Back Road Ramblings

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.

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.