

In a voice that echoed like thunder, the man said, “You may call me Gabriel.”

The black coat turned brighter than the sun, and in a flash of lightning the man disappeared.

Little Church stood tall once more on its foundation and never again forgot what it could do. For some, it would not be enough, but Little Church would teach, love, and serve with joy. And it would remember that tomorrow was none of its business.

by Donna Poole

Her life was a song, and then—she was gone.

Amber was a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a friend, a writer, a poet, a lover of creation, and a lover of God. She knew her worth; she was God’s child, a Daughter of the Star Breather. Amber even wrote a book with that title.

“By the word of the LORD were the heavens made; and all the host of them by the breath of his mouth.” –Psalm 33:6

Amber liked driving back country roads with the windows down, music loud, and wind blowing through her hair. She also delighted in the quiet, listening for the first spring peepers, and watching stars and fireflies. She loved the changes in the seasons.

I first met Amber at church when she was two years old, blonde hair hanging to her waist, and a wide, sweet smile. When it was prayer time the rest of us stayed in our pews, but not Amber. She slipped out into the aisle, knelt, and put her forehead on the floor. I grinned to see her little backside high in the air, but tears stung my eyes at the sweet reverence in one so young. From the first, she refused to leave church without hugging me. That hugging tradition continued until cancer and my oncologist’s orders kept me from church. For almost twenty years Amber blessed me with her hugs.

Long ago, I had a kids’ club that met on Wednesday nights during adult prayer time. The kids got older and before I knew it, they were teens. School and sports’ obligations claimed them one by one until only Amber was left on Wednesday nights. For years the two of us met. We talked, laughed, cried, and prayed. Often, we leaned on the railing and watched the sun set over the fields west of the church. As she got older there were times when she would say something that made me wonder who the teacher was and who the learner. Near the end of Amber’s life, we were just two friends sharing what God was teaching us.

On the last night of her life, Amber went home, hugged her mom, and had cinnamon tea and cookies with her sister. Then the two of them laid out on the trampoline laughing, talking, and watching the stars. It was late when Amber went back to another sister’s house where she was living. She curled up in bed, and sometime in the early morning hours the Star Breather called her name. Amber went Home. Now she’s looking at the stars from the other side. Amber always wanted to know God better; now she does. But she was only twenty-two.

The rest of us still journeying Home are walking through Baca, a weary weeping place, the valley of tears. We’re happy for Amber but staggering with grief.

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

And a cruel enemy it is.

Our tears aren’t without hope. Long ago Amber knew she could never be good enough to get to heaven. That’s an exercise in futility, right? It’s like trying to jump across the Atlantic; you might jump farther than I, but neither of us is going to make it. Even as a child Amber rejoiced in the relief that she didn’t have to be good enough to earn heaven because Jesus had lived the perfect life she couldn’t and had died to take the punishment for her sin. She trusted Him as her Savior, and the minute she did, He entered her life and forgave her.

Amber and I sometimes talked about how it would have felt to have been Jesus, never to have known the awful feeling of guilt, and then to suddenly take into His heart every sin ever committed in the history of mankind and to feel the horrible guilt of it. It must have been every bit as excruciating as the physical pain of crucifixion, but He triumphed over sin, death, and hell. He made that sin cease to exist for everyone who trusts Him as Savior. That’s Amber’s family, that’s her friends, and that’s me. We’ll see her again. We’ll spend eternity with her. I’ll get more hugs. We’ll watch together things even more beautiful than the sun setting west of our country church.

Meanwhile, what do we do with all these tears? The Psalmist said, “Blessed are those whose strength is in you, in whose heart are the highways to Zion. As they go through the Valley of Baca they make it a place of springs; the early rain also covers it with pools. They go from strength to strength; each one appears before God in Zion.” –Psalm 84:5-7 ESV

Because of our tears we will someday provide refreshing pools for others. Meanwhile we go from strength to strength and lean on each other and on our God.

I picture our dear Lord Jesus holding a loaf of bread in His hands, blessing it, breaking it, and giving it to others. That’s an allegory for life; we’re blessed, broken, and given in a continuing cycle. I’m wondering where you are in the cycle. God bless you, wherever you are; don’t lose hope!

Right now, all who love Amber are broken, standing in the valley of tears.

A friend from Ireland sang me a song today I’d never heard before. It had these words, “spreading a beautiful rainbow over the valley of tears.” God is doing that for us.

George Matheson said, “Show me that my tears have made my rainbow.”

Our son, Dan, was thinking of Amber on his way to work this morning when he saw a rainbow in the western sky. He took a picture and sent it to me.

Dan’s wife, Mindy, posted a lovely photo of fall leaves on Facebook with these words, “This morning on the way to school Ruby said, ‘Momma, it’s so peach outside. It’s so pretty.’ It was beautiful. The birds were singing, the rain was falling, and everything was some shade of Amber. I told her it was an Amber morning.”

Yes, today was an Amber morning, and someday we’ll have Amber mornings forever.

by Donna Poole

It was a beautiful autumn day, perfect for cross-country. We stood in the crowd cheering on the exhausted runners as they raced to the finish line. Megan, our granddaughter, was in the first group, blonde ponytail swinging side to side, running like a deer, her graceful stride making the long race look so much easier than it was. We hollered her name until we were hoarse, and Megan finished well, earning another PR and winning a medal. Now Reece, our grandson, runs for that same school Megan graduated from many years ago, and he too runs fast and finishes well.

On that long ago autumn day, we waited for Megan to cool down from her run, talk to her coach, and get congratulations from her teammates. When it was our turn, we hugged her and told her how proud we were.

By then the cross-country teams were gathering under their schools’ brightly colored canopies, packing gear, and getting ready to board buses. Spectators drifted away from the sidelines and walked to their cars. We said goodbye to other family members and turned to head to our vehicle.

Then I saw something almost unbelievable. “Wait! John, look!”

He followed my glance down the track. A lone runner was still coming in, so late, so far beyond all the others. Her weary feet pounded the track slowly, but she kept coming. I searched her face for signs of sorrow or embarrassment, but all I saw was a spunky determination to finish what she’d started.

You go girl! You run! You’re a real winner!

Years have passed since that perfect autumn day. I don’t remember Megan’s time now, or where she placed, though I was proud of it then. But I remember that determined girl running so slowly, almost at walking speed, but finishing what she started.

I wonder what became of that girl. Did she go on to college or get a job? I have a hunch whatever she did or will do in life it won’t involve quitting.

We don’t always get to meander back country roads in beautiful sunshine on perfect autumn days when life is easy for the living. Sometimes hard, heartbreaking circumstances force us to push through cold rainstorms, slosh through mud. and keep going even when we’ve already spent our last penny of strength five miles earlier.

It would be so easy then, wouldn’t it, to curl up and give in, to let our tears mingle with the cold rain and call it quits.

“It’s always too soon to quit.” –Warren W. Wiersbe

God says when we’re weak we’re strong—strong in the strength He gives us. We can pound the track with weary feet, even when we’re so far behind the others no one sees us on the track.

God Himself and an unseen heavenly host cheer for us.

“Keep going! Keep putting one foot ahead of the other!”

And so, we do. We run; we walk, and we crawl until hands and knees bleed. We may not see the other runners, but we gain courage knowing they too are giving their best. We’re not alone; we’re walking each other Home with our love and prayers.

When weary and bedraggled we finally reach the finish line, God will greet us with a smile, a hug, and the words, “Well done! Well done, my good and faithful servants.”

Heaven’s halls will echo with cheers of joyful celebration, and we’ll be so glad then we didn’t quit!

by Donna Poole

I’m standing in a country field in a comforting September silence, alone except for the thousands, perhaps millions of butterflies dancing with delight over the wildflowers. My memories are fading fast—the horrified looks of my comrade firefighters when we realized the thuds we heard among the shrieking sounds of collapsing metal and screams for help were bodies—bodies hitting the canopy. People were jumping to their deaths?

I looked up at the twisted building torn almost in two by the plane and I ran for the stairs. I had to help people get out.

I prayed as my feet pounded the steps, prayed for my wife and babies at home, prayed for my own safety, prayed God would help me rescue some from this burning hell. Smoke seared my lungs and blinded my eyes, but I did save a few before pain, unbearable crushing pain unlike anything I’d ever imagined in my thirty-two years pinned me down. I must have passed out.

This field, is it a dream? I hold out my hand, and butterflies land on it. I feel their tiny feet before they fly away to rejoin the dance.

I breathe deeply, the sweetest air I’ve ever known. My eyes are clear, no longer crying black, smoke-filled tears. Running through the field toward me I see so many people I’ve loved, my parents, my grandparents, my favorite Sunday school teacher when I’d been a little boy, so many family members and friends. I’m enveloped in love, and the butterflies dance around us.

Suddenly, the butterflies hover midflight, unmoving. My dear ones stop their shouts of rejoicing and fall to their faces. So do I. There they are, the Father, and the Son. Where is the Holy Spirit? Oh, I know. He fills my heart so completely that there is nothing left but love, and I weep tears of joy.

The Son lifts me up, and I look into His face, Jesus, the One I have loved so long. I kiss the nail print in His hand.  

“Thank you, my Savior, for taking my sin into your heart when you suffered on the cross, for taking my punishment, and making my sin not to be. Why, why did you do it?”

He throws back His head and laughs, and the melody fills the heavens. “I did it for love. Love is the reason for everything.”

The Father holds out His arms, holds me to His chest, and I feel the beating heart of the universe. With every beat it says, “love, love, love.”

I pull back, struggling to remember, the smoke, the screams, the suffering, the stench of death. “But why?” I ask.

“Love is not the law of earth yet,” the Father says. “But it will be someday. Will you help me with that?”

He stands me to my feet. The Lord Jesus takes my hand, holds it high, and says, “Of course he will. He has already begun. Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

Now millions take up the chant, “Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

But they aren’t looking at me. They are looking at Jesus, God the Son.

“Lord,” I whisper to Him, “what is the date?”

He smiles. “Do you mean in earth time?”

I nod.

“September 11, 2021.”

“What? 2021? But didn’t I get here just a minute ago on September 11, 2001?”

He laughs again, that beautiful sound. I can’t help but join, and so do millions upon millions of others.

“Yes,” He says. “It was just a minute ago heaven time.”

We’re standing on a bit of a hill; I can overlook the crowd and see the field with the butterflies. Still they dance.

by Donna Poole

Today is the end.

How’d you like that for a dramatic opening? Okay, I know it isn’t the end of summer, but August 31 and Labor Day weekend have always seemed like summer’s last hurrah to me.

Not that I even noticed much of summer this year. Ross Ellet, my favorite meteorologist, says 2021 is Toledo’s second hottest summer since people began keeping records in 1873.  I did notice the heat and the humidity. Our antenna TV picks up the Toledo stations and “tropical” is a word we heard a lot about the weather this summer. I felt the heat as I staggered from house to car to go for my chemo treatments. We saw the haze over corn and bean fields as we traveled. I remembered how the blacktop used to bubble and stick to my flipflops on hot days and wondered if the roads were the same now, but I was too tired to ask John. He drove me to my treatments and understood when I was too tired to talk. I felt bad about the wasted conversation time, but we held hands sometimes, and we were together.

If I were a child going back to school and the teacher asked how I’d spent my summer, I’d say, “getting chemotherapy, being sicker than the proverbial dog, and sleeping.”

If you’ve been walking this bumpy road with me, you know I have a refractory cancer, resistant to treatment. Morticia, my lung tumor, ate R-chop chemo for lunch and grew. She stubbornly survived radiation and GemOx chemo. John and I decided no more chemo once GemOx finished, and my oncologist agreed. So, after fourteen chemo treatments and eleven radiation sessions Morticia still lives.

 But I’m remaining in the drug trial for Epcoritamab, and it’s helping. Recent scans showed Morticia shrunk a bit, and perhaps my upcoming ones will show she has shrieked and melted like the wicked witch of the west!

With my last chemo a few weeks behind me, my brain is starting to wake. I notice the shorter days and feel sad. I don’t love summer’s extreme heat, but I do love long days filled with light. Ross Ellet says our next 7am sunrise won’t be until March 7, 2022. We’re losing three minutes of daylight every day.

I chase that daylight in my imagination and beg it to return.

One of my favorite verses says, “The path of the just is as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day.” –Proverbs 4:18

The Berean Study Bible puts it this way, “The path of the righteous is like the first gleam of dawn, shining brighter and brighter until midday.”

When daylight fades from our view it’s getting light on the other side of the world. The sun is always shining somewhere, and when God trusts us to walk in the dark, we can be sure He’s holding our hands.

It’s interesting, I think, that there won’t be any darkness in heaven. “And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever.” –Revelation 22:5

Until heaven comes, we will face times of darkness, of suffering, of loss, times when daylight fades. It helps then, I think, to turn our faces to the light we have, however dim.

It doesn’t take much light to brighten the darkness. That’s why I love the little electric candles in the windows of our old farmhouse. It’s why that commercial was such a success, “We’ll leave the light on for you.” We’re drawn to light.

Tom Bodett was a NPR personality when Motel 6 hired him in 1986 to be the voice for their commercials. He ad-libbed the line, “We’ll leave the light on for you,” while recording his first commercial. It became an instant and lasting success for over a quarter of a century. It won many awards. Advertising Age Magazine named it one of the 100 best ads of the twentieth century.

God always leaves a light on for us. When we turn our faces to God, we reflect His light, and we can leave the light on for others who are hurting and feeling alone in the darkness. I can’t think of a better reason for still being here and not over there where the daylight never fades.

by Donna Poole

It was time! Mary and I left early in the morning. We wore our sweaters, because even though it was August it was cool in the foothills of the Adirondacks Mountains. We shoved our lunches into brown paper bags, even though we knew we would eat lots of the treasure we were hunting and sure to find. We set off with our buckets, the kind of energy only nine-and ten-year old’s can claim, and lots of enthusiasm.

We had no set hiking route; we didn’t know exactly where we were going, even though this wasn’t our first time climbing the foothills to look for wild blackberries. We just walked down the road until we found a field not fenced off with barbed wire or a hot wire—the worst—cut through and started the steep climb. Our younger sister, Ginny, remembers going with us once. I imagine it was a strenuous hike for her little, short legs!

It didn’t take long for us to find our first row of luscious wild blackberries growing in a tangle with cat claw thorns impossible to avoid. Blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, and almonds all belong to the rose family, but we didn’t know that then, and wouldn’t have cared if we did. We only cared about stuffing our mouths, filling our pails, finding adventure, and finally heading home for our reward, Mom’s best in the world blackberry pie.  

Once we stumbled on a long-forsaken boy scout camp with its old, crumbling buildings. My imagination told me a story of a deranged killer who’d found the camp at night and now the bodies of little cub scouts and their scout master were skeletons buried beneath my feet. I made up some excuse why we shouldn’t stay there long.

Mary tried to teach me the art of walking silently through the woods like a native American, one foot exactly ahead of the other, making no sound. She was much better at it than I. Every time I snapped a twig, she looked back reproachfully at me with her dark eyes until we both laughed and gave up.

As the day warmed, we took off our sweaters and tied them around our waists. We rolled them and used them as pillows for naps after a picnic lunch.

We saved our lunch bags; woe to the child who returned from an adventure or a day of school without a lunch bag. I remember detesting the old, wrinkled bag at lunch time in the school cafeteria. It was sad enough not to have money to buy lunch, but couldn’t we at least throw out the lunch bag each day the way the other kids who brought their lunches did? Apparently, their moms weren’t in the running for the title of Most Frugal Mom USA. But then, their moms probably couldn’t make the best blackberry pie in the USA either!

After lunch we either continued exploring or picked more berries. I remember reaching into one bush to get a berry bigger than my thumb when several snakes slid over my right arm, dropped to the ground, and slithered away. It happened so fast there wasn’t even time to scream.

“Did you see that? I almost got bit by three, or six, or maybe even nine rattlesnakes!”

Mary shook her head. “I didn’t see any snakes. And I’m sure they were just garter snakes.”

Though rattlers do live in the foothills of the Adirondacks, I later learned that it’s very common for garter snakes to lurk in the berry bushes. Mice love berries; snakes love mice; you finish the equation. But in my mind back then, I was a hero, almost as brave as Nancy Drew who stood up to criminals. I stayed right where I was and kept picking berries. No two dozen rattle snakes were going to scare me away from getting blackberry pie!

As you might guess, my story of the dangerous encounter grew with the telling. I was quite disappointed when my parents, instead of admiring my sheer courage of braving rattlesnakes, agreed with Mary that the snakes had been harmless garter snakes, waiting to eat mice, with no interest in eating a sweaty fifth grade girl.

It seemed to Mary and me those carefree days of August adventure would last always. Forever we would be sisters, climbing the hills, stuffing our mouths with the sweetness of wild blackberries, sharing laughter and the scratches from thorns, and going home to parents, siblings, and the world’s best blackberry pie.