Back Road Ramblings

by Donna Poole

It was a “Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day,” just like Alexander had in one of my favorite children’s books by Judith Viorst.

Nothing could make him happy. Our normally cheerful little grandson was still sobbing when they strapped him into his car seat. He was thinking of little boy problems doubtless as consuming to little boys as grandma problems are to grandmas. Ignoring the happy sounds of siblings, he kept crying.

Until the car slowed, and he looked out of his window.

They were in the McDonald’s drive-through! Sobs stopped, and with tears still wet on his cheeks he exclaimed, “I like people now!”

Strapped in our seats on this backroad journey Home, we may hide our sobs from others, but our troubles can consume our thoughts and emotions until we are too exhausted to even like people. We’re numb. If any Scripture verse resonates with us it’s, “Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.”

We might even mutter with the long dead Shakespeare:

“Double double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

We’re tired of the trouble, the fire, and the cauldron. Like my little grandson, head down, we ignore the happy sounds of siblings. Our focus is on our tears. Until we look out the window.

When we look out of the window our focus leaves ourselves and we find joy. We learn to say with Helen Keller who surely knew the sting of sorrow, “Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.”

Instead of sighing over “Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward,” we sing over Jesus’ words in John 16:33, “These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.”

I don’t know what the metaphorical window is that reunites you with joy, but mine is God, His Word, His creation, and His people. Sometimes a window opens when I read something breathtakingly beautiful written by one of God’s people.

This morning I read this by George MacDonald:

“The shadows of the evening that precedes a lovelier morning are drawing down around us both. But our God is in the shadow as in the shine, and all is and will be well. Have we not seen His glory in the face of Jesus? And do we not know him a little? . . . This life is a lovely school time, but I never was content with it. I look for better—oh, so far better! I think we do not yet know the joy of mere existence. To exist is to be a child of God; and to know it, to feel it, is to rejoice evermore. May the loving Father be near you and may you know it, and be perfectly at peace all the way into the home country, and to the palace home of the living one—the Life of our life.

“. . . My God, art Thou not as good as we are capable of imagining Thee? Shall we dream a better goodness than thou hast ever thought of? Be Thyself, and all is well with us.”

 My window is open a bit more now, and I see people who need my prayers. I like people. I love them. And that’s where I find joy.

by Donna Poole

What magical sounds, sights, or smells transport you back to your childhood? When I hear the words, “Once upon a time,” I’m instantly a child again. I love story; it captures elusive truth and hands it to me so I can carry it close to my heart.

Once upon a time the prophet, Jeremiah, dared to tell a terrible truth. Judah, his homeland, was at war with Babylon.

“Babylon is going to win this war,” Jeremiah proclaimed in a message from God. “Everyone who stays in Jerusalem will die, but those who leave and go over to the Babylonians will live.”

What? Defect to the enemy? Traitor! That’s how many people branded Jeremiah. His wasn’t a message any red-blooded patriot wanted to hear.

Some politicians who were members of the royal family were outraged. “Kill Jeremiah,” they said to King Zedekiah. “He’s bad for morale. He’s weakening the military and the people with his words.”

“Do what you want.” The king shrugged. “I’m not strong enough to stand against your wishes.”

The politicians wanted Jeremiah dead, but they didn’t want to murder him outright. That wouldn’t look good, and they didn’t want blood on their hands. So, they lowered him with ropes into a deep, narrow cistern where he sunk in mud. He could die a slow and painful death from exposure or starvation there, but they hadn’t exactly murdered him themselves, had they?

Shivering and miserable, stuck in mud and his own filth, unable to climb out of the pit, Jeremiah began the slow process of dying. What would claim him first, starvation or exposure? No wonder Jeremiah’s nickname was “the weeping prophet.”

What had he done to earn such terrible suffering? He’d told a hard truth God had instructed him to tell. He hadn’t liked sharing it; Jeremiah loved his country and wanted it to prosper as much as the next patriot. Now he was dying in agony, forgotten by God and man.

Or was he? God never forgets, and God always has a man.

Ebed-Melech, an Ethiopian servant, was God’s man.

Bravely, he told the king. “Those princes of yours have done a wicked thing. Jeremiah is starving to death.”

The easily influenced king said, “Take thirty men with you, and get Jeremiah out of that pit before he dies.”

It wouldn’t take thirty men to pull one emaciated prophet from a pit; the men were for protection.

Ebed-Melech grabbed some ropes and old rags and hurried to the pit.

Someone defined compassion as “your pain in my heart.” Ebed-Melech felt compassion. He must have imagined what it would feel like to be in so much pain, half starved, and then hauled up by ropes. How could he make it easier for Jeremiah?

“Put these rags under your arms so the ropes don’t cut into your skin,” he called down to Jeremiah. Then they hauled Jeremiah up to safety.

Wanted: Kindness and old rags.

It seems that kindness felt but not acted out turns to callousness. We see and hear of so much need, so much agony in the world around us. People are suffering in pits of pain, mentally, physically, emotionally. We hear it on the news; we read it on Facebook.

What would Ebed-Melech do? We might want to haul everyone out of pits; that we cannot do, but a little kindness goes a long way to someone suffering. I think old E.M., if he were alive today, would find a way to send a rag even if it were just by a card or a name breathed in prayer. And if he could do more, he would do that too.

I love story, and Paul Harvey’s “The Rest of the Story” was one of my favorites. What was the rest of the story for E.M.? Jerusalem did fall to Babylon, just as Jeremiah had said, but God spared E.M.’s life. You can read about it in Jeremiah 39:15-18.

Ebed-Melech wasn’t even his real name; those words just mean “servant of the king.”

Once upon a time, there was a nameless man, who did a great deed of kindness with a heartful of courage and a handful of old rags. I bow to you, E.M. We desperately need more of you in the hurting story our world is writing today. May your tribe increase!

by Donna Poole

Let me tell you about our vacation last week.

We were once again on our way to the small hardware store in Nashville, Indiana.

“I’m sorry you aren’t getting the nice vacation I wanted for you, honey,” I said to John.

It started when we couldn’t get reservations at Brown County, our favorite Indiana campground. We went somewhere else the first night and arrived well after dark because of camper repairs John had to make before we could leave. As he struggled to back the camper into our site, a group of retired people sitting around a campfire across from us laughed jeeringly.

“And now the entertainment begins!” one of them said.

People can be so mean.

We arrived at the next campground while it was still light, and John had an easy time backing in.

“What is that big fenced in area right behind our camper?”

John laughed. “Airport.”

The trains we heard all night were even louder than the planes. John only slept a few hours anyway. He was up researching how to fix the wiring on a camper because we had no electricity. We discovered the next morning it wasn’t our camper; it was a faulty electric box at our site.

An exhausted John drove us on to Brown County. He’d tried to get our favorite remote site when he’d made reservations, but it was occupied. The only places available were in a crowded area, not our favorite way to camp, but at least we’d be at our beloved Brown County.

I’d prayed for sunny weather; it rained every day, sometimes non-stop. I’d asked for a restful time for my tired husband; instead, he had to fix something daily on our old truck or on ancient Bertha, our 1988 fifth wheel. I’m sure you don’t want me to bore you with the list of things he had to do, and some he spent hours on turned out to be unfixable.

I learned long ago that God is not a glorified Santa. He doesn’t give us everything we request. He gives us what we need, and when we don’t agree with Him, we better be the ones who change. I also learned that God sends blessings with every burden.

We met a few earth angels on vacation. You remember the people who laughed at John trying to back in the camper in the dark? John heard a quiet voice at his truck window. It wasn’t one of them.

“Like some help? A little more to the left. Now straighten it out. A bit more to the right. Okay, you’ve got it. Just go back about three feet.”

“Thank you so much!”

“Think nothing of it. People help me and I like to help them.”

People can be so kind.

God sent another earth angel too. John bought a part to repair the truck, and he’s pretty handy, but he’d never done this before.

Before he left for town to pick up the part I said, “Honey, see if you can find a garage to help you put it on.”

He wasn’t sure; he didn’t want to spend the money, but he agreed to try. He found a tiny garage.

“Could you put this part on for me?”

“I’d really like to help you out, but I’m swamped today. I just can’t.”

“Okay. Well thanks anyway.” John started back to the truck.

“Wait, Let’s see. What do you have there?”

John showed him the part.

“That won’t take long. I’ll do it for you.”

When he finished, John asked, “What do I owe you?”

“Oh, just give me ten bucks.”

Earth angel!

John gave him twenty.

There were more blessings. I was recovering from chemo number six and couldn’t stay awake, but I didn’t have to worry about John getting bored. He didn’t have time to do that!

The hospital called the day before we left to go camping and warned me that my numbers were low. I had to be careful of infection, avoid all public restrooms and couldn’t eat any takeout food. A tiny country store in the area makes delicious cinnamon rolls. John didn’t want to get them because he thought they would make me hungry. I assured him they wouldn’t; I was having to force myself to eat anything, and I love the backroads drive to that store. It’s an awesome drive through the Indiana hills. They call that area the Little Smokies.

We picked a morning when John wasn’t repairing something and headed for the store. John came back out laughing. “They didn’t make the rolls today. But they said they’ll have them tomorrow.”

“We’ll come back! The rolls can be your treat, and this beautiful drive can be mine!”

And we did go back, in the pouring rain yet again, and the drive was beautiful, and we were together.

I never finished what I started to say in this article. I’ll finish it now and you’ll see why I say John is the best earth angel I met on the trip.

We were once again on our way to the small hardware store in Nashville, Indiana.

“I’m sorry you aren’t getting the nice vacation I wanted for you, honey,” I said to John.

“What are you talking about? I’m having a wonderful time!”

This? This after crawling under wet things and getting cold and muddy and spending hours trying to fix things that couldn’t be fixed and being the hardware store’s best customer and getting no down time at all?

“Stop quick! Pull this truck over! Fast!”

He stepped on the brakes. “What’s wrong? Are you going to be sick?”

“I’m fine, but I’m getting out! I don’t ride in trucks with crazy people!”

I do ride with an earth angel though; he takes me to check ups and blood work and tests and chemo appointments. He took me to my last chemo yesterday. I hope I have many more years to backroads travel with him and all the many earth angels in my life.

My next PET scan is December 3 and I see the doctor for results December 7. I’m praying Morticia has exited my lungs and then I’ll hang up a NO vacancy sign so she doesn’t think of returning. I’m smiling and hopeful. God is not a glorified Santa. But whatever the news, God is good.

This cancer journey took me down a backroad I never expected to travel, but I have seen some beautiful things and met some wonderful people. Thank you for traveling it with me!

by Donna Poole

He was probably a perfectly nice man.

For some reason, my little sister, Mary, and I took an intense dislike to our neighbor. To show our disgust we dug worms we almost gagged to touch and threw them over the fence into his yard. He probably collected them to go fishing.

Mary and I often whispered about our neighbor as we dug worms. I wish I could remember why we didn’t like him, but it was too long ago. Neither of us were school age yet.

 I remember that day. That one day.

“Mary,” I whispered, “he is probably going to hell.”

From some vague Sunday school teaching it occurred to me that if our obnoxious neighbor were going to hell someone should tell him so he wouldn’t go there. It couldn’t be me; I was only as high as his knee, and I was a strange, funny little kid, ready to dream up and execute any adventure regardless of consequences but painfully shy around anyone but family. I couldn’t possibly find courage to talk to aour neighbor.

Worm after disgusting worm, I couldn’t get rid of the thought. That horrible man is going to hell. My own sins of hatred and worm-throwing didn’t bother me in the least, but surely that terrible man had terrible sins that would send him to that terrible place.

“I’m going to tell him he’s going to hell,” I announced to Mary.

“You can’t,” she whispered. I’m imagining now how she looked, brown-black eyes huge in her beautiful little heart-shaped face.

She knew I would. We’d both heard the stories about me. We didn’t remember them happening, but they had to be true, because Mom told them.

According to Mom before I was two, I ate a pound of raw hamburger, an entire African Violet, and got into many other things the minute she turned her back. I locked her in the basement when she went down to hang the laundry and refused to turn the key to let her out. There she stayed the entire day, probably frantic about what I was doing and hoping I wasn’t feeding baby sister Mary raw hamburger and African Violets. When I was about two and a half and Mary fifteen months, I led us both on an adventure. Proudly pushing our doll carriages, we walked down the center line of one of the busiest roads in town.

If I’d done all that, I could do this. Someone had to tell our neighbor he was going to hell. I would. But how?

I had a little chair.

I walked into the house and got my little chair. Legs shaking, I carried it around the fence into our neighbor’s yard, put it down at his feet, and climbed up on it. I still remember his face. It said, isn’t that cute? That little neighbor girl brought her chair all the way over here to talk to me.

He didn’t look terrible; he looked amused and kind, and that almost stopped me, but only for a minute.

I stood on tiptoe, reached up, yanked his cigar out of his mouth, and threw it on the ground. “You are going to hell!” I yelled.

His amused, kind look turned hurt and shocked. And angry.

I jumped off my chair, picked it up, and headed for home as fast as I could go.

I remember feeling triumphant, like I’d done something brave, and good, and important. I felt sure everyone would be proud of me. But I had to keep pushing away how hurt my neighbor had looked.

Telephone calls travel faster than little girls with short chubby legs carrying chairs. Mom all but hauled me in the house. I’d had many spankings before and deserved them. But this one?

Wait! Didn’t she understand I’d done something fearless and noble that deserved praise?

There was a man in the Bible who had a little chair. He was a religious leader. He stood on his chair to pray, careful not to let his fine robe brush any part of the man on the ground next to him.

This high-ranking ruler lifted his arms toward God and shouted, “God, thank You for making me better than others. I thank you that I’m not like this sinner on the ground next to me!”

Getting off his chair, the religious ruler walked away.

The man on the ground didn’t even lift his face toward the sky. “God,” he whispered, “be merciful to me. A sinner.”

Jesus told the story; I added the chair. Jesus said which of the two men found mercy. Can you guess?

I see so many people on their little chairs shouting in each other’s faces, and I don’t think it will end when the polls close on November 3.

We find so many things to judge and criticize each other for, don’t we?

My little chair still follows me everywhere. As determined as I am never to get on it again, I sometimes do, at least in my thoughts. I’m relieved it’s not going to heaven with me!

So, do I believe in heaven and hell? With all my heart. I just don’t think screaming from a chair helps people find the right direction. A road sign shared with love might though. Here’s one.

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” –John 3:16

And my poor neighbor if you’re still alive somewhere and reading this, you doubtless wondered whatever happened to that incredibly rude child who had a little chair. She didn’t become the criminal you may have expected, she became a writer, and she asks you to forgive her. I hope that wasn’t an awfully expensive cigar.

by Donna Poole

“Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.”—Stanley Horowitz

Little did the poet guess when he penned those words for a 1983 edition of the Reader’s Digest how many thousands of photographers, painters, and writers he would inspire. Though many may not recognize his name, searches for Horowitz’s poem skyrocket on the internet each fall. The most current statistics I could find were from the New York Public Library in 2011: “A search of his name and the first line of the poem retrieved around 1,630,000 results.”

I can see why those lines are so loved, can’t you? The metaphor is gripping and beautiful and makes us think of the mosaic of our own lives. The artists among us do that; they grab us by the collar as we rush by, oblivious, and they whisper to us, “See.”

What do you see when you look back over the mosaic of your life? Memories grow hazy along the way and are colored by our personalities too; what we see depends on whether we look back with bitterness or a benediction.

I can’t remember all the names and faces of the people who’ve walked a mile or two with me on my backroads, but I know that they each have left a piece of themselves that is now the pattern of me. Time has smoothed many jagged pieces of glass in my mosaic, so they no longer hurt as they once did. Light shines brighter from behind some pieces reminding me of people and of why I loved them.

I bend down and run my fingers over the bright colors and smile at the memories forever preserved of our four children as babies, toddlers, teens, and young adults. I see their weddings. Among the brightest flashes of color in my mosaic are our thirteen grandchildren who refuse to stop moving, even in this still life art memory.

When I look back at the pieces in my mosaic, I remember smiles that warmed my heart, encouraging words spoken when I was exhausted from the long walk, and laughter that wove its beautiful wave of color around the darker times. I see so many prayers. I recall a line in a book here, a quote from a teacher there, a hug from a friend. Woven among all the years, laughter, and tears, I find God’s Word, because more than anything it has enriched my life.

I look ahead and wonder what colors will still add to my mosaic before the design is complete.

We add something to every life we touch. Is a look of kindness, a word of encouragement, a hug to dispel the fog of indifference too much to give? I want to give more and more as we walk each other Home. The tiny piece I add to the mosaic of someone’s life may glow for them far after I am gone.

It has been a beautiful autumn here in Michigan. I agree that “Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.”—Stanley Horowitz

by Donna Poole

“I’d like to buy a diamond ring, please.”

John was nineteen and looked much younger when he walked into Schooley’s Jewelry Store at 152 East State Street, Ithaca, New York. It was an old, well-established store and had been there since 1937.

The proprietor, Mr. Wrisley, was kind. He didn’t ask if John had any money, but he did ask how much he wanted to spend. Then he showed him several diamonds, from larger to smaller.

John’s eyes brightened when he saw the bigger diamonds. He hadn’t expected he could get anything like that for his money.

“Now I want to show you something,” Mr. Wrisley said. He gave John his eyepiece so John could see that the larger diamonds had many flaws, not visible to the naked eye, but easily seen through the eyepiece. One of the smaller diamonds looked perfect with no flaws.

Mr. Wrisley nodded. “It’s a pure diamond, perfect. It’s up to you. It depends on what you want.”

John never was all about show, but he does love perfect. He loves God’s perfection, and He loves that God makes us perfect in Him when we trust Jesus to save us from our sin. He thought the smaller diamond was a good symbol of what he wanted our marriage to be. He put down some money he’d saved from working his summer at Cornell University and promised to bring home money from his college job at Grand Union each paycheck until the ring was paid for. Mr. Wrisley agreed.

We married the summer we were twenty; it was the spring of our marriage. I wish I could tell you that like the ring it was always pure, perfect, and without flaws, but that would be a lie. We both had a lot of growing up to do. John’s mom wanted to do his laundry, and he insisted on spending every weekend at home so she could do it. I enjoyed visiting his wonderful parents, but every weekend seemed a bit excessive, especially because we were both going to college, working full time, and had little time to spend together during the week.

Like Ruth Graham said when a reporter asked her as she and Billy Graham, the famous evangelist celebrated their fiftieth anniversary, “Did you ever consider divorce?”

Her answer came quickly. “Not once.”

“Oh, come on. You must have thought of it at least once in fifty years.”

“Divorce? No! Murder? Yes!”

There wasn’t much we didn’t argue about, but the disputes were surface, silly, and passed as quickly as a spring shower. Our first year was tumultuous, but we loved each other fiercely, and had wonderful times as breathtaking as the most perfect of spring days.

Spring marriage days slid into summer, the wonderful years of raising our four children, or perhaps of them raising us.

Then came late summer. The kids married; the wonderful grandchildren began arriving, and we have thirteen of them now.

How quickly summer became fall. Everyone here in Michigan and my family in New York says they have never seen the leaves as beautiful as they have been this year, and I feel the same about the fall of our marriage. It has never been as lovely or connected as it is now.

Perhaps we are even in the winter of our marriage. Only God knows that.

John and I have walked down so many backroads together. Some roads have echoed with joy and laughter. Others have listened to our prayers and tears. But through all our journeys, our love has grown deeper, truer, purer, more like the ring John gave me fifty-two years ago.

Why is that?

John gives great advice when he does marriage counseling. He draws a triangle with three dots, one at each corner and one at the top. “The top of the triangle is God,” he tells the couple. “The dots at the sides are each of you. What happens as each of you moves up the sides of the triangle and gets closer to God?”

The answer is simple. The closer two people get to God, the closer they get to each other.

When I sit in on marriage counseling, I tell the couple a favorite quote, “Marriage is when two people become one. The trouble starts when they try to decide which one.”

John doesn’t invite me to sit in on many marriage counseling sessions. I wonder why?

God, John, and I have more backroads to travel, but we know we are getting nearer to the end of our journey. The road we’re on now isn’t easy, but we have seen some beautiful views and have been sheltered from the winds by love of God, family, and friends.

Hopefully, we’ll travel together for many more miles, God, John, and I, getting closer, the three of us, until we reach Home.

The two have become one. Which one? We can’t tell, but whatever we are, we cherish the love we share.

by Donna Poole

You wouldn’t guess it to look at him, but this almost seventy-two-year-old country preacher I’m married to has a restless streak a country-mile wide. At least it used to be a country-mile wide; maybe it’s only a half-mile wide now. It shows up in different ways. He gets a certain glint in his eyes.

Then he says, “I wonder where this road goes? You want to follow it and find out?”

He knows I do. I always do, except for that one time.

We were in Lost Nation, a game preserve area close to our home, when he asked his question.

“No, I don’t want to. That’s not even a road! Please, don’t….”

But it was too late. Hoping, as he always did, that our 1973 Pinto station wagon would magically transform itself into a Jeep or better yet a four-wheel-drive truck, John had already started down the “road” in Lost Nation that looked more like someone’s overgrown driveway. We swerved and bumped down the path that grew more overgrown and less road-like by the minute.

“I think we should turn around or back out of here,” I suggested.

“There isn’t anywhere to turn around, and I don’t want to back out of here. Besides, we don’t know where this goes yet.”

We never did find out. Finally, we could go no farther, and John had to begin backing out, considerably harder than driving in.

We were close to where we’d started when the Pinto sunk in a patch of mud.

“Help me push the car out.”

We pushed; we struggled. John remained optimistic. I’m the family Pollyanna, but those tires were half-buried in mud. Getting stuck in the mud in an isolated game preserve in the days before cell phones wasn’t fun.

John found an old fence post. “I’ll try to lift the car up with this while you push.”

I don’t remember now if either of us prayed. Let’s imagine we did. Whether we did or not, God was merciful. He let us wait long enough to realize we were in trouble. John hiked back to the road and flagged down a truck,

The truck driver hooked on a chain and pulled us out of the mud. He refused pay, smiled at John, and politely said, “Probably not the best place to try to drive a Pinto.”

I don’t remember what I said to John. Let’s imagine I was a good wife and didn’t say anything.

John’s restless streak used to show up in other ways too. He often got requests from churches looking for pastors. Would he come preach for them? He went every time and after a favorable vote asking him to come as pastor went through agony trying to decide if he should leave our church.

Finally, our church board asked to meet with John. Bud, our oldest deacon, spoke for the board. “Pastor, you’re driving us crazy! We never know if you’re going to leave or stay! Please make up your mind one way or the other.”

That time of many churches asking John to come preach and slowed and stopped. Many years passed. We didn’t get another request from a church looking for a pastor until John was seventy. It came from an adorable church with a small congregation near the shores of Lake Michigan. If you don’t live in Michigan, you may not know that many Michiganders drool at the thought of living near the lake. Including me.

John wasn’t tempted. He wrote the church a sweet note declining the request for him to come preach with the possibility of being considered as their pastor, smiled at me, and tossed the letter in the garbage. He didn’t tell anyone at our church. I confess, I got on the internet and researched the beautiful area; I’ve always hoped to someday live closer to the lake. But the beautiful road that beckoned me to the lake couldn’t compete with the heart of the people we love right here. Most important, John knew God wasn’t calling him to go down that road. I’m glad I don’t have to figure that out for him, and he doesn’t have to for me. We each must listen to that still small voice in our hearts and choose what road to take.

Still, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t God calling John to drive down that forsaken path in Lost Nation. That is one back road adventure he never tried again.

We drove back to the scene of the crime today so our daughter, Kimmee, could take pictures for my blog article.

“Dad, you drove down that? But it isn’t even a road!”

Exactly, Kimmee.

“Well, it was wider back then,” John said, sounding defensive.

Not by much it wasn’t.

“Take a picture of that sign, honey,” I said. “The one that says no vehicles.”

The sign makes me guess there must still be people with a restless streak a mile-wide looking for adventure. Too bad the sign hadn’t been there all those years ago. But then I wouldn’t be taking this backroad adventure with you.

by Donna Poole

Summer doesn’t stomp off in a fury announcing her departure like some drama queen leaving a party, high heels clicking on a hardwood floor.  Summer is a lady. In her whisper-soft ballet shoes, she glides off when no one is looking.

“Where’s Summer?” someone asks.

“I don’t know. She was here just a minute ago. Did anyone see her leave?”

“I wish I’d paid more attention to her. She was a delightful addition to the party, wasn’t she? Will someone close that window? It’s getting cold in here!”

The calendar and Kimmee, our daughter, tell us it’s the last day of summer.

We occasionally spot a rare butterfly or a hummingbird reluctant to fly south, but these sightings happen infrequently now.  No joyous bird songs greet us when we step outside. It’s so quiet I can hear the dry leaves falling from the leaves and hitting the grass. The slant of the sun is different inside the house now too. I like that; it’s lighter inside than it was.

On one of our backroad ramblings the other day we passed a field and saw the last cutting of hay. Nothing says the end of summer more clearly than that. And nothing makes me feel more nostalgic, except, perhaps, the geese practicing for their flight south, getting the V formation right, but flying in the wrong direction. When it’s time to go, they’ll know when and where. God will tell them, and they will listen.

Before they were old enough to have “real” jobs, our boys, Johnnie and Danny, hired out to farmers who needed help baling hay. They were hard workers, so they never had trouble getting jobs. When they were very young, they’d stand on the moving tractor, pull bales and stack them, or load them onto the elevator, or stand in the barn stacking the hay as it came tumbling off the elevator. When they got a little older, they learned to drive tractor and rake the hay. Haying was hot, hard, exhausting work. The boys came home covered with sweat and hay and with funny stories of equipment cobbled together that a farmer somehow stubbornly kept running, of how they had almost fallen off a wagon when a tractor had jerked, or of the amazing food they had eaten.

“Mom, we’d work for Reeds for free just to eat Mrs. Reed’s food!”

While some of their friends loved lazy, hazy summer days with nothing to do, our boys enjoyed, to quote one of their favorite radio programs, “the satisfaction of a job well done.”

The boys were about twelve when they started hiring out to hay. They were skinny kids, all legs brown and sunburned, and I desperately loved them and their determination to work like men. That’s what their dad and I heard most about them, “Your boys work like men.”

What do they think of those haying days now? Do they regret the loss of summer freedom? John Jr. says, “That tough work made me the kind of man I am today. After baling, most the jobs I’ve had felt easy.”

Danny says, “I baled hay because I love the hard work. You instilled a good work ethic in all of us kids. All these years later I still bale hay and love it (although most of the time it’s round bales). If you work hard you have a better appreciation for what you earned.”

And now when I see the last cutting of hay, I think of how fast all those growing-up summers passed by for our boys and our girls and now are for our grandchildren. Just like summer leaves us quietly, so does childhood.

Soon the “Bye Dad! Bye Mom!” isn’t because the kids are going off to hay on a hot, summer afternoon. It’s because they’ve come for an hour, or an evening, and it’s time for them to go home with their own families, with their own children whose summer of childhood will soon be gone.

It’s so quiet then we hear the dry leaves falling from trees and whispering across grass. We notice that the slant of the sunlight is different for us now than when we were younger. We hear the lonesome sound of geese honking and look up to see them in perfect V formation but flying in the wrong direction.

We laugh then, my John and I, as we wrap our arms around each other, wave goodbye to kids and grandkids, and watch the geese. They’ll get it right when the time comes. When it’s time to go, they’ll know when and where. God will tell them, and they will listen. Our kids did, and our grandkids will too. Our prayers will help them find the way.

The last cutting of hay may be nostalgic, but it brings promise too. As long as the earth endures, there will always be another first cutting of hay; there will always be another spring. Our grandchildren will grow up to be hard workers who love God, and our children’s children will too. They won’t be alone. The world will always have some good people who work hard, love God, and love each other. I hear the promise in the sound of the wild geese who are in perfect V formation and look! Now they’re flying in the right direction.

by Donna Poole

John was wrapping a used brown paper grocery bag around his old, dented, black lunch pail. It took a lot of tape.

“She’ll think it’s funny,” he said, convinced his daughter must have inherited at least some of his irrepressible sense of humor.

“I’m not so sure.”

Tomorrow Angie would be six years old. All she wanted for her birthday was a lunchbox she’d showed us several times. She couldn’t wait to carry it to the first day of first grade and show all the friends she’d made in kindergarten, even Wendy, her least favorite friend. When I’d asked her why she didn’t like Wendy as much as the others she’d said, “Because, Mommy, she tells the other kids what to do, and I want to tell the other kids what to do.”

Wendy might not be her favorite person, but Wendy and all the other kids would love the cute lunchbox.

I kept working on the butterfly birthday cake. Our little girl adored butterflies. I thought about her other gifts. Her Daddy got her a used bike from Fees, church friends, and hid it from her. When she was napping or sleeping that summer, he sanded it, painted it, and shined it until it looked new. Grandma and Grandpa Poole sent money for a new bike seat and streamers. We bought her training wheels. Her other gifts were a package of chenille pipe cleaners from us, crayons and a coloring book from three-year-old brother Johnnie, and magic markers and a notebook from one-year-old brother, Danny. Grandpa Piarulli sent money for material for me to make her a new dress.

Angie sat on the floor when it was time to open gifts. She opened everything but saw no lunchbox. Then her Daddy handed her the bulky, ugly wrapped package. She, opened it, and looked up at him, confused.

“It’s your new lunchbox! For first grade!”

Her bottom lip trembled. Tears spilled out of her huge brown eyes.

He hugged her. “Don’t cry! Open the lunch pail.”

Inside was a note she could read with little help: “Look on top of the refrigerator.”

John held her up so she could see the exact lunchbox she’d wanted. Tears turned to squeals of joy as she pulled it down and held it close, but Daddy’s eyes and face filled with regret as his look met mine. He feels bad about those tears to this day.

“Let’s go outside,” he said.

When Angie saw her new wheels parked next to Daddy’s car, she forgave him, but she too still remembers the not-so-funny ugly lunch pail.

Angie’s birthday was on Monday that year, Daddy’s day off, so he had time to help her learn to ride her new bike. Our good friends and neighbors, Hales, came for ice cream and butterfly cake and brought Angie a new dress. She went to bed a happy girl, thinking of her blessings, not the gift her Daddy had thought would make her laugh but instead had made her cry.

My heavenly Father has handed me a few packages wrapped in ugly paper with even uglier looking dented lunch pails inside. I know he doesn’t do it expecting me to share a sense of humor I can’t understand, but do I cry? Sometimes.

“God is too good to be unkind and He is too wise to be mistaken. And when we cannot trace His hand, we must trust His heart.” –Charles Spurgeon

I need to remember to keep looking inside the lunch pails for the notes. I don’t expect God to lift me up and show me everything I asked for waiting for me on top of the refrigerator, but I do expect the notes to teach me to trust His heart. So far, I’ve found some breathtakingly beautiful notes in my dented pails, and I hope you have too.