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“Take ‘Er Easy There, Pilgrim”

by Donna Poole

If you’re a fan of John Wayne, you know the Duke wasn’t giving a compliment when he called someone “pilgrim.” If you’ve ever read a Louis L’Amour book—please start with his Sackett series—you realize a pilgrim wasn’t smart enough not to sit with his back to the door. He was someone from the east or a novice cowhand who probably tended to get upset too fast and talk too much. He needed the Duke’s advice to “Take ‘er easy there, Pilgrim.”

We all need that advice sometimes, to just settle down, to stay in our own lane, to just breathe. To be sure, the last thing we want to hear when we’re upset is to settle down. We can measure how upset we are by how furious the advice to settle down makes us.

Sometimes we can handle the big trials of life better than the small ones; we may take a cancer diagnosis with grace and faith and get disgusted at mosquitoes or at the deer who insist on snacking on the produce in our beautifully raised garden.

I just realized I’m using the editorial “we” here, “we” as you may have guessed means me. 

When my sister and I were little girls we heard the somewhat stuffy Queen Victoria once said, referring to just herself, “We are not amused.” We didn’t know then that she probably never said it at all, and had we known, that wouldn’t have stopped our uproarious laughter.

Why would someone call herself “we”? How ostentatious. We had to try it out. We’d take turns putting our noses in the air and flounce around, trying to look regal, and announce at every possible opportunity, “We are not amused.” We thought we were hysterically funny; Mom didn’t agree.

I’m sometimes surprised at the little things that make me unamused; the latest was just what I said above, a deer snacking on my beautiful raised bed garden. The bib lettuce vanished except for one brown, dead, leaf. The beans look like sticks without a single leaf.  And good luck with that bad breath from eating my garlic, dear deer!

Our dear old neighbor, now with the Lord, used to say, “I don’t mind telling you, I have righteous in-dig-nation!” Well, I had a bit of in-dig-nation when I saw the empty lettuce spot and the beans looking more like walking sticks than the legume of the species Phaseolus vulgaris. I wouldn’t be too impressed with my botanical knowledge if I were you, I used Siri to find those five-dollar words.

Take ‘er easy there, Pilgrim. I am a pilgrim, just passing through, on my way to heaven. I often don’t know enough not to sit with my back to the door, and hasty words and actions have caused me trouble more than once. What does it matter in the overall scheme of things if the deer ate my lettuce, garlic, and every last bean? Are we going to starve this winter? I doubt it. Is my pride over my beautiful garden a bit hurt? Maybe.

How many other insignificant things have I let trouble me in my lifetime? Too many, that’s for sure. I’ve already found one blessing from my cancer diagnosis; it has given me new emotional glasses. I see better what matters and what doesn’t. And I’m beginning to understand how silly and counterproductive worry and frustration really are.  

“The Robin and the Sparrow”

Said the robin to the sparrow,

“I should really like to know,

Why these anxious human beings

Rush about and worry so.”

Said the sparrow to the robin,

“Friend, I think that it must be

That they have no heavenly Father,

Such as cares for you and me.” –Elizabeth Cheney

I don’t know where my cancer journey will take me in the months ahead, and you don’t know where your travels may take you, but worrying won’t improve our trip. Here’s a little more of the Duke’s advice for the road:

“No matter where people go…sooner or later they find God’s already been there.” John Wayne–Chisum (1970)

If God’s there, we can take ‘er easy there, pilgrims. He knows what He’s doing.

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Saying Goodbye

A Story for the Young and the Young at Heart

by Donna Poole

Mommy heard Susie’s feet come down the stairs one step at a time. Susie opened the door to GG’s room and clicked on the light. Quietly, so as not to wake Daddy, Mommy slipped out of bed and went to GG’s room.

Susie stood there, sucking her thumb, and holding Teddy by one leg. Susie looked around the room. Everything looked just right. The old pictures sat on the doilies GG had crocheted. The plump blue and white checked cushions looked cheerful in the rocker near the window. The funny smelly red geraniums hung in the window. The patchwork quilt on the bed looked as warm and cozy as ever. Ginger, the fat yellow cat, slept on the colorful braided rug where he always slept.

Yes, everything looked just right, everything but the most important thing. GG wasn’t in the room. She wasn’t in the comfy rocker. She wasn’t in the cozy bed.

Susie turned and saw Mommy. “I know where my heart is.” She put one small hand on her chest. “It’s right here. A few minutes ago, upstairs, I felt it crack and break.”

Mommy heard a small sob. She picked up Susie and sat with her in great-grandmother’s rocker. She kissed Susie’s red cheeks and wiped away her tears.

“You put me down! I want GG to rock me.”

Mommy held her close. Susie stopped wiggling and buried her face in Mommy’s shoulder.

“Susie, you know GG’s funeral was yesterday. You know she’s with God now.”

“But…when is she coming back to see me? She didn’t finish reading me my book. And Teddy needs his leg sewed on again, see?”

Mommy looked at the dangling leg. Teddy did indeed need another operation. How many times had Great-Grandmother stitched Teddy’s arms and legs?

Mommy’s lips brushed Susie’s light brown curls. Lord, show me how to help Susie say goodbye.

“Poor GG’s hands,” Mommy said. “Did you see how hard it was getting for her to sew Teddy?”

Susie nodded. “GG’s fingers were bent funny. I don’t think her eyes were working good either. She was having a hard time reading to me too. And, Mommy,” Susie let out another small sob, “sometimes GG forgot my name!”

“Oh, honey, Great Grandmother’s poor old body just got too tired and sick to keep working right. Now she’s with Jesus, and she’s young and strong again.”

“Like in that picture on the dresser?” Susie slid off Mommy’s lap.

“Perhaps just like that picture.”

Susie held the picture in both hands and studied it. This was a GG she’d never known. Her eyes were bright blue and sparkling, not faded and squinting. There were no wrinkles on her soft-looking cheeks. GG’s hair was brown and curly like Susie’s, not white and thin. The GG in the picture was laughing at someone Susie couldn’t see.

“Does GG look this happy in heaven?”

“She looks even happier. Think of the happiest day of your life.”

“My happiest day was my birthday. I loved my party!”

“GG is even happier now than you were at your party! She won’t ever hurt again, or cry, or forget a name. Her fingers are straight, and her eyes can see. She can’t come back and see us, but she knows someday we’ll go to heaven. We’ll be together forever!”

“It might take me a long time to get to heaven,” Susie said. “What if GG forgets me?”

“The heart never forgets love.” Mommy started to cry.

Susie’s eyes opened wide. She crawled back on Mommy’s lap. “Do you wish GG was here to rock you too?”

“She was my grandma. I will always miss her.”

“You stay right here, Mommy. We have to do something now.”

Susie scrambled off Mommy’s lap. She took the picture of beautiful, young GG off the dresser. She hugged and kissed it. She took the picture to Mommy and climbed back on her lap.”

“Kiss GG goodbye.”

Mommy obeyed.

Susie studied the picture intently. “Who is GG smiling at?”

“Your great-grandpa took that picture of GG on their wedding day. She’s smiling at him.”

Susie shook her head. “I think GG is smiling at Jesus. She’s smiling because she knows it’s true, what she read at the end of my stories.”

Mommy looked puzzled.

“You know, the part that says, ‘And they lived happily ever after.’ That’s what GG is doing now, right? Living happily ever after?”

Mommy held her little girl tightly and rocked her to sleep. She carried Susie upstairs and tucked her into bed, putting Teddy next to her cheek.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Tomorrow you can operate on Teddy.”

Mommy sat on the edge of the bed and held Susie’s hand until her breathing was deep and even. Then she kissed her goodnight. “Thank you, Susie,” she whispered, “for helping me say goodbye.”

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Prince Not So Charming

by Donna Poole

She was clueless about love, mostly because she’d grown up reading Grace Livingston Hill novels. If you’ve never heard of those books, that’s okay; I’ll explain. They are like Hallmark Movies on steroids. Not only does the knight in shining armor swoop in on a white horse and rescue the damsel in distress, the knight owns a stable full of white horses and an entire armor factory. When said damsel looks at charming knight, she almost swoons. Her world tilts and spins, and her heart knows he is her one and only, forever and ever, amen. I add the “amen” because the novels are Christian romance books.

Not only did she read and love Grace Livingston Hill novels, the clueless girl adored Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese. Her favorite was Number 43:

                How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

                I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

                My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

                For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace.

                I love thee to the level of everyday’s

                Most quiet need, by sun and candelight.

                I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

                I love thee purely; as they turn from Praise;

                I love thee with the passion put to use

                In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith;

                I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

                With my lost saints, –I love thee with the breath,

                Smiles, tears, of all my life! –and if God choose,

                I shall but love thee better after death.

She grew up to be quite independent and struggled to have compassion for anyone with damsel in distress syndrome, but still, you can’t read that many Grace Livingston Hill novels and escape unaffected. A part of her still yearned for that mysterious knight in shining armor who would swoop in on his white horse and, if she didn’t need rescuing, would at least carry her off to a place where they could make a beautiful life together.

She dreamed of a love where she’d walk, arms entwined, with Prince Charming, through an ancient apple orchard and recite to each other classic poetry.

His favorite poem was:

                Roses are red.

                Violets are blue.

                My aunt has a lawnmower.

                Can you swim?

They’d known each other and argued with each other since they’d been preschool age. She’d told him to stop chewing his crepe paper bow tie in church cherub choir. He’d ignored her and kept chewing.

When they’d learn to spell their names, she’d told him he spelled his wrong.

When they grew older, their friendship deepened, but the arguments continued. When they stopped arguing long enough for him to say, “I love you,” she was a little shocked.

Her response was not what he’d hoped for. “How does a person really know something like that for sure?”

She was pretty sure if one of them needed rescuing it would be him and she’d have to do it.

There were so many things she liked about him though, and not the least was his crazy sense of humor. Finally, she wiped away enough storybook cobwebs to realize she did love him, and she told him so.

Then began the proposals. Yes, that word is plural, proposals. He’d ask her to marry him; she look hopefully at him, and he’d laugh, pull out a ring he’d gotten from a bubble gum machine, tug on her pony tail, and walk away.

One day they stood on top of Stone Mountain, Georgia. His parents, sister, and brother-in-law were at the bottom of the mountain, but a friend stood right next to them. As they looked out over the awesome view, he said to her, “Will you marry me?”

She gave him another quick, hopeful look. Wait. Come on. Who proposes with a third person standing right here? No one, that’s who.

“Ha! I’m not going to fall for that again!”

His hurt look and stiff posture were her first clues. He’d been serious. He refused to talk to her the rest of the day, a bit awkward, since they spent the rest of the day with his family and their friend. She became a bit frustrated with her prince not-so-charming. How could she have known he’d planned that moment for months?

Later that evening as they sat alone on the couch in his sister’s living room, he said, “Do you want to marry me or not? And this is your last chance.”

She laughed. It wasn’t like any proposal she’d ever read about in her books. There was no recitation of Number 43 from Sonnets from the Portuguese. No white horse was in sight, and the spring evening in Georgia was way too hot for shining armor. But she saw his heart, and she loved what she saw. Besides, she could be quite the brat herself on occasion, and they both knew it.

She threw her arms around him. “Oh, yes, I do want to marry you. I love you.”

And now, we’ll look the other way, but suffice it to say, he was no longer mad. He didn’t have the ring yet; that would come later.

She drove home from work one night. The sun had set hours before. All she could think of was how tired she was and how she wanted to curl up in bed with a good book. She pulled in the driveway, and his car was there. Her heart sunk. She loved him; she really did, but she was just too tired for company.

“Want to go for a ride?” he asked.

“Not tonight, please. I’m too tired.”

“Donna,” her mother said, “if Johnnie wants to go for a ride, you should go for a ride.”

Can’t he see how tired I am? Won’t he change his mind and say we can go another time?

She wasn’t happy about it, but she got in the car. He wasn’t happy, because once again, a major plan was dissolving like butter in a hot pan, and that made him grumpy. Neither of them said a word until they stopped at the airport.

“Open the glove compartment,” Prince not-so-charming ordered.

“Did you break your arm?” the bratty damsel not in distress replied. “Open it yourself.”

“I said, open the glove compartment!”

They glared at each other. An onlooker would have said they looked more like two angry three-year-old’s than the nineteen-year old’s they were. Finally, she sighed. She was too tired to argue. She opened the glove compartment. There was a beautiful diamond solitaire in a gold tiffany setting.

She looked at the engagement ring feeling frustration and joy. Would there never be any poetry?

“It’s a small diamond. I could have gotten a bigger one for the same price, but the jeweler said this one didn’t have any flaws, and I wanted a perfect one. You know. Like you.” There it was. The poetry. More beautiful to her ears than Number 43.

Perfect? Like me? The me who has been arguing with you since we were preschoolers? The me who just refused to talk to you all the way to this airport?

Let’s look the other way again; suffice it to say, they didn’t sit as far apart on the way home from the airport as they did on the way there.

The date at the airport was May 24, 1968. Yesterday, they celebrated the fifty second anniversary of that date by sitting by a lake and talking about yesterday, today, and tomorrow. They’d made a beautiful life together, or rather, God had done that through them. She’d needed a lot of rescuing through the years, and he’d done it all with a cheerful smile and arms ready to comfort. He’d become quite the Prince Charming.

His favorite poem is still the same one; he laughed today when he repeated it for her so she could type it into this article. Life has all kinds of poetry, and she’s come to think that laughter is one of its best.

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Horsewhips, Pistols, Editors, and Writers

by Donna Poole

I laughed when I read what William Faulkner wrote about editors: “Only Southerners have taken horsewhips and pistols to editors about the treatment or maltreatment of their manuscript. This—the actual pistols—was in the old days, of course, we no longer succumb to the impulse. But it is still there, within us.”

The thing is, if your editor is any good at all, she is going to maul your manuscript, dispassionately dispense with the most delightful parts, delete your best descriptions, subtract your similes, and tell you to quit with the alliteration already!

For you non-writers who are parents, picture the author-editor exchange like this: You show off your lovely newborn to a modeling agent for, say, Gerber baby food. He scowls at your beautiful bundle of perfection.

“No, no, won’t do at all. Legs are too scrawny. Ears are too big. Nose is off center. Hair is too thin. Eyebrows are too thick. Are you sure this is your best work? And throw that ridiculous bonnet in the garbage; it’s outdated.”

You get the idea. The better the editor, the more detailed the criticism, even if it does come cloaked in gentleness the way my editor usually dispenses advice.

I’ve known my editor a long time; I’m sure our relationship is more complicated than most author and editor’s. My editor, Kimmee, is also my daughter. I homeschooled her.

Years ago, a frustrated Kimmee grabbed back from me a paper she’d written. “Will I ever turn in a paper and get it back without any red marks?”

“I doubt it, honey. I’ve been selling my writing for many years, and it’s still far from perfect. Did I ever tell you about the editor who told me I use too many explanation points?”

But she was off to her room in a huff, determined to rewrite that paper and get nothing less than an A.

Kimmee’s competitive spirit made her want to be the best in her class, and since she was the only one in her class, that meant she had to be better than herself. She graduated from homeschool, went on to Spring Arbor University, and graduated summa cum laude with a degree in professional writing.

Together, Kimmee and I have edited fifty books for clients. Editing is not our favorite work; I’d rather be writing, and she’d rather be doing her main job of professional photographer, but we can edit, and it helps pay the bills.

Writing has helped pay some bills too. If you know me even slightly, you know I’ve been writing a book.

Kimmee is my editor. “Mom,” with only the slightest edge to her patient voice, “this is the third time you’ve had that man die. You can only have him die once.”

“Mom, you don’t need this part about friends here. You talk about them in the camping chapter.”

“But, I love what I wrote in that paragr….”

Too late. She hits the delete button. She’s like a surgeon determined to cut out cancer.

Delete, delete, delete. Rearrange the entire book.

Finally, we’re done. I read my book again with amazement. Somehow, it’s more mine now than it was when I sent it into the Kimmee Hospital for its major surgery.

I wanted to put her name on the cover with mine, because she rewrote whole sections of the book to make them fit, but she refused. She says it’s my book. I say it’s both of ours. I never could have done it without her.

I look at this woman, so talented, so determined, so brave she’ll even stand up to her mom for what she knows is right when we disagree about punctuation, and I think, where did you come from and how am I lucky enough to have you in my life?

Then I remember, luck had nothing to do with it. This talented editor, and all my children, are God’s gifts to me.

My poor editor is exhausted. I’m glad I didn’t go looking for William Faulkner’s horsewhip or pistol. I can never thank her enough.

The other day, I told Kimmee I’m thinking of writing five more books, and now I can’t find her anywhere. I think I heard her mutter something about going out to buy a horsewhip and a pistol.

Kimmee and me
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Outside and Around Back

by Donna Poole

It was a warm Sunday in May 1974 when Jim first preached at Corners Church in rural Hillsdale County, Michigan. The church was looking for a pastor. Darlene was more nervous than Jim was when they pulled into the dirt parking lot next to the tiny, white frame building. They were early, and as they waited for people to arrive, they looked around. They saw open fields or farmhouses in every direction. Dust flew every time the rare truck or tractor went down the gravel road.

As Jim looked at the old church building, white paint peeling from its sides, he remembered what Professor Nick Machiavelli from Bible college had told the divinity students: “If your first church is small, don’t despise the day of small things, but don’t stay there either. Think of it as the first rung on a ladder and aim always to climb to a place of greater usefulness. Climb higher!”

Jim and the other divinity students almost worshipped Professor Machiavelli who had rugged good looks, prematurely gray hair, and an authoritative voice. A child prodigy, the professor had started college young. Though he had his doctorate, he was only a a few years older than his students. Jim felt there was something almost apostolic about him andkept an entire notebook he’d titled “Machiavelli’s Maxims.” He’d memorized most of the sayings. But, something about the “climb higher” advice made Jim feel uneasy, and he didn’t know why.

Jim mentioned his feelings to Darlene as they sat in the parking lot, but she had other worries. She was expecting their second baby and couldn’t seem to stay awake. She hoped she didn’t fall asleep in Jim’s sermon. Also, April, their daughter, wasn’t quite two, and Darlene was concerned about how she was going to act during a long day filled with strangers. She looked back at their toddler who had blessedly fallen asleep on the long drive. Maybe the nap would help her behave.

Darlene grinned, remembering a story she’d read about a pastor’s wife whose husband was preaching at a church he hoped would hire him. Unlike Darlene, this woman was a fantastic piano player, and she thought it might help her husband’s chances of being called as pastor if she volunteered to play the offertory. She felt apprehensive as she left her three-year-old in the back pew and went up to play her special number.

 “Be good until Mommy comes back,” she whispered. He looked at her and nodded, his brown eyes bright, his yellow curls making him look like the angel he wasn’t.

She was into the most impressive part of her offertory when she heard her little boy shout, “Ride ‘em, cowboy!”

Horrified, she glanced back to see him straddling the pew, pretending to ride a horse. She abruptly ended the offertory before the ushers had even half-finished collecting the offering.

She hurried back to her pew, and when her son saw her coming, he hollered, “Giddyup, Old Paint. Faster! Bad guy coming!”

Darlene wondered if their angel would behave while Jim preached. She doubted it.

First impressions matter, and Darlene worried about what the congregation would think of her as a potential pastor’s wife. With her straight hair that hung past her waist, her long skirt, and no paint or polish, she thought she looked more like an ad for a hippie clothing company than a pastor’s wife. She knew she couldn’t measure up to the previous pastor’s wife, but maybe the congregation would like her a little.

Darlene reached over and smoothed Jim’s hair back. He only sat that stiff and straight when he was nervous. She didn’t think it would boost his confidence to tell him he looked more like he was sixteen than twenty-five. His light brown hair insisted on falling on his forehead, and his serious brown eyes looked like a little boy’s expecting a scolding.

A few cars pulled into the parking lot, and Jim, Darlene, and April went into the church. The tiny building was charming with its stained-glass windows, native lumber wainscoting, and bare hardwood floors. Including the three of them, there were fifteen people in the congregation.

Darlene sat quietly, listening to Jim preach, until April whispered, “Potty, potty!”

“Can you wait?”

April shook her head vigorously. Darlene looked around. Where in this tiny building could there possibly be a bathroom?

She tapped an older woman in front of her on the shoulder. “Where’s the bathroom?” she whispered. Darlene sat back in the pew, confused by the answer. Maybe she hadn’t heard correctly.  

“You have to wait,” Darlene told April.

“No! Potty! Potty!” April was getting louder.

Darlene touched the older lady on the shoulder again. “Where did you say the bathroom was?”

This time the answer was louder, and there was no mistaking when she said, “Outside and around back.”

The heavy, wooden church door creaked as Darlene tugged it open. Outside and around back she went. She stood there a minute and laughed. The bathroom was an outhouse.

As Darlene and April exited the outhouse, she wondered how they would wash their hands. There was no running water. She felt frustrated for a minute, but as she looked out over the fields, she felt a deep peace. If Jim was sure he wanted to be a preacher, then she hoped God would call them to this church. She already loved the simplicity of this place.

Darlene loved simplicity. So many large churches complicated things and handled church more like a corporation than a ministry.

Darlene agreed with her friend Julie who said, “Churches didn’t get complicated until they got electric lights to show off their stained-glass windows.”

As they went back inside the church, Darlene considered what to do about hand washing. Then she remembered the wet washcloth she’d tucked into the diaper bag. It would have to do. She washed her hands and April’s and hoped that would be the last trip she’d ever have to make to the outhouse. It wasn’t.

Painting by Megan Poole
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Me? A Pastor’s Wife?

by Donna Poole

When Jim first told Darlene he felt God had called him to be a pastor, she was horrified.

“Wait! Me? A pastor’s wife? God hasn’t said a word about it. He hasn’t called me; I know that for sure.”

Not feeling called would bother her for many years. Not only hadn’t Darlene felt the call to be a pastor’s wife; she’d thought she could do anything else better: fly a single-engine plane solo across the Atlantic, become a whaler, or open a dogsled business in Alaska.

In Darlene’s mind a pastor’s wife was sweet, angelic Mrs. Kole, who sat in the first pew and looked reverently at her husband during every word of his lengthy sermon. Darlene was certain Mrs. Kole hadn’t told or laughed at a joke in her life. Darlene loved to laugh, a laugh that sometimes dissolved into a snort that made people look strangely at her.

Mrs. Kole was a serene, lovely woman, who refused to say an unkind word about anyone, even when people gave her good reason. Her refusal to gossip was legendary. Three women in the church once hatched a plot to make her say something bad about someone.

They surrounded Mrs. Kole at the church door where she stood next to her husband, saying gracious goodbyes to the congregation.

“So, Mrs. Kole, what do you think of the devil?”

Mrs. Kole’s gentle, ever-present smile faded, and a tiny frown line appeared between her kind, blue eyes. The three women had all they could do not to jab each other in the ribs with glee. Here it came!

“Well. . ..” Mrs. Kole paused, troubled. Then her face brightened. “The devil certainly is good at what he does, isn’t he?”

The women gave up on Mrs. Kole the way the Pharisees and Sadducees did when they threw their hands in the air and stopped trying to stump Jesus with questions.

 “No wonder she’s so quiet all the time,” they grumbled to each other. “What do people talk about if they don’t talk about other people?”

When Darlene mentioned to her mother-in-law she couldn’t be as perfect as Mrs. Kole, Mom Peters assured her Mrs. Kole hadn’t always been so perfect; although, she had given her husband her undivided attention, hanging onto every word of his sermon,  oblivious to all else.

That focused attention once kept Mrs. Kole from noticing their daughter, two-year-old Judi, stand on the pew next to her and remove every piece of clothing except her ruffled white socks and her tiny black patent leather shoes. Though no one in those days giggled in church, and if someone did, a lightning bolt zapped through a stained-glass window and struck the offender where he or she sat, there was a noticeable stirring in the pews.

Pastor Kole stopped pounding the pulpit long enough to notice his daughter. He looked at his wife and jerked his head toward Judi. Mrs. Kole smiled sweetly at him. He scowled and jerked his head a few more times. Finally, she noticed Judi, standing on the pew, not at all concerned about her parents’ reputation. When you’re only two, you figure the clergy can take care of itself.

If the clergy wanted to wear clothes, let them; Judi wasn’t clergy.

Mortified, Mrs. Kole pulled Judi off the pew and dressed her.

After Mom Peters recounted this story, Darlene asked, “Did anyone say anything to Mrs. Kole about it?”

“Oh, no!” Her mother-in-law laughed. “No one mentioned it to her. It wasn’t done, you know.”

Darlene thought it may have been easier to have been a pastor’s wife in the 1930s than in the 1970s. She was sure if her two-year-old did that, someone, everyone, would say something.

Darlene didn’t think she’d ever make a good pastor’s wife. So many women were better suited to the job. Maybe Jim should have married one of them. What was God thinking?

Darlene had heard some pious testimonies given by pastors’ wives. In martyr-like tones they’d said they could withstand the battle only because God had called them to be pastors’ wives, even before they’d met their husbands. Because of this, they hadn’t considered marrying anyone but a pastor. Darlene didn’t question their testimonies, but she hadn’t felt anything like they’d described. That bothered her.

Darlene had married Jim because she loved him, and she hadn’t cared if he became a pastor, a factory worker, or a garbage man. She might have objected to mob hitman.

Well, called or not, being a pastor’s wife was about to become her job. She had definite opinions on most things, okay on everything, but hopefully God would put His hand over her mouth at the appropriate times because, unlike Mrs. Kole, she wasn’t all that quiet.

The real “Pastor Kole” who inspired this fiction story–based on fact.
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Homeschooling’s Life Preserver

by Donna Poole

My little student and I looked at each other; we had just finished our first day of homeschool kindergarten, late August 1994. I smiled; I thought we’d both done rather well. Then I noticed tears filling those big brown eyes looking up at me.

In a trembling voice, Kimmee asked me, “If school’s over, will you be my mommy again now?”

“Oh honey!” I laughed and hugged her. “I will always be your mommy, even when I’m your teacher.

She shook her head and looked stubborn, a homeschool look I’d come to know well. In her mind there was a mommy me and a teacher me, and the two were never to be confused.

I’ve been remembering homeschool lately because my daughter and daughter-in-law have suddenly found themselves in dual roles of mom and teacher. I don’t know if it’s true in all states, but because of covid 19 all students in Michigan and Ohio are homeschooling. The change hasn’t affected my other daughter-in-law; she has always homeschooled.

My daughter, perhaps like some of you, feels like someone suddenly tossed her into cold Lake Michigan and told her to swim. She’s doing well, and laughter is her life preserver when she starts feeling like she’s drowning.

“What do you get when you have two fours?” she asked one of her children who was struggling with math.

“Forty-four?”

I laughed when she told me the story about the fours, and then the memories came flooding back.

A friend who homeschooled when I did read her little boy the directions on the page: “Circle half of the rabbits.”

She returned a few minutes later, and he proudly showed her his work. He’d carefully circled one-half of each rabbit.

For you moms and dads new at homeschool, laughter can be your life preserver. It was mine.

I remember well the first day of first grade. I showed Kimmee the map of the seven continents, without their names, and told her we were going to review them.

“Oh, let me do it by myself!” she exclaimed.

My heart swelled with that ancient enemy, pride. How many children, on the first day of first grade, know the names of the seven continents? Mine does.

I hadn’t planned to homeschool; it had happened by accident. I’d taught Kimmee to read using a book I highly recommend, and it’s still in print, Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons by Siegfried Englemann. From there she began reading everything on her own, Reader’s Digest articles, even her brother’s abnormal psychology college textbook until he caught her and told her to stop.

How could I send her to kindergarten? She’d be bored with kids learning their ABCs. I decided to homeschool her just until the others learned to read but homeschool continued until she graduated.

Back to the whiz kid and my pride. She studied the seven continents tapping her chin. I smiled, waiting. Oh, what a good teacher am I.

Kimmee looked up at me with her beaming smile. “Which continent is New Jersey?”

It may be that I have more fun memories than Kimmee does. I remember acting out history lessons with great enthusiasm, until she got older and suggested perhaps my acting was no longer necessary.

I recall September and October walks down to the St. Joe River on Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, where Kimmee and I turned our empty pockets inside out over the running water symbolizing our sins had been washed away.

“Isn’t this kind of dumb?” Kimmee asked. “There isn’t anything in my pockets. Why am I pretending to empty them?”

I explained the symbolism, comparing the running water to the atoning blood of Christ. She shrugged, but she turned her pockets inside out. I hope Kimmee has deep, spiritual memories of Yom Kippur, but in case she doesn’t, I’m not going to ask her.

Homeschool ingathering days were fun. We had no school those days. Instead, we brought in the last of the garden produce on the day before the forecasted hard freeze. I always stressed gratitude on ingathering days.

One year, when she was quite young, Kimmee stood next to the wheelbarrow heaped with produce.

“Can I pray?”

“Sure!”

Well, look at that. My gratitude lessons are paying off!

“Dear God, thank you for our garden this year. You gave us lots of tomatoes. Mommy likes tomatoes, but I don’t. You gave us lots of squash and green beans. Mommy likes squash and green beans, but I don’t. You gave us lots of cucumbers. I hate cucumbers! I wanted lots of pumpkins, but we didn’t get them. I love corn, but you only gave us one corn and let the coons eat all the rest of it. Amen.”

New homeschool moms and dads, don’t stress. I hope your school days have lots of love and at least a little laughter.

When you teach your children the seven continents, don’t forget to show them which one is New Jersey.

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Thawing the Freeze

by Donna Poole

I’m wondering what spring looks like on your country road, small town lane, or city street. Here in Michigan springtime is an elusive dance that’s hard to learn, kind of a combination of a cha-cha and ballet: two steps forward, one back, one step forward, two back, and a graceful leap sideways. The most dramatic part of the dance occurs between April 15 and May 15. We don’t plant flowers or tomatoes just yet. We know another freeze is likely, but gradually, wonder of wonders, it happens. Springtime thaws the freeze and shows us her lovely, smiling face.

Spring calls to the child in us to look, listen, touch, smell, and most of all, to wonder. We shouldn’t lose our sense of wonder in the winter; the individual geometric beauty of each snowflake is breathtaking. But there’s something about all those flakes heaped together and blown by a brutal north wind that can freeze the wonder right out of us. Wool scarves up around our noses and heads down into the wind we plow our way grimly from house to car, from car to store or church, and ask each other if it will ever end. We work hard not to let every winter become the winter of our discontent.

In life, does it matter if we lose the sense of wonder, if wintery circumstances steal it and replace it with indifference or cynicism? It may matter more than we know. We can’t see nature, life, each other, or even God correctly unless we look with childlike eyes of wonder.

“The surest way to suppress our ability to understand the meaning of God and the importance of worship is to take things for granted. Indifference to the sublime wonder of living is the root of sin.”—Abraham Joshua Herschel (And thank you for that quote, Dr. Paul Patton.)

I’m afraid we sometimes let the winter of life freeze the wonder out of us.

So many things can ice-over our hearts: loss, betrayal, neglect, indifference, man’s inhumanity to man, aging, sickness, death—even our own discontentment.

Though spring is slowly creeping its way back to Michigan, there’s a chilly attitude of discontent here during this covid 19 quarantine time. Some think our governor should have opened the state back up yesterday; others say today is too soon, and the animosity and name-calling between the two groups is sad.

I’ve been inwardly grumbling too. If we have to shelter at home, we could at least have nice weather.

We had a lovely spring here in Michigan, for two whole days. I enjoyed walking around our almost two acres, ignoring the needed clean-up, and admiring everything through the eyes of the child in me; the budding lilacs and red bushes, the sprouting plants: lilies of the valley, hostas, rhubarb, tulips, and bleeding hearts. I exclaimed over everything that blossomed, first the snowdrops, followed in turn by crocuses, hyacinths, and daffodils. I admired the greening grass and buds on the trees and joined the birds in their songs of praise to our creator.

Then a wind and hailstorm all but destroyed the sprouting tulips. Rabbits, pigs that they are, stopped eating my chives and ate every last crocus for dessert. Next, it snowed, not just a little, but a half foot. Cold rainy day followed cold rainy day. Yesterday our governor announced we had to shelter at home for two more weeks.

I get it; I want to be safe, and I certainly don’t want any more people to get sick or die, but how much longer until I can see family and friends and go back to church? I miss my grandkids! I hear a crackle; it’s my heart beginning to freeze around the edges. I stop myself, or rather, God stops me. Discontentment, that instant icemaker, slips in so easily.

Aren’t those such little, selfish things to coat my heart with ice until it looks like a mud puddles frozen over in the spring? Sure, I have some problems I’m not mentioning here, but others face catastrophic crises.

Doctors and nurses, at my beloved University of Michigan hospital and around the world are exhausted, giving everything, somehow finding more to give, and then getting sick from the patients they help.

“They warned us at medical school some of us would die from diseases our patients gave us,” one of my doctors told me.

So much deep suffering. Some people are losing their businesses; others can’t get unemployment because the system is overwhelmed. Men, women, children, even babies are dying alone, and their loved ones are crying and separated from them.

People we love are hurting, and we can’t go and comfort them. When I despair over this, I forget that where my hands can’t reach God’s can; where my love can’t help His can, and where I can’t go, He is already there.

Complaining only makes things worse. It robs us of wonder, distorts trouble into monstrous proportions, and prevents us from seeing the little lights of joy we so desperately need in dark times.

Joy and wonder return when I stop complaining and thank God and others for the smallest blessings. My cold, winter heart thaws, and I can find spring in any season because I’m looking with childlike eyes of wonder.

I saw springtime on the news. A man recovered from covid 19 and left the hospital cheered on by doctors and nurses lining the halls. He arrived home, and his neighbors held a drive by parade for him, honking horns, waving, and smiling. He watched, surrounded by his family, his face wet with tears. Spring had come to his house.

Springtime is an elusive dance and hard to learn, but I’m practicing the steps. With every thank you I’m thawing the freeze.

So, now it’s finally spring, and, “Today, well past afternoon the sun still breaks through forgotten winter windows and from without the new birds sing the old songs and suddenly I see the new budding season and smell the fresh cut dreams and promises of tomorrow.” –Roger Granet

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Creative Isolation

by Donna Poole

Why do we choose someone as a friend?

Friendship is a funny thing, isn’t it? It doesn’t easily dissect or diagram. I don’t really understand what draws one person to another, but I know this: if you love God and others, I admire you. If you make me smile; you’re my friend. If you make me chuckle, you’re my dear friend, and if you make me laugh out loud, I’ll love you forever and like you for always.

Not only do I love friends who make me laugh, I also have a soft spot in my heart for ones who are a bit different, quirky even. There’s nothing like a long walk down a country road and a good talk with an out-of-the-ordinary friend.

Take W. Robertson Nicoll (1851-1923) for example. He’s one of my many dead friends. I keep him on a shelf in our bedroom. No, silly, I don’t keep his ashes. He’s a book friend. His name makes me smile, chuckle, and laugh out loud. And he was definitely a bit quirky.

I would have liked nothing better than a good talk and a long walk with Nicoll, but his health wouldn’t have permitted it. He began his career as a young pastor in Scotland, but poor health forced him from the pastorate. Once out of the pulpit, he admitted he didn’t miss it. He became a great writer and editor.

This is what makes me laugh: W. Robertson Nicoll did some of his best work in bed, and not just in bed, but in a cluttered, messy one.

T. H. Darlow, Nicoll’s biographer, wrote, “It was weird to watch him as he lay there, amid a medley of newspapers and books and pipes and cigarette ashes, and to know that his brain was busy absorbing knowledge and incubating ideas all the time.”

Nicoll had weak lungs, but not only did he smoke, he kept a fire in the fireplace year around and refused to open any windows. Fresh air, he insisted, was an invention of the devil. See? Quirky. Don’t call him stupid; they didn’t know then the things about good health we know now.

From his bed that man accomplished an amazing amount of work. Nicoll read two books a day. He edited journals and several magazines, wrote over forty books, and managed to “compile, edit, or supervise the publication of over 250 more titles. . .. He was undoubtedly the most prolific and respected religious journalist in the English-speaking world from 1886 to his death in 1923” (Wiersbe, Walking with the Giants, Baker).

All from that messy bed, strewn with newspapers, book, pipes, and cigarette ashes! That makes me laugh, but if my husband did it, it wouldn’t be so funny.

I like something else about Nicoll; he loved cats and collecting books. He owned 25,000 books, and 5,000 of those were biographies. I don’t know how many cats he had; I know it was more than one, and I hope his poor wife didn’t have to dust, because I know from experience how cat hair drifts and settles on a library of books. Cat hair, dusty books, cigarettes, pipes, no fresh air; it’s a miracle that man lived as long as he did!

If I could talk with Nicoll, I wouldn’t have to ask how he accomplished so much from his bed. I know the answer; he loved his work. He was passionate about it.

If you love something, an isolated setting doesn’t stop you from pursuing it. Sometimes isolation produces creativity.

Amy Carmichael, one of my favorite authors, fell, injured her back, and spent her last twenty years in bed. Without her injury, we never would have had her beautiful writings.

John Bunyan wrote Pilgrim’s Progress from prison.

Paul the apostle penned much of the New Testament while under house arrest in Rome.

When Cambridge closed because of the plague they sent the students home to self-quarantine. Isaac Newton went home and invented calculus.

During the bubonic plague almost one-third of the people in London died. When the death toll exceeded thirty a week, they shut down the Elizabethan theaters. Sometimes the theaters were closed more than they were open. During one plague, Shakespeare wrote poetry, during another, he took advantage of the time to write more of his popular plays.

Emily Dickinson, for whatever reason, shut herself in her room at around age thirty. Some say she wouldn’t come out even for her own father’s funeral but just cracked the door open a little to listen. Would we have her writing without her self-imposed isolation?

We’re all isolated now. I’m not suggesting we write a classic or invent a sequel to calculus, but we can renew our creativity.

Dig out those old balls of yarn; put together puzzles; read like there’s no tomorrow; dust off your bike and see if you can still ride, or try a new recipe. Just challenge yourself in some way. Do something to make a friend laugh, because we need that, especially now. Pray creatively; try writing out prayers, or praying scripture, or taking a prayer walk.

What creative thing am I doing? Well, I’m writing to you, of course. Where am I writing? I’m writing from bed, I can’t think in a messy setting, and I like to breathe, so my bed doesn’t have any pipes, newspapers, or cigarette ashes. I do have cats and books, lots of books. I’m missing my live friends terribly, especially the ones who make me laugh, but some of these dead ones are pretty funny.

I’m okay, and I hope you are too.

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Through My Tears

by Donna Poole

My screams wake me from the same nightmare. I hear my maids rustling, whispering; the youngest hurries to me, tears on her innocent face. I wipe her tears with the back of my hand.

“Go back to bed, little one. You cannot help me; no one can help me now.”

Who am I?

They call me Mary Magdalene, because I come from Magdala, a village on the Sea of Galilee. Some say I was a harlot, one of the many my village is famous for. Others insist I was the sinner who went to Simon’s home to wash the feet of Jesus with my tears and wipe them with my long hair. I neither confirm nor deny; what does it matter?

Who am I? I am no one. But Jesus? Who is Jesus? He is everything; He is God. Or so I thought. But can God die?I whisper it; I shout it to the heavens, but silence mocks me.

I try to forget the nightmare and sleep. My fine imported sheets feel like sackcloth. I ask, could you sleep if you were me? I am crazy with grief and have slept only in torn fragments since Wednesday. When my eyes close, my seven tormentors, those seven ancient demons Jesus commanded to leave me, hover at the edge of the nightmare and taunt me.

“Where is He now, your so-called Lord? You saw it all, and so did we! Wasn’t it delightful?”

Their hellish shrieks of laughter wake me, and I jump to my feet, drenched in sweat.

Yes, I saw it all. Like torn snapshots thrown in a jumbled pile, my memories fragment in my tortured mind. I remember shivering in the cold waiting the results of the mock trial and seeing Pilate, that spineless coward, pronounce the death sentence. I saw Jesus, barely resembling a man after the sadistic soldiers finished torturing him. I heard the devilish crowd taunt and humiliate him, and I heard the horrible, thudding sound of spikes driven into his hands and feet.

I splash cold water on my face. I was young three days ago; now I’m an old woman who doesn’t take care of herself. What does it matter?

I slip into my sandals. It’s almost dawn, time for me to meet my friend Mary, called “the other Mary.” Like me, she supported Jesus and the disciples with supplies and money.

What will I do with my money now? It means nothing to me. Perhaps I will use it to care for my youngest maid. I think of her tearful face; somehow, I know all those tears were not just for me. Have I been so busy following the Master that I’ve been only hearing his words and not doing them? How could I have missed seeing this suffering maid-child right in my own household? Why is she not with her mother? Had she been sold to pay a debt? I will try to return her to her home, and if she has no home, can I adopt her? I brush aside the thought. What have I left to give a child? I am a broken old woman. I have no hope, and those without hope have nothing to give.

I meet Mary, and we walk in silence along the dusty paths to the rich man’s tomb that holds the body of Jesus. Mary looks like I feel. I reach for her hand, and she clings to it. Some other women will meet us at the tomb with spices so we can prepare his body. Can I bear to touch the cold, dead body of my beloved Lord? I shudder; Mary knows my thoughts. She wraps her arms around me. Our tears mingle, and then we walk on.

The sun rises, but the wind that usually accompanies it is still, and no birds sing. Why is the world standing breathless on tiptoe? I am holding my breath too, and so is my friend. Then I see the gigantic stone is rolled away from the tomb. There’s a blinding flash of angels. We’re confused and frightened and run to find the disciples.

Later, I’m alone again, alone just as I was when people shunned me before Jesus found me, alone as I probably will always be. I investigate the empty tomb. Who has stolen his body? Am I to be deprived of even this? Am I not to be allowed to care for the body of my beloved Lord?

Through my tears I see nothing. Then, in a blur, I notice the gardener.

“Oh, Sir,” I cry, hope against hope. “Have you moved his body? Please tell me where he is. I will carry him away.”

How can I, a slight woman, carry the body of my Lord? But I will carry Him; somehow, I will.

Suddenly the man speaks one word. “Mary.”

I know that voice. Through my tears I see everything. He is not the gardener; He is my Lord, and my God. Jesus is alive!

I fall and clasp his feet.

In that gentle voice I love he tells me to let go of him and go give a message to the disciples. I run; I fly to obey him. I will never again be alone. Somehow, in some way, Jesus will be with me always.

As I race down the dirt paths to find the disciples, I answer my own question. Can God die? Yes! He can if He becomes a man! And can death hold that Man? Death can never hold God! Jesus, the God-Man, defeated sin and death on the cross. I don’t understand it, but I know it’s true. I know something else. He didn’t do it just for himself; he never did anything just for himself. He did it for me too, and for the world.

After I find the disciples, I will find my little maid. I have everything to give her now. I have hope.

Photo credit: Kimberlee Kiefer