Back Road Ramblings

by Donna Poole

They were yellow half-sheets of paper, and our kids got them frequently. We thought all kids did until we recently heard about a man who got one detention the entire time he attended the school.

What? Did he only go to school there for one day?

That’s about how long it took our kids to get detentions, one day.

We carpooled with another family who had a boy and three girls. One day their son got into the car with tears streaming down his little face. I thought something terrible must have happened to him at school.

“What’s wrong, James?”

He didn’t say a word, but he reached into the small pocket of his little shirt and pulled out a paper folded perfectly to the size of a postage stamp. Solemnly he unfolded it, inch by inch to its full yellow length and held it out to me.

“Oh, James, you don’t have to worry about that. It’s just a detention! Our kids get them all the time.”

That’s when one of his sisters spoke up. “You don’t know our dad!”

Then I was the one who fell silent, until we let the other family’s kids out of the car. Then my husband John and I had a long discussion about what kind of dad the poor kid must have! We met him later, and a kinder man you could never hope to know. He became one of our best friends. We still laugh about, “You don’t know our dad!”

Our kids seldom got into trouble at home for detentions they got at school; we figured having to stay was punishment enough along with incurring the wrath of siblings who didn’t have a detention but had to also wait at school for a ride home.

If you could have seen our children with their sweet angelic faces you may have wondered how they could get detentions, but I assure you, they managed. I remember detentions that made us laugh. When Angie was in kindergarten, a little boy named Chip threw a spit wad at her whenever the teacher wasn’t looking. Angie thought this was disgusting, and it made her furious. She devised a reasonable revenge. She waited until she had a whole handful of spit wads, stood up, and threw them all back at Chip, when the teacher was looking. Detention.

When Danny was a little boy, he came home with his infraction written under “other” on his detention slip. It said, “Standing on his chair.” I asked why he stood on his chair during class.

“Mommy, that school has 101 rules, and standing on your chair isn’t one of them! I stood on my chair because I couldn’t see.”

Made sense to me!

One year, perhaps second grade, Danny did accumulate an unusual number of detentions even for a Poole kid. He was supposed to go to a friend’s house on Friday, and we told him he could only go if he didn’t get detention that week. When his teacher laid a yellow slip on his desk, Danny, usually the happiest kid in the class, got tears in his eyes. When his teacher found out that detention was going to keep him from spending time with his friend, she was more upset than he was.

After a few minutes she came back, picked up the yellow paper, ripped it up, and threw it in the garbage, and said, “Let’s just pretend this never happened, shall we?”

The detention I remember best about Johnnie happened when he was in high school. The school required the older boys to wear suit coats. He went into the men’s room and returned to the learning center with his coat on backward and fully buttoned down the back. Of course, the other kids laughed. The note on his detention read, “Funny but also very distracting.”

I don’t remember their more mundane detentions; perhaps they do. And perhaps I better hope they don’t read this! I do recall one detention the three of them got together. I thought it was unfair but also a good life lesson. To understand, I suppose you’d have to live in Michigan. There’s a huge football rivalry here, not only between the University of Michigan and Ohio State, but also between the University of Michigan and Michigan State. The school’s band leader, who shall not be named because he’s a friend, was not having a good day. He was a graduate of Michigan State and a hater of U of M football. He’d told the band to never play U of M’s fight song. During band practice he was called out of the room and someone suggested playing the forbidden fight song when he returned.

The kids didn’t pick a good day. The band leader’s face got as red as Santa’s suit, and he demanded the culprits who’d played the fight song fess up. Not everyone confessed, but our kids were in the group who admitted the infraction, and they got detention. And they thought it was unfair.

Did the band director overreact? Perhaps. But I told our kids there would be times in life when someone in authority might give them an order they didn’t agree with, and their opinion wouldn’t matter. Actions have consequences.

Our fourth child, Kimmee didn’t get detentions, but she did have to stand in the middle of the floor. She arrived when we were older. We homeschooled her, not because we didn’t like the school, but because she could read her brother’s college textbook when she was four years old. We feared she’d be bored in kindergarten. Our plan was to homeschool her a few years, but the few years lasted until she graduated.

Kimmee was familiar with detentions, so when she started homeschooling, she was puzzled. What would happen if she misbehaved? Would she have to stay after home?

No one likes detentions!

We associate the word detention with punishment or with being a prisoner, but the word means only “the action of detaining someone.” Sometimes, whether we know it or not, we’re detained for our own good. A delay that frustrates us may keep us from being involved in a fatal accident. A prayer that seems unanswered might still be; God could be saying, “Wait awhile, my child.”

We may long for freedom from an illness or a difficult circumstance, but change doesn’t come. We feel trapped, detained. We pray; the heavens seem silent, but they never are. Perhaps God is saying, “I will fix this, my child, but not here. Eternity will show you that your tears made your rainbows.”

After a detention made an already long school day longer, our kids seemed extra happy to climb into the car and head home. When my school days feel endless, I sometimes think of a few lines of an old hymn I love, “Some Golden Daybreak.”

“Some glorious morning sorrow will cease, /Some glorious morning all will be peace. /Heartaches all ended, school days all done, /Heaven will open—Jesus will come.” –Carl Blackmore 1934

These school days with their occasional detentions won’t last forever, my friend! But until we’re done with them, let’s keep trusting God and walking each other Home!  

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

Packing Old Bertha, our aged fifth wheel, went amazingly fast.

“Do you think we could maybe leave late Sunday afternoon instead of Monday morning?” I asked.

“Maybe,” John said.

“One more evening for a campfire!” I held the imaginary S’more dangling in front of his imagination.

“You don’t have your treatment side effects yet?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Maybe I won’t get them this time.”

Yeah and maybe it won’t be cold in Michigan this winter.

Even though Morticia, my lung tumor, is behaving like a good girl, taking a nap, and not saying a word, I continue the same treatment regimen I had when she was baring her nasty teeth and showing lots of cancer activity. I had the treatment on Thursday. The side effects are unpredictable except for one thing: they always come. They often start on Sunday.

“Maybe we can leave Sunday, babe,” John said. We’ll see how it goes.”

Late Sunday afternoon found us and Old Bertha bouncing down our gravel road headed for the highway. Lake Michigan, here we come!

I admit; we felt a bit apprehensive. We don’t have the best vacation history. Oh, it’s an interesting history, if you want to hear all the reasons vacations have been interrupted, shortened, or aborted.

But I had a good feeling about this vacation. “I don’t have one of my gut feelings,” I told John.

“Good!”

My gut feelings are nothing to mess with. On our previous vacation a month earlier we were debating the pros and cons of going to one of our favorite campgrounds in Brown County, Indiana, where we already had reservations. It’s quite a distance from us and two things made the decision easier: Gas prices took a sudden jump, and I had one of my gut feelings someone was going to need us. Someone did. We ended up camping just twenty minutes down the road and making a hospital call almost every day.

We were almost to Lake Michigan before the side effects hit, so the trip was nice. But we were both happy to see the sign to the campground. It was bedtime by the time we filled the water tank, backed in, leveled, and got set up. We decided there would be plenty of other nights for campfires; we had a lovely, uninterrupted week and a day stretching in front of us. We voted for an early bedtime.

Monday there was no denying that the side effects had come full force, but the day was beautiful. Sometimes rainy camping days have outweighed sunny ones. John and I both remembered one unforgettable week when it was raining when we arrived at the campground; raining every minute we were there, and still raining when we left a week later, and no, I’m not exaggerating. But the weather reports looked great this time. Nothing but blue skies.

We were delighted with our campsite too. Right from there we could see the boats going down the channel into Lake Michigan. We took a short walk down to the channel and came back to set up our chairs and pick up our books. Here until next Tuesday. Ahh. Talk about a kids out of school feeling. We had big plans! Read. Drive up the shoreline. Walk to the channel several times a day and watch the boats. Sit on the beach and say goodnight to the sun every night as it dipped in glorious colors into the lake. Have campfires. Eat S’mores. Play Rumi cube.

“This is the best campsite we’ve ever had. The weather is beautiful. It’s going to be a perfect week. I have one of my gut feelings.”

John grinned. He’s almost always happy, but this was the carefree kid smile he doesn’t often wear. My smile matched his. It was fun to see him looking years younger. He needed a week free from ministry responsibilities, always a challenge for any pastor, but especially for one his age and with his health problems.

Exactly then his cell phone buzzed. Someone had died; would he be willing to preach the funeral? It would be Friday.

Of course he would.

Did I want John to say yes? Of course I did. I loved the people who needed someone to preach a funeral; we’d known them for at least forty years. And I loved John for being the kind of man he was, always ready to be there for others.

But why did it have to happen now? Impatient with myself, I swatted away those mosquito buzzing thoughts. I recognized them for what they were.

“Do you have your computer, honey?” Rhetorical question. Of course he had his computer. And unlike the old days when he carried a box full of study books “just in case” he now had the internet handy for research.

The next three days weren’t totally preparation, study, and funeral sermon writing for John, but they were mostly so. And me? I tried to stay awake and read my books, but the treatment side effects worsened by the day. I slept a lot. We managed a few walks to the channel, but that was about it. We didn’t even have evening campfires.

Thursday came, the day to go home for the funeral. We were barely out of the campground when John steered the truck over to the side of the road and glided to a stop.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

He sighed. “No brakes.”

Why just why? Another mosquito buzzed.

One tow truck expense, one mechanical repair expense, and six hours later, we set out again. We got home very late, did some laundry, and fell into bed exhausted.

No good deed goes unpunished. Quit being so cynical. What happened, Donna? You fall out of your Pollyanna tree? I swatted away another mosquito thought.

The treatment side effects woke me up early Friday, but I was determined to go to the funeral. I thought John did a good job. He was loving, compassionate, humorous at times. Most importantly, he reminded people everyone spends eternity somewhere, and God sent his Son, Jesus, to die on the cross to remove the sin that keeps us out of heaven. When we repent of sin and put our faith in Jesus, the end of this life is only the beginning of a life more wonderful than we can imagine.

My head and heart thought it was a fantastic sermon, but my stomach didn’t agree, and it had the last word. I followed its orders and beat a hasty exit to the bathroom during John’s closing prayer.

We got back to the campground by dark too tired to even think of a campfire.

And then came Saturday. My side effects finally settled down to manageable. John’s kid smile returned. We had three fantastic days left and we packed into them everything we hadn’t been able to do the other days, except for eating S’mores. We discovered our marshmallows had expired in March, and our chocolate candy bars were missing. It’s hard to have S’mores with just graham crackers.

Who needs S’mores to be happy? We sat by a crackling campfire. We walked many times to the harbor and watched the ships. We sat on the beach and marveled at the sight of the sun dipping into Lake Michigan. We found a great church to attend on Sunday. We played Rumi cube, and my humility prevents me from telling you how many times I beat John. We held hands, talked, and laughed.

On our last night we did something we’ve never done; we walked to the channel after dark. And we found magic. An almost full moon hung over the harbor and reflected in the water. The lighthouses at both ends flashed their beacons, and the homes lit up along the way whispered a message. They told me to be grateful for our three Mary Poppins Days. They were practically perfect in every way.

We turned slowly away from the magic of the harbor and headed back to Old Bertha, one last sleep, and then home. And my heart whispered another message. It told me to ignore the mosquito thoughts, to be thankful for every minute God gives me on this earth, and to be especially grateful for the man who was walking by my side and holding my hand.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

Squeak…bang! The sound didn’t bother me at all. It barely registered. I was half awake and daydreaming in my reclining camping chair. My book lay upside down on my stomach and my eyes were half closed. I was reading the leaf patterns, ever changing in the lazy breeze, and the cloud formations drifting by in the bluest of skies. They had a lot to say that late summer day. And I was listening to one of my favorite bands. Perhaps you’ve heard of them; they go by the name “Late Summer Sounds.” That day they were playing their theme song, the one they’re famous for, with the rising crescendo of cicadas, the chirping of crickets, and the muted songs of the few birds not yet flown south.

Squeak…bang! I heard it again. Another camper was disposing of garbage in the bin not far from our campsite.

The sun was warm on my face; I knew I should move into the shade, and I would. In a few more minutes. Just not yet. The breeze felt cool from the north where the corn grew tall, and its sweet scent perfumed my perfect day. I stretched and yawned; I could stay here forever, curled up in the sun like a lazy house cat. I could grow whiskers. I could be a perfectly contented hermit, me, my books, and this chair, eternally happy with my solitude and time to think.

Except I couldn’t. Sooner or later, it would rain or snow. I’d run out of clean clothes to wear and food to eat. I’d have a doctor’s appointment to keep. I suppose eventually friends or family would miss me, come looking, end my sunny solitude, and drag me kicking and screaming back to the real world.

Oh, my fur and whiskers, as one of our cats is fond of saying, here comes a person looking for me already. And he has questions.

“Whatcha reading, honey?”

“Leaves and Sky.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard you talk about that book before. Is it any good?”

“The best.”

“Oh.” Short silence. “Want to come in the camper and get some lunch?”

“Not really. I was just thinking, Life is too crazy busy at home. Someone always needs me for something. I want to stay in this chair forever and become a hermit or maybe a cat. Either way I could grow whiskers.”

“What? Are you worrying about those two hairs that grow on your chin again? They’re so light I can hardly see them.”

“But suppose I stayed here forever and never changed my clothes or did laundry and grew a whole chin full of whiskers. Would you still love me if I became a hermit?”

“I’d have to love you from a distance. A hermit is a person who lives in solitude.”

“I’d miss you. What if we both became two hermits and lived here together forever?

“Then we’d miss all our kids, our grandkids, and our friends. And there are people at home in our real life who need us. Besides, if we both stay here together, that would make two of us, so we wouldn’t be hermits.”

“Well, there goes another dream. I guess I couldn’t grow enough whiskers to look like much of a hermit anyway.”

“If you’re not going to be a hermit, do you want to come in the camper and get some lunch?”

“How about if you fix lunch? I’ll take out the trash.”

“Okay. Be careful you don’t fall.”

I gathered the trash out of the camper and the truck, and then my cane and I walked the short distance to the trash bin. Squeak…the lid opened, and I tossed in the trash. Bang! The lid came down with a satisfying crash.

The wind picked up from the north, and I rubbed my arms and shivered. Thanksgiving and Christmas were just around a few corners, family occasions if ever there were such things. I pictured our big family gathered around tables in our home, and I smiled. Then my cane and I headed back to the camper where a sweet older man was making lunch and waiting for me.

The end of a partly fiction tale.

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

by Donna Poole

Why didn’t I bring a sweater? This place is freezing. And too crowded. I hate sitting in the second row, but we didn’t have a choice.

Mia looked around at the unfamiliar faces and swallowed past the lump in her throat. The only person she knew was her husband, Daryl. Her daughters were worshipping with the teens.

Get a grip. You should be used to first visits in new churches by now. This constant moving doesn’t seem to bother Daryl or the kids; why can’t you cope better?

How many times had they moved in their twenty-year marriage? This had to be at least the tenth move, and she was tired of it. She shivered, and Daryl slipped an arm around her shoulders and smiled at her. She didn’t smile back. True, she’d known when she’d married him that his job as a construction manager would require frequent moving, but back then, to a girl who’d spent all her life living on a narrow dirt road, a life of travel sounded like an adventure movie. Now, after living like a nomad for two decades, it seemed more like a horror film.

Mia couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a good friend. Had it been those nine months they’d spent in Fresno, California, or the eighteen months they’d been Brookhaven, N.Y? Now they were in Henderson, Nevada.

All she knew for sure was that she’d stopped getting involved with people a long time ago… seven years to be exact. It just wasn’t worth it. Why bother? The goodbyes would come all too soon. Daryl missed having guests over; she didn’t, and she flatly refused to invite anyone.

“Loosen up, church!” the worship team leader shouted. “Get ready! It’s time to praise the Lord!”

With drums, green flashing lights, and lots of enthusiasm the Sunday morning service started, but Mia sat quietly. She didn’t feel like praising the Lord. The loud music was giving her a pounding headache. She was suddenly very, very homesick.

In her thoughts she left this city church and slipped 30 years back in time and 1,950 miles northeast to the church of her childhood. She traveled down a country road where the August corn grew so tall you were almost to the church before you could see it. Instead of the hundreds of people here in Henderson, there were perhaps 40 people in that little country church. Just a handful of country people, but the power and love that came from their prayers and actions had changed many lives, including her own.

Thirty years ago, Mia had been ten. On a late August day like today, the church windows would have been open. Instead of drums she’d have been hearing the hum of cicadas. Instead of seeing flashing green lights she would have been seeing fields of corn growing tall. And there would have been no worship team, just fat green hymnals with songs inside like “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” “Amazing Grace,” “It is Well with My Soul,” “Grace Greater Than Our Sin.” And “Yesterday, Today, Forever.” The congregation would have been singing together. Little girl Mia had always imagined angels sitting cross-legged on the roof, listening to the music, and smiling.

Sometimes a man everyone called Grandpa Smith would strum his old guitar and sing a special.

Mia sighed. Friends made in that church had sometimes lasted a lifetime. If only she could find a church like that. She almost laughed. She wasn’t likely to find a white frame church on the corner of two dirt roads in this city of 317,610 people.

Everything now was so different from her childhood, but that’s what she’d wanted, wasn’t it?

As the praise music continued to get louder around her, Mia was still ten years old, and back in the farmhouse with Mom and Dad. Mom was braiding her hair, getting her ready for Sunday school.

“I hope I’m not the only kid in my Sunday school class again, Mom. When I grow up, I’m going to live in a big city and go to a big church with lots and lots of people! What do you think of that?”

Her mom chuckled. “I think that’s just fine, Mia. Things change. You just remember to keep loving Jesus, and you remember he never changes. He’ll always be there for you.”

“I can’t wait for everything to change!” Mia said. But then, with only one braid finished, Mia jumped up from the stool and threw her arms around her mother. “But don’t you ever change, Mom, promise! You’ll always be here for me, right?”

“Sit down, honey, and let me finish braiding your hair. I’ll be here for you as long as I can, and your dad will be too.”

Mom and Dad, and most of the people she’d known in that little country church were in heaven now. Mia wiped away a tear with the back of her hand.

Daryl whispered, “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “I’m just so tired of everything changing.”

“I’m sorry.” He offered his hand. She didn’t take it.

The church auditorium suddenly quieted. “We’re starting something new today,” the worship team leader said. “We’re going to learn an old hymn every week, the kind our grandparents used to sing. There’s good doctrine in those hymns.”

A few loud “amens” came from people with silver hair sprinkled here and there in the roomful of mostly younger people.

“I hear you, old church!” the worship leader hollered, and people laughed, even the ones with silver hair. “Now I want to introduce my grandpa. He’s going to teach the hymn a week. I guess you don’t want the drums for back up, huh Grandpa Peters?”

A man with silver hair smiled up at the younger man. “No thanks. Me and my guitar will do just fine. I’d like to have the piano play the second time through though.” He nodded at the girl at the keyboard.

Mia’s mouth dropped open. It had been a long time since she’d heard someone pronounce “guitar” and “piano” that way, gee-tar and pie-ano. She hadn’t heard it since she’d left the dirt roads behind. That’s how some of the old people had said those words. Where was this man from? Grandpa Peters opened a fat, green hymnal, propped it on a music rack in front of him and started singing.

How can one person sound so much like another one? If I close my eyes, that’s Grandpa Smith sitting up there! And those words, Oh, dear Lord, it’s just what I needed!

“Yesterday, today, forever, Jesus is the same,
All may change, but Jesus never—glory to His name!
Glory to His name! Glory to His name!
All may change, but Jesus never—glory to His name!”

It was quiet for a moment when he finished singing, and then the congregation gave him a standing ovation. He chuckled, motioned for them to sit, and the worship leader helped him to his own seat in the row ahead of Mia and Daryl.

When the service ended, Grandpa Peters stopped them before they could leave. “Welcome! What did you think of the preaching?”

Daryl hesitated, glanced at Mia, and said, “The sermon was pretty good, I guess.”

“We aren’t big fans of praise and worship music,” Mia confessed.

“Me either!” Grandpa Peters grinned. “I turn off my hearing aids. Hate the stuff.”

“Why do you come to church here then?” Mia asked.

Grandpa Peters laughed. “Don’t have much choice. I live with my son, and this is where he goes to church. And the sermons here are pretty good, I guess.” He grinned at Daryl. “Besides, I only live here three months a year. I have four sons, so I live three months a year with each one.”

“Don’t you get tired of the changes?” Mia asked.

“Sometimes. But I don’t have to do it forever.”

“That’s good. You’re getting a place of your own then?”

“Yep. A mansion in glory. Just as soon as I die.” And then he laughed. “We’ll be up there a lot longer than we’ll be here, you know.”

Mia’s daughters interrupted the conversation. “Mom and Dad, the youth group is going out for pizza. Okay if we go?”

When the girls left Daryl said, “Guess that’s just the two of us to eat your chicken and biscuits.”

“Homemade biscuits?” Grandpa Peters asked. “Haven’t had them since I left my country church in Michigan.”

“I knew it!” Mia said.

“Knew what?” Grandpa Peters looked puzzled.

“I could explain over dinner. Want to come?”

“I’d have to get permission.” He chuckled again.

The pastor was walking by, and Grandpa Peters said, “Hey, Junior, pretty good sermon, I guess. And these nice folks invited me for dinner. What do you say?”

“Only ‘pretty good,’ huh? Usually you say it’s excellent.”

“Pretty good seems to be the consensus today.”

Grandpa Peters grinned at his son. His son looked puzzled. Red began to creep up Daryl’s neck into his face.  

The pastor turned to Mia and Daryl. “I’m glad you came today, and thanks for inviting Dad for dinner. I hope you come back.”

“We will, Pastor Peters,” Mia said.

“Call me Joe,” the pastor said. “Everyone does.” And then he disappeared into the crowd.

“You didn’t say your son was the pastor,” Mia said.

“Yep, and he’s named after me. All four of my sons are preachers. Guess they followed in my footsteps. Except I never had a large church. All mine were country churches in Michigan. And I preached in a suit, not jeans; we sang out of a fat, green hymnal, and people called me Pastor Peters, not Joe.”

“Times change, don’t they?” Daryl asked.

“Sure do,” Grandpa Peters said. “But Jesus doesn’t.”

Daryl smiled at Mia, and she smiled back. Then they each took one of Grandpa Peter’s arms and headed out of church with the first dinner guest they’d had in seven years.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

by Donna Poole

Honestly, it was the best funeral I’ve ever attended. We had it at a private location, one that holds sweet memories for our family. I might as well tell you there were no tears except mine. My eyes did get wet a time or too, but that was because I was so happy. We had so much fun! If we sound like a heartless bunch read on, because you’re only going to think worse of us before you think better.

Let’s start with the food. It was fantastic! Unlike most wakes, no one was too sad to eat. We didn’t even share memories of the not-so-dearly departed. Her name never came up once, unless you count the time I leaned over to my granddaughter and sang quietly, “Ding-dong the witch is dead, the wicked witch, the witch oh witch.”

We enjoyed chicken and beef tacos with all the trimmings you can imagine, and macaroni and cheese, followed by a heavenly array of desserts. Some family members worked incredibly hard. I didn’t do a thing but show up, stuff myself, and admire. Not only was everything delicious; it was beautifully presented. Speaking of beautiful presentations, there was no lack of gorgeous fresh flowers, candles, and other decorations in memory of the not-so-dearly departed.

Please, don’t be shocked; I’m just keeping it real here, but no one even pretended to feel sad. If you’d known her like we’d known her, you’d understand why we celebrated instead of cried. You’ve heard people say, “She’s a piece of work.” Our “she” wasn’t just a piece of work she was a whole disgusting cesspool! I’m all for forgiveness, but if you only knew everything she did to our family, you’d probably ask to dance on her grave with us!  

If we could have obtained her remains, we would have gladly burned them at a campfire. We’ve had many fun campfires before at that location, but we didn’t burn her remains for three reasons. We couldn’t get to said remains. It was too hot and muggy for a fire. Also, it may have been illegal.

But we didn’t need a campfire to have fun. We had great music. The adults lingered at the table, admired the new baby present, told stories, talked, laughed, and watched the younger kids enjoying the trampoline outside. Eight of them jumped at the same time and played fetch with one of the dads. They threw their glow sticks over the high sides of the trampoline, and he threw them back to them. All too soon it was time to leave, and I hated to go. Did this lovely time have to end?

Wait. Hard stop. Rewind. Backstory. A week or so ago I was texting Megan, my oldest granddaughter, about my lung tumor, Morticia, and my wonderful diagnosis of “no active cancer activity seen,” Megan texted me back this: “You know how Hispanic culture has a Day of the Dead celebration? I think we should make tacos or fiesta or something and have a Day of the Dead celebration for Morticia! A funeral is too somber and respectful for her.”

I laughed and texted back, “I love that idea! Let’s do it!”

It was a joke. We both forgot about it, or so I thought. Megan thought otherwise, and planning began. And so did crafty deceit. If you could see her sweet, innocent face, and beautiful blue eyes, you wouldn’t think she had it in her.

From her P.A. busy pediatrics rotation in Indiana, Megan began planning and texting family in Michigan. Somehow, right under my proverbial nose, Kimmee made all the delicious desserts. The only thing I caught her making was cookies and that didn’t make me suspicious. She said she was making them for a date she was having with Drew. Technically true—a funeral date. She gathered arm loads of flowers from her flower garden right outside my bedroom window. I was writing inside with a clear view of the flower garden, but when I’m writing, I’m oblivious to all else. I did notice she and Drew went shopping a bit more than usual, but we don’t keep track of them; it’s not like they have a curfew!  

The mastermind, Megan, came home for the weekend and began cooking and decorating with her mom, our daughter-in-law Mindy. Mindy has the gift of hospitality; it seems nothing is too much for her. Our other daughter-in-law, Katie, made macaroni and cheese, and got eight kids ready to come.

My husband John’s job was to get me to the funeral on time. On Monday he said, “I want to take you on a date somewhere on Friday. It’s a surprise, so don’t ask me any questions.”

If you know me at all you know telling me not to ask any questions is like telling a two-year-old to sit still. It’s not happening. I was instantly curious. Two plus two equals four, so where was this five coming from? We’ve been married fifty-five years; John adores me, but he’s never asked me on a date to a surprise location. Our “dates” consist of something at the drive through on the way home from long days at medical appointments. I got even more curious when he said I should be ready promptly at 6:00 p.m., because we’d be leaving then, not a minute earlier or later.

Say what? We’ve never, I mean not once, gone to a fancy restaurant; did he have reservations somewhere? I asked. I had to know how to dress. Yes, he had reservations. Jeans and a T-shirt would be fine.

I started to think my honey had Alzheimer’s. I tried to explain when you go places that require reservations you usually dress a little less casually. He got a bit frustrated with me.

Friday arrived. And John didn’t feel well. I suggested postponing our date; why not wait until he felt better? He said we were going. I said why not make the date more casual then, a lunchtime picnic to the lake. He said something like this date had been planned for a week and just “ride along with me.” That’s my least favorite phrase, and he knows it, and he only uses it when he’s really frustrated. We headed out, got to our son and daughter-in-law’s driveway we pass on the way to town, and John slammed on his brakes.

“I have to ask Mindy something.”

“Honey, text or call her. They have company. I saw a car pull in ahead of us.”

He refused, and up their long driveway we went, me giving him the side eye. Alzheimer’s it was. Nothing else could explain this sudden, erratic, strange change of behavior.  

We pulled up close to the porch. I looked at the car parked next to us. “Honey, why do you think Kimmee and Drew are here?”

“Just come in the house with me.”

We opened the door. I saw huge smiles. I heard shouts of “Surprise!” I saw faces of big and little grandchildren and their parents. Then I saw Megan who was in Indiana. I’d been missing her so much. How could she be here in Michigan? For a moment, I felt like I was in shock.

What in the world? I think I’m the one who has Alzheimer’s!

I knew it was a surprise for me, but what for? I finally figured it out. We were celebrating the demise of Morticia! All my family able to attend was there. One family couldn’t come because of sickness.

Now you understand why no one was sad at the exit of our not-so-dearly departed. What a family I have! What a memory they made! I did a poor job of getting the gratitude filling my heart to come out of my mouth.

I jokingly sang, “Ding-dong, the witch is dead,” to Megan at the party. But my real theme song is, “To God be the glory, great things he has done.”

Morticia didn’t disappear; she still lies in my chest, still takes up a third of my lung, still pushes everything too far to the right. But her zip-a-dee-doodah is dead. She has no cancer activity. We didn’t have a eulogy for her at the party, so I’ll do one now.

Here lies Morticia, close to my heart. She was wicked while she lived; she was a taker not a giver, and she did her best to be a killer. But she was a giver despite herself. She gave our whole family a new closeness, more love for each other, a real sense of the shortness of time, and a new trust in God. So, here’s to you, Morticia! R.I.P., and be sure you stay very, very dead.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

by Donna Poole

Extra! Extra! Read All About It

by Donna Poole

I need, oh, I don’t know, maybe a hundred newsboys with caps carrying handprinted newspapers like the ones we made in fifth grade with Miss Jennings. They could run among all of you handing out the papers and yelling, “Extra, extra, read all about it!”

Or I could use an airplane flying a banner through the sky over every one of your homes with my news printed on it. I know my dad would have loved to do that for me with his 1948 red Stinson. He’d have probably hung out the window shouting the news himself. But Dad’s in heaven; please, God, tell him the news!

I wish I could call, or send a snail mail note, or even text each of you personally and tell you the news, but I can’t for two reasons. I’m too exhausted, and I’d be sure to forget someone important. And I don’t want to forget anyone, because news, good or bad, must be shared with one’s friends. Is it even real until it is?

I can hear you, you know. You really should think quieter. Get on with it, Donna. Tell us the news already.

Okay then, I will. The story started late May, early June 2020. There I was, minding my own business and a few other people’s business too, but in my defense, they deserved it. Anyway, there I was, living my life, when an unexpected resident moved into my lungs. After many tests the doctors identified her as a large b cell non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma and put other letters and qualifiers after her name, but I won’t bore you with those. She had smaller companions elsewhere in my body, but she was trouble with a bold T. I named her Morticia and told her she was going to die.

The fight was on. First came R-chop. It’s a combination of drugs and often the first line of defense against invaders like Morticia. One of the drugs in chop has the nickname of Red Devil, and for good reason. Red Devil and its companions twisted my intestines into pretzels and devoured my hair, but it didn’t touch the cancer. Morticia swallowed R-chop for lunch and grew.

I prayed. My family and church family prayed. Many of you prayed. I fought as hard as I could. I practiced Tarzan yells in the parking garage at the hospital and offered to do one in the quiet cancer center. The nurses politely declined.

Next came radiation. That burned my esophagus, but Morticia laughed and stayed the same size. I was beyond exhausted. By then they were calling my cancer “refractory”—resistant to treatment. I backed Dr. Lawrence, my radiation oncologist into a corner and wouldn’t let him out until he told me what he thought my chances of making it were. He didn’t want to say. I threatened his life. He gave me 15-20 %. Part of that paragraph isn’t true.  

He said, “Look at it this way though, Donna. If you fall into that 15-20%, you have a 100% chance of making it.”

I liked the way he thought.

Dr. Kaminski, my cancer oncologist, said, “We’ve run out of options with you, Donna. You’re chemo resistant. I’d like to see you try to get into a clinical trial. I can’t guarantee it will help, but it’s something that might work.”

Getting into a clinical trial isn’t just signing your name on a dotted line. I needed another biopsy of Morticia; she stuck out her tongue at them while they were in there. I also needed heart, CT, and PET scans, a brain MRI, tons of blood work, a bone marrow biopsy, and I had to say all the multiplication tables backward while standing on my hands. Part of that paragraph is a lie.

Finally, I got accepted into a clinical trial for Epcoritamab, henceforth called Epco, a drug not yet on the market. It’s for patients with my disease who’ve flunked at least two lines of treatment.

I became a guinea pig patient with a new oncologist, Dr. Phillips, and a wonderful nurse practitioner, Tera. I loved my whole team, the drug trial coordinators, the amazing nurses in the treatment centers, and especially the caring ones in Ravitz where the guinea pigs go.

Along with the Epco, I had to take another chemotherapy, Gem-Ox. R-Chop might have one ingredient nicknamed Red Devil, but before Gem-Ox was done with me, I was pretty sure the devil himself must have invented it. I don’t think it’s always that bad for everyone, but I went directly from the other treatments to it and my body didn’t have much fight left.

Sometimes, at night, when the pain was bad, I begged God to take me home to heaven. But when the sun came up and courage returned, I said, “Now, Lord, about that prayer in the middle of the night. I didn’t really mean it ….”

He just smiled. God doesn’t answer the prayer of our mouths; he listens to the cry of our hearts, and he knew mine was just temporarily down and out.

Many days I didn’t feel human. I slept more than I was awake. I still sleep a lot. My daughter took over cooking and cleaning. She still does most of it.

Finally, session eight of Gem-Ox arrived, last chemo. Each one had gotten worse. I dreaded going. When I got there on August 10, 2021, I posted on Facebook, “God is so good! This is my last chemo treatment at University of Michigan hospital. John has never been able to go back with me, but today they changed visitor policies and here he is! The seven hours will go faster together! Edit: left home at 5:15 a.m. to be here for 7:10 blood work and a doctor’s appointment followed by chemo. We’ll be done here around 6:00 p.m. and hopefully home at 8:00. We don’t always party, but when we do, we stay out for 15 hours!”

Chemo ended but Epco continued. By late June 2022 I’d been in the clinical trial for about 14 months. We’d lost track of scans. We thought I’d had about 12 PET scans and 26 CTs. But none of the scans had found a guy we were looking for, name of NED, acronym for no evidence of disease.

I wrote on June 29, “Morticia, my lung tumor, is no longer growing, but she isn’t dead either. She’s been a nasty tenant—about destroyed the apartment and never paid a cent of rent. My next scans are in September. Maybe she’ll be just a pile of rubbish by then.”

She wasn’t. But like Tera, my NP kept telling me, “Stable” is a good word.

Life continued. We went to U of M once a month for my cancer treatment and once every three weeks for IVIG for Myasthenia Gravis. For quite a while I was supposed to stay away from groups because my immune system was low, so I became a semi-hermit and wrote books. When they let me return from solitary confinement to the general population I had to relearn people manners; I’m still working on that.

PET scans and CTs continued every six months. By now I have so much radiation I light up a room when I walk into it. People hear a hum when they stand too close, and the hair on their arms tingles.

Little by little the scan numbers started looking better.

We knew the facts. We’d followed the clinical trial study. If people respond to Epco they usually do it right away. It helps 61% if people who take it. Only 38% of them get complete response, and 23% get partial response.

I never thought lymphoma would kill me. But I never thought Epco would cure me either. I’m older; my cancer was refractory; lymphoma in the organs is especially hard to treat. Epco was keeping Morticia quiet and sitting in a corner; I was stable, and we were happy with that. Despite all the prayers, we honestly didn’t expect any more. We just heaved a sigh of relief and celebrated after every scan because Morticia hadn’t grown.

Then came Thursday, August 8, 2024. Tera told me the last few PET CTs seem to indicate what is showing up is just radiation damage and inflammation, not active lymphoma. Hello, Ned, no evidence of disease; you look even better than we expected. How about if you stick around for a while?

I’ll continue with the same cancer treatment and struggle with the side effects. They aren’t easy. I’ll have scans every six months. My immune system will still be compromised so I’ll have to be careful.

But I can’t quit smiling. I’m thanking God. I’m thanking every one of you who ever prayed for me.

Natalie, one of the wonderful nurses at Ravitz, told me she thinks three things go a long way toward helping cancer patients: faith, attitude, and a strong support system. I don’t think anyone could have had a stronger support system than I’ve had. Thank you!

I know Morticia might grow once again, but for now, I’m thinking often about this verse: “I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the LORD.”—Psalm 118:17

Not everyone is going to read this, so do me a favor. Put on your cap, girls and boys, and help me spread the news!

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

by Donna Poole

It’s a quiet summer afternoon. She looks out of the car window, and yesterday suddenly pulls her into a bear hug. She can hardly breathe. The half-forgotten beautiful memories of last morrow run from her eyes and chase each other down her cheeks.

The fireworks fade from the sky and only the acrid smell of smoke remains. Parents are tucking sleepy toddlers into car seats.

“Did I fall asleep, Mommy? Did I miss it?”

“You can let go, now Daddy! Look at me, Mommy! I’m riding my bike!”

“Who gives this woman to be married?”

“Her mother and I do.”

The wind whips sand across the empty picnic tables in the pavilion. The garbage cans are overflowing with chip bags and paper plates and napkins smeared with chocolate cupcake crumbs. Only one helium balloon remains, high up at the peaked roofline, that and a tattered piece of blue crepe paper. She can’t reach them.

It had been a wonderful family reunion, and she didn’t guess that when they next gathered one would be missing. And the year after that, another.

The home that echoed with years of laughter of children and then grandchildren has become too quiet. The ticking of the clock is so loud it hurts her ears. Their combined tears drip down over their gnarled, clasped hands. Will this be their last time to kiss goodnight? The hospice nurse says perhaps it’s so.

Gone. Gone!

***

“Are you okay, honey?” he asks.

She wipes a tear, laughs, and turns from the window to look at him. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

And this is why I can never remember how to get anywhere. The minute I get in a car and look out of a window my brain starts remembering true things and then telling me stories. I forget where I am. It’s been this way ever since I’ve been a little girl.

She explains all that to him, and he nods. He acts like he understands; he’s heard it all before.

“Does your brain tell you stories?” she asks.

He laughs and grips her hand. “Not really. But it’s okay that yours does.”

She smiles at him and looks out of the window again, thinking of that word.

Gone.

It’s such a sad word, isn’t it? Thank God memories remain, but they often bring with them tears for departed joys. Why didn’t I see the treasures I held in my hands before they crumbled to dust and became just shadows in my heart? What I wouldn’t give for the return of just one golden day! A day I thought so ordinary then, a day I took for granted.

Perhaps, on my next morrow, my eternal tomorrow, God will return to me those lost days. Maybe he’s been keeping them all this time for me to one day find them again at Home, more beautiful than they ever were here, more radiant with love, full and running over with joy.

But now?

Gone. Last morrow is gone. Next morrow is certainly coming, but when? It’s not here yet.

I’m smiling through my tears, though; does God see a rainbow? I have today to live, to love, to laugh, to pray. I have this day, this extraordinary day, to catch my breath at the mystery and beauty of golden bales of straw, the love in the voice of a friend, the laughter of family, and a husband’s whispered good night. I have today to hold in my hands and cherish before it all too soon joins my other lost last morrows.

She turns from the window and smiles at him. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about what meals might sound good for camping. Want to make a list?”

“Sure.”

She writes the list, but at the same time she tries to memorize the way he looks driving, the sun shining on his gray hair, the sound of his laughter, and the clouds racing by in the sky. It’s a wonderful, fantastic, one-of-a-kind extraordinary ordinary day.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

by Donna Poole

Close your eyes. Open them. You’re at a tiny, white frame church on the corner of two dirt roads watching a young couple get out of their car. He carries a big, black Bible. She carries a tiny, almost two-year old girl with golden curls and a mischievous smile. The date is July 7, 1974. This young family has lived in Michigan all of four days.

Look at them walk up to the heavy wooden doors of the church. They look a bit like hippies; he has long sideburns. A few months earlier a little boy, a stranger to him, asked with awe, “Are you Elvis?” She has long hair hanging to her waist and wears no paint, no polish.

They look braver than they feel, those two twenty-five-year-olds. They are embarking on a journey that will last longer than they expect. He’s the brand-new pastor of a country church, Lickley’s Corners Baptist. He mispronounces the name of it in his first sermon, and the people gently correct him. It won’t be the last time the people correct him, but those first people, the sweet farm people, will always be gentle.

She has no clue how to be a pastor’s wife. Her views don’t always match his. This troubles him more than it does her. She takes one look at the farm fields surrounding the church, and at the sweet country people inside of it, and she knows she’s home.

Close your eyes. Open them. You’re at the same white church on the corner of two dirt roads, but it’s fifty years later. The building looks a bit different. The outhouse out back is gone. There’s running water now, inside bathrooms, and a fellowship hall. If you look up at the white clouds rushing by in the blue sky, perhaps you’ll catch a glimpse of smiling faces looking down, because most of the saints who welcomed that pastor and wife fifty years ago are now in heaven. They aren’t here to celebrate that couple’s fiftieth anniversary of coming to the church; or are they? Perhaps God lets them see what their courage, faith, and vision have become.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s still a very small church on the corner of two dirt roads. It will never be a mega church, but that’s okay; it doesn’t want to be.

What has that church seen in fifty years? It has seen a pastor and wife grow up, or at least begin to. It’s seen them change from a family of three to a family of twenty-five: four married children and fifteen grandchildren. That church has seen people come and people go. It has seen people accept Jesus as Savior from sin and be baptized. It has seen Sundays with full pews and Sundays with sparse attendance. It has seen births and deaths, laughter and tears, sin and forgiveness. It has seen a pastor and wife smile, sob, and sniffle…but the smiles won.

This weekend the church and the new fellowship hall are full. The parking lot is packed, and a few cars and trucks are parked on the dirt road. It’s a golden Jubilee; they are celebrating the pastor and wife’s fifty years at the church. Their family and their church family have worked hard to honor them and to praise God this weekend. They’ve cleaned, decorated, sent invitations, ordered a plaque, prepared a video presentation, planned a gift, and done so much more! In a word, they’ve sacrificed, something this little church is known for.

The decorations are beautiful, and so is the cake. There are cookies and punch, a beautiful plaque and a presentation, a money tree and cards with gifts tucked inside. And there is love and laughter, so much love and laughter.

A few “girls” from the first youth group, almost as old as the pastor and his wife, drive many miles to come, and so does a high school friend of the pastor’s wife. People from present and past congregations blend, talking and laughing. Beloved friends of many years walk through the door, smiling. So many people, so many hugs, handshakes, sweet words. So much joy! Their photographer daughter documents the day.

And then comes Sunday, a Sunday like the pastor and wife had never had before. Their grown son leads the singing, and their daughter-in-law plays the piano. The church building is full, and the hymns go right through the roof and straight up into heaven. The testimonies of love for the pastor and his wife are wonderful. And when their dear friend, with tears running down his face, asks the congregation to join him as he sings his special, “I Saw Jesus in You,” the pastor and his wife know they will never forget this day.

But already, though only a few days have passed, they can’t remember much of what people said to them. The pastor’s wife remembers one thing distinctly. A new, young pastor said to her, “I’ve only known three pastors no one has ever said one bad word about. And one of them is your husband.”

She couldn’t help it. She was tired. And when she’s tired, she laughs. So, she laughed and said to him, “Well, then, Matt, you haven’t been talking to the right people.”

Some sage said, “Everyone who has a dog who loves him needs a cat who hates him.” I suppose that’s true. It’s good for humility. If I told you everyone who had ever attended that country church loved the pastor and his wife, lightning might strike my keyboard. But they are grateful for every person, the ones who loved them, and the ones who served up broiled pastor for Sunday dinner. God used them all to help that couple learn to cling to him.

No one needs fear the pastor and wife will get proud after the wonderful two-day celebration their dear church gave them. If they’ve learned one thing in fifty years, they’ve learned this. Any good they’ve done has been God doing it through them.

Feeling happy and loved, they went to bed when the weekend ended. They pictured each beloved face that had been present and searched for vocabulary words beautiful enough to express gratitude, but none were good enough. And so, they prayed, “Please, bless them, Lord. Bless them everyone.”

Then they took one last look at all the beautiful sacrificial love that had been heaped on them. It glowed in the night, a golden ball, too precious to keep for themselves. They handed it up to their Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, who made the fifty years happen. He took it with a smile but let some gold dust drift down on their pillows.

“Sleep, my children,” he whispered. “You will need strength for difficult days yet to come. There will still be births and deaths, laughter and tears, sin and forgiveness. You will still smile, sob, and sniffle, but I promise you this; laughter will win in the end.”  

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

Spring didn’t slip softly into early summer one night while we slept. No. Summer raced up from behind, shoved spring sprawling without even so much as a “Pardon me, ma’am,” and we woke up feeling her dragon breath on our faces.

“Ready or not, here I come!” summer shouted. We weren’t ready. We barely had spring. Life’s transitions should be a bit gentler to give us time to adjust, don’t you think?

It’s hot as blue blazes. We’re under a heat advisory with a feel like temperature of 97 degrees. If I wanted to, I could bake my homemade rustic bread in the mailbox.

The poor brides who planned outdoor weddings expecting June’s usual mild breezes and gentle warmth are sweltering in their beautiful gowns, and so are their guests, and their photographers. Forget corn knee high by the fourth of July; some of it is already past knee high on me. True, my knees aren’t all that far off the ground. Fireflies are twinkling over the fields at night, and orange day lilies decorate the countryside. Berries arrived early but so did bugs and blight. I swear, if I hear a cicada while it’s still June I’m going to melt into a puddle of tears.

The old timers used to say first frost comes six weeks after the cicadas sing. That might not be gospel, but to me cicadas signal the beginning of the end of summer.

Slow down already! I just put away my winter mittens.

Mom Poole used to sigh often and say, “Too much too soon.” We weren’t sure what she meant; what was too much too soon? I think I’m old enough to know the answer now; it’s everything!

When I was a child summer vacation stretched forever. Now it seems the kids barely drop their backpacks on the kitchen floor at the end of school and it’s time for the parents to restock them for the next school year. I’m sad for the kids who don’t have the long, carefree summers we enjoyed. Back then the only interruption to freedom was a week of camp for the kids whose parents could afford it. Ours couldn’t, so we ran free and made our own fun.

Summers were busier when I became a teenager; I was working by then, but there was still so much time for fun. One summer I learned to water ski, and I loved it. I’d like to try water skiing again, but I’m not sure where I’d put my cane.

Speaking of my cane, that also was a too much too soon rude moment. I expected to grow old gradually with plenty of warning, not go from the woman who refused to go to sleep at night until she’d walked her 10,000 daily steps to this slow, hobbling creature I don’t recognize.

Give a lady a little warning, would you?

And what about the tears, the trials, the losses, the crosses?

While we’re on the subject, why the misunderstandings and heartaches, why the fractured families and friendships? Oh, I know the answer; sin ruined God’s beautiful creation. But do there have to be so many tears?

I saw twins at the cancer center last week. One was an old lady unable to sit up straight in her wheelchair. The other was a young man, perhaps twenty. But they were twins, matching skeletons with just a covering of skin, zero body fat, suffering in their eyes. Will they find their miracle in that cancer center? We patients are family there. Some of us do find a miracle; some don’t. And our poor family whispers, “Too much, too soon.”

Those “twins” were just two people among the millions in misery around our planet, enduring wars, starvation, man’s inhumanity to man, gang violence, drive by shootings. Is it all random? Life cut short by fire, flood, tornado, drunk drivers.

I could go on. And on. And on. But I won’t.

In this backroad rambling I’ve wandered down a deeply shaded path into territory too dark for me. I’m asking questions I have no answers for. I just know two things.

Job, the man who suffered more loss than any human ever, was full of questions and righteous indignation. He demanded an audience with God. He wanted to know why. Don’t we all? Job got his audience with God, but God never answered Job’s questions. And Job didn’t care. He saw God’s love, power, and glory, and that was enough for him. He decided to stay in his own lane and let God be God.

I’m learning Job’s lesson. I’m learning to “Judge God’s love, not by circumstances, nor by feelings, but by Calvary.” –Unknown

The second thing I know is that it won’t always be like this. Sorrow and suffering will die. Joy and gladness will live forever. When that day comes, God says, “Nothing will hurt or destroy in all my holy mountain.” Isaiah 11:9

And in the end—this is so good it sounds straight out of Narnia—but I promise you, it’s the Bible—there will be a new heaven and a new earth. Life will once again be the perfect garden God created it to be before sin ruined people and disrupted creation. Nothing again will ever be too much too soon. I can hardly wait.

Are you ready?

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

If I could be a child again, I think I’d pick the summer I was ten and my sister Mary was nine. We’d just moved into the tin box we called home, a ten by fifty-foot trailer, where, like the old joke says, you had to go outside to change your mind.

Mary and I didn’t mind that our inside space was cramped; we were explorers. and the big, wide outdoors was a new adventure waiting for us every day.

Summer stretched ahead of us forever. We coasted down hills on our bikes way too fast, feet off the pedals, arms stretched wide, yelling “Wah Hoo!”

No one we knew was old, or sick, or dying. Those were just things you read about in books. We were far from rich; sometimes we were still hungry after a meal, but we weren’t starving. We knew nothing about the sorrows of the rest of the world. We were just two little girls enjoying the peaceful innocence of a childhood that’s gone forever.

We didn’t have television, though if we stood on tiptoe in just the right spot in our yard, we could see a tiny bit of the little black and white TV in the neighbor’s tin box.

We walked down the road to the abandon barn to see if there were any kittens we could coax to come home with us.

The foothills of the Adirondack mountains whispered our names, and we couldn’t resist, especially when the wild berries ripened. Mornings were usually cool, so we wore sweaters over our shirts. We hiked down the backroads until we found a field without a fence, or a fence we could cross, and then started climbing up into the hills. Once we found a creepy abandoned boy scout camp and imagined all kinds of scary ghost stories. Often, we tried to walk like the native Americans we admired, one foot in front of the other without making a sound. Then we found the treasure we were hunting, blackberries as big as our thumbs. We ate almost as many as we picked, but we were careful to get enough for Mom to make her blackberry pies.

Soon the hot sun would say it was time to take off our sweaters. We’d tie them around our waists and keep picking. We’d stop for lunch, sit in a grassy field, and eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. We’d blow fluff off dandelions and make a wish. If we wished hard enough, maybe our big sister, Eve, could magically come home for the weekend. We’d pick the widest blades of grass, stretch them tightly between our thumbs, and practice our whistles. Then we’d roll up our sweaters, put them under our necks, and watch the white clouds hurrying to places we could only imagine. Sometimes we’d fall asleep.

Buckets full of berries we’d head home. Mom’s delicious pies would be worth every scratch on our tanned arms. And our little sister Ginny’s blue eyes would dance with delight and berry juice would stain her tongue purple.

On sizzling hot days we’d bike to a place where the creek widened under a bridge and jump into a cold pool of water. Or we’d follow a shallow creek for a while, watching dragon flies and water bugs and keeping an eye out for snakes.

Fireflies lit up magical evenings, and bedtime between clean sheets gave time to dream until morning. Surely, something wonderful would happen again the next day. Breakfast over, chores done, it was time to adventure again.

We played games with the boys who lived in the other tin cans; no girls except us lived in the trailer park. I can still feel the smack of the ball hitting my hand; who had baseball gloves? Not us! I remember the satisfying crack of the bat hitting the ball, the tingle from hand to elbow, and the exhilarating race around the homemade bases. Whatever the game, Mary and I tried to outrun and outplay all the boys, and we usually succeeded.

It was a magical summer. We lived in shorts or jeans and grew brown and brave. Once we chased all the boys out of the playhouse with a mouse. Oh, we were a force to be reckoned with, or so we thought, and as tomboyish as two girls can get. We wore dresses only for church.

When Uncle Tom came to visit, we heard him worrying about us to Mom. “You need to do something about Donna and Mary Lou. Those two girls are growing up like wild Indians.”

We grinned at each other. It was the best compliment we could imagine.

Yes, I’d love to be ten again for one more day. I’d grab Mary’s hand and we’d race down our back country road and feel the wind against our faces. We’d imagine many things, but it would never occur to us that those days might have an expiration date. We were sisters; we’d always adventure, and be young, happy, and together. And one day, that’s exactly what we will be, all four of us sisters, together forever in heaven.