The Wasted Nest

by Donna Poole

I couldn’t stop watching. The tiny window at the top of the stairs was the perfect spot to see Mama Robin begin building her nest on the windowsill. I wondered if this was her first nest; I doubted it, because that same windowsill had been home to previous nests.

How old was she? I had no idea, but I knew some robins live twelve years and build twenty or thirty nests.

Mama Robin worked almost a week on her nest, diligently gathering grass and twigs, intricately weaving them, and gluing them to each other and the windowsill with beakfuls of mud. She made hundreds, thousands of trips. I loved seeing her fly into the nest, flap her wings, and wiggle around to shape a perfect cradle for her babies. The nest grew large enough to hold a baseball. When it was almost finished, she lined it with soft grass. Research told me her completed nest weighed 7.23 ounces, almost half a pound.

I hoped, over the next five weeks, to see her lay her eggs and watch the baby robins grow. I knew it was unlikely I’d be there to observe their solo flight, but maybe it would happen.

Mama Robin didn’t lay her eggs right away, but one day a pale blue egg appeared, and a few days later another. Finally, she had four beautiful eggs and began sitting on her nest. She only left for short times. One day I noticed an egg was missing. I checked the ground for fragments of blue shell to see if the egg had fallen but found nothing. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one watching the eggs. Squirrels, blue jays, and crows all steal and eat eggs. Snakes will swallow the eggs whole, and coons love robin eggs as a tasty treat. I never saw the thief, but one by one, all the eggs disappeared

Then Mama Robin broke my heart. Instead of flying away she sat on a nearby tree branch hours at a time and stared at her empty nest. She did this for days. Is she an old robin? Is this her last chance to lay eggs and raise babies? Is that why she’s staying here so long? I knew she was mourning. Robins don’t cry, but my eyes were wet enough for both of us.

Finally, Mama Robin left, but through summer storms, fall winds, and winter snows, the nest has stayed. She built it well. I see it every time I go up or downstairs, and it makes me wonder about wasted things.

Elisabeth Elliot wrote of wasted things. When she was a young, single missionary, she lived with the Colorado Indians in San Miguel, Ecuador. They had no written language, and Elisabeth determined to learn their language and write it so they could have the Bible in their own language. She worked for almost a year, tediously reducing sounds to an alphabet. At the end of nine months she packed the only copy of all her handwritten work into a suitcase and gave it to another missionary so translation could begin. Someone stole the suitcase from that missionary.

At first Elisabeth expected a miracle. How would the suitcase be found? In what way would God have it suddenly reappear? It never did. It was a hard lesson of loss, nine months of difficult labor gone in an instant.

Was Elisabeth’s work wasted? The loss taught her to trust God with the inexplicable. The hard work sharpened her mind, and if you, like me, are a fan of her writing, you appreciate that deeply spiritual and awesomely creative mind. That early loss also made Elisabeth stronger to face deeper losses to come. So, no, it wasn’t wasted.  

Elisabeth lost her first husband, Jim Elliot, to the spears of the Auca Indians in Ecuador, and her second husband, Addison Leithch, to an agonizing cancer. When she was seventy-eight, Elisabeth began a ten-year battle against dementia. She lost her beautiful mind to that disease.

What a waste! That might be our first response.

When Elisabeth found out she had dementia she determined to accept it from God’s hand and for His glory just as she had everything else in her life. And now, as my own memory begins a downward slide, she is my teacher. How can such beautiful teaching be a waste?

Throughout our forty-five year ministry at our country church I’ve often thought of Elisabeth Elliot’s suitcase when people we’ve loved and poured our lives into have turned from us, or worse, from God, when misunderstandings happened and people refused reconciliation, when years of labor seemed to produce so few results.

Is our poured-out love wasted? My mind might cry “wasted” in its gloomy moments, but my heart knows better.

Even through tears my heart sings. Why? Because, in God’s economy, He wastes nothing. Love is never wasted.

Mama Robin, if you’re still alive, if you fly back to Michigan for another spring and see your empty nest, don’t feel like it was wasted. I wish you’d been able to have four beautiful babies, but maybe that will happen this summer. You built well, and you loved well, and love always means something.

Old Man North

by Donna Poole

Maddie dropped her bucket, bait, ice-auger, and homemade fishing pole. She groaned and put both hands on her back as she tried to straighten. “Degenerative disc disease isn’t going to stop me,” she muttered.  “At least I don’t have dementia, in spite of what my family and the townspeople think.”

She’s heard the whispers. “What’s a woman her age doing on that ice every day? She’s a brick shy of a full load.”

What choice did she have?

Maddie shivered, wrapped her worn coat tighter, and pulled the old scarf up over her mouth. That north wind off the mountains had teeth in its bite today. As soon as she got a bit farther out she’d sit on her bucket and turn her back to Old Man North. That would help some.

She’d been trying to keep the wind at her back for well over seventy years, but wind is slippery and sneaky. Before you can say zip-a-dee-doo-dah, it zero-turns from a warm breeze to a blizzard that smacks you in the face and rips your heart apart.

Old Man North had torn Maddie’s heart more than once. The most recent blow had been Walter’s death. They’d had fifty years, more than most. She and Walter had laughed and cried together, raised three great kids, and built “The Water’s Edge” from a shack into an elegant restaurant, famous for its freshwater fish caught right here in Georgetown Lake.

“Don’t cry over what’s gone forever,” Maddie chided herself. “Tears will freeze your cheeks in this Montana wind chill.”

Walking on clear ice always felt satisfyingly surreal. This ice was just right at about six inches. It would easily support her weight. The cold though, the cold. . . . But really, what choice did she have?

If the fishing was good today she might catch Salmon, Rainbow, or even a Brook Trout. She’d sell a few to The Water’s Edge. They were always willing to buy her fish. She hoped they didn’t pay extra because they felt sorry for her.

Maddie was short of breath after drilling a six-inch hole. With her back to the wind, she pulled up the scarf that had slipped and sat down. She expertly baited two maggots on a glow hook, dropped the line, and twitched the bait slightly up and down. Trout sure would taste good. She noticed how loosely her coat hung. She needed to eat better.

It was a good day. Within minutes she had two Rainbows and a Brook Trout.

That’s when she noticed the two little boys on the shore, shouting and waving their arms. Had someone broken through the ice? Were the boys crying? No, it sounded more like laughing.

Maddie stood and squinted to see. Was that. . .?

“Grandma!” Their voices carried. “Hurry! We’ve come to see you!”

Her family had driven ninety miles from Missoula to Anaconda without telling her they were coming? Why?

The little boys ran out on the ice to help. Kaleb carried the bucket with its fifteen pounds of fish.

“Kaleb, that’s too heavy for you.”

“I’m almost eight, Grandma. I have more muscles than you.”

She laughed. It was probably true. Well, she wouldn’t be selling fish to The Water’s Edge today. They’d need all the fish for supper.

Kaleb and Reece laughed and talked all the way to shore, but her son and daughter-in-law met her with tight lipped frowns. She knew a lecture was coming, but maybe they’d wait until they got home. That was always an issue too. They didn’t like her living conditions either.

After a lovely fish dinner prepared by Maddie’s cook, they sat in the luxurious living room in front of a roaring fire. The boys romped with Blackie the old lab and Sunny the golden retriever. The six cats curled up on laps and wound around feet.

Max pushed a cat away. He wanted Maddie to get rid of the menagerie.

“Mom.” Max sighed. “Why do you keep ice fishing every day? It’s not safe.”

“I have to.”

He raised his eyebrows, waiting.

“The menagerie likes fresh fish.” It was lame; she knew it.

“And with all your money, you could afford an entire fish store.”

“You don’t understand. I have no choice. It’s how I keep Old Man North at my back.”

She thought he’d be angry. Suddenly, he roared with laughter. “Everyone has to get old sometime, Mom, even you! Will you at least buy a warmer coat?”

“I always wore that coat when I fished with your dad.”

He waited.

“Okay! I’ll buy a new coat.”

“And you’ll call every time before you go out on the ice and when you get back?”

“I will, but the day I don’t call, don’t think Old Man North won. He never will, because I’m going where Dad already is, and they don’t allow any north wind there.”

“No,” Max said, “I’m pretty sure Old Man North loses the game there.”

Maddie stood in the curved driveway and waved goodbye to her family before she walked back inside. The cook was gone now, but it didn’t feel lonely. Old Man North howled around the chimney, but she was safe and warm; he couldn’t get in here yet. Maybe not for a long time.

Thank you to my friend, Lonie Hutchison, for helping me locate this picture of Georgetown Lake, and to her friend, Pam Burgess Morfitt for the beautiful photography!

Adventure on the Mustard Aisle

by Donna Poole

“Our exciting lives,” Gloria muttered. “Grocery shopping and church.”

“What’s that you say?” Bud asked loudly enough to be heard four aisles away.

Gloria shook her head and sighed. Where had that man learned to whisper? In the woods surrounded by chain saws?

All the years of farming on equipment without cabs hadn’t helped Bud’s hearing, and he refused to get tested for hearing aids.

“I hear everything I want to hear,” Bud said.

She’d reminded him of the time at church when the pastor had said, “Don’t think I’m preaching at you. I’m as big a sinner as any of you!”

Bud had thought the pastor had said he was preaching to the big sinners and had let out a loud and hearty “Amen!”

Gloria had felt the warmth creeping up her neck into her face when she’d heard smothered giggles. Even the pastor had grinned.

“See?” Gloria had said to Bud when she’d told him after church what had happened. “You do need hearing aids.”

Bud had just shrugged. He wasn’t easily embarrassed. He hadn’t gotten hearing aids, and he hadn’t quit being a big part of the amen corner either, something the young people at church found amusing. She had to admit people at church loved Bud. He and his warm laughter were the center of many after-church conversations.

Gloria thought about church as she and Bud walked up and down every aisle doing the weekly grocery shopping she hated. Maybe it was time, after fifty years, to look for a new church. She’d felt vaguely dissatisfied for quite some time, and she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t the people; her life-time friends attended the little country church. It wasn’t the young preacher. His sermons were good. Just last week he’d preached on “a wise woman builds her house, but the foolish pulls it down with her hands.”

Maybe it’s me, Gloria thought. It’s a new year; maybe I need a change. I wonder what Bud would say trying out one of those bigger churches in town. Or, quitting church altogether. She sighed. She knew what Bud would say. She always knew what he would say about everything, and she was tired of that too.

Bud steered the cart down the mustard aisle, and something in Gloria snapped when Bud reached up, as he always did, for the same yellow plastic bottle of mustard he bought every single week. How much mustard had the man bought in the last fifty years of their marriage?

Just last week Gloria and Bud had celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary. The kids had wanted to give them a big party, and Gloria had loved that idea. But not Bud. He’d finally agreed to renew their vows in front of the church and have cake after, but he’d been uncomfortable doing even that. Gloria had hoped he’d kiss her after they’d renewed their vows, but she’d known better.

“Did you feel bad when Dad didn’t kiss you?” their daughter had asked. Gloria had shrugged. Her daughter had smiled, stooped, and kissed her cheek. “You know he adores you, Mom. He reminds me of a joke I heard once. An old lady asked her husband why he never said he loved her. He answered, ‘Told you I loved you when I married you. If I ever change my mind, I’ll let you know.’”

Gloria had managed a weak chuckle. That was Bud alright. She’d loved him unwaveringly through fifty years of five children, little money, and cows and crops coming first. She’d always hoped their retirement years would be different, but nothing had changed. He still never said he loved her. And he still bought mustard. Every. Single. Week.

“Think I’ll get two this week,” Bud said in his normal shouting level voice.

Gloria, who hadn’t raised her voice in fifty years, out-shouted him. “You put that mustard back on the shelf! This is ridiculous! No one buys the same thing every week when he already has it at home!”

Bud stared at Gloria like he’d never seen her before. Then he threw his head back and laughed. People in the aisle laughed too; Bud’s laugh always had been contagious. Gloria wished she could evaporate like steam from her tea kettle.

“Hey ladies!” Bud’s voice boomed. “I’m taking a survey. What do you buy here even though you have it at home? Speak up, now, please; I’m deaf!”

An amused crowd grew around him. Bud put the mustard in the cart, whipped out his old fountain pen, and started writing down the answers people shouted out.

“My little boy begs me to buy ketchup in case we run out of it. He’d eat it straight out of the bottle if I’d let him. “

Bud’s list grew as did the laughter and the camaraderie in the mustard aisle. Cheese, milk, ginger, eggs, coffee, spring water, chicken broth, Oreos, popsicles, crackers, sour cream, fruit, tortillas.

When someone hollered, “chocolate!” people cheered.

“You people are all foodies.” A woman laughed, steering her cart around the group. “What about toilet paper?”

Finally people drifted away, smiling. Gloria glared at Bud.

“I was just trying to show you I’m not the only one who buys something they already have. When I was a little boy we could never afford mustard.”

“You might not be the only one who buys what you don’t need, but you’re the only one I have to live with!”

Bud’s smile faded. He put the two mustards back on the shelf. Quietly the two of them walked to the check-out. The line was long. Gloria looked wistfully at the self-check-out. It was empty, but she knew better than suggest it. Bud liked real people to check him out, not a computer who wouldn’t repeat things when he couldn’t hear.

Chatter at the front quieted. Gloria saw ambulance lights outside of the window. An elderly man lay on a stretcher, and paramedics were carrying him from the store.  

Even Bud was quiet for once. Without saying anything to him, Gloria left and returned with two mustards. She put them in the cart and looked straight ahead.   

Tomorrow was Sunday. Pastor was going to preach part two of his sermon on how a wise woman builds her house. Perhaps it was never too late to build—or to rebuild. Maybe she’d made a start with two yellow plastic bottles of mustard.

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Thanks to my good-natured husband for being my model. He has always been supportive of my writing. Once he measured a grasshopper for me, no easy task. In case you wonder, the only thing he has in common with Bud in my story is a love of mustard and of old fountain pens.

No More Somersaults

by Donna Poole

The only sounds in the room were logs breaking apart in the fireplace and Grandpa Bob turning the pages of his book. He looked up at a loud snap, saw sparks shoot up the chimney, and smiled. He liked nothing better than spending a snowy morning next to the fire with a good book, and he loved the new mystery he’d gotten for Christmas. It was a perfect, lazy-day Saturday. He pushed aside the thought that he had too many lazy days. He might be too old to work, but he was too young to do nothing day after day.

Bob looked over at Bella. She was wrapped in her new blanket, cuddling her Christmas teddy bear, and sucking her thumb. The picture of four-year-old contentment, he thought.

Alice stuck her head in the family room door. “Bella! Act your age! Quit sucking that thumb! Even your preschool teacher complains about that.”

And about other things too, Alice thought as she headed to the kitchen. Maybe they shouldn’t have put Bella in the expensive preschool that promised to have students working at a first-grade level by age five. Bella had tested ready for the accelerated curriculum, but lately her teacher had been suggesting they place her in an easier program.

Bella’s thumb made a popping sound as she pulled it from her mouth. Her face crumpled as she thought about preschool. She didn’t like preschool. The other kids could read a few sight words; she couldn’t even print the alphabet. The others could add and subtract small numbers, but she couldn’t. She was the only one who could count to one-hundred though.

Bob hoped his face didn’t express his thoughts. Alice, can’t you just let Bella be a kid? And I wish you and Andy would reconsider my offer of letting me homeschool her until she starts first grade. I miss teaching, and I know how to help Bella. She needs manipulatives for math and phonics for reading. I was an expert in both, even published papers in educational journals. A slower pace would help her too. Does it really matter if she learns to read when she’s four?

But Bob didn’t say a word. He’d learned not to interfere with Alice and Andy’s parenting. He appreciated living with them, but in many ways, it wasn’t easy.  

Bob heard Alice rattling pans in the kitchen. He hoped she’d be in a better mood by lunch. He heard Bella sniff. One tear ran down her cheek, and Teddy was on the floor.

“Hey! What do you say we teach Teddy how to do somersaults? Prop him up on the couch there so he can watch us.”

“Are you going to do somersaults, Grandpa Bob?”

“Sure! Why not?”

Bella giggled and put Teddy on the couch, giving him a good view of the floor. Bob struggled a bit getting out of the recliner. His right knee snapped, and he winced. He intended to put that knee replacement off as long as possible.

Bob tossed a sofa pillow on the floor, gingerly put his head on it, and rolled over with a crash. Bella roared with laughter, and Andy came running.

‘Bob! What in the world are you doing?”

“We’re teaching Teddy how to do somersaults!” Bella said, still laughing.

Andy wasn’t laughing. He helped his father-in-law off the floor. “It’s a miracle you didn’t break something. Act your age! Seventy-year-old men don’t do somersaults.”

“Obviously, some do,” Bob said dryly. Everything hurt, especially his knee, but it was worth it to see Bella laughing instead of crying.

Andy looked at Bob and Bella grinning at each other. In spite of himself, he laughed.  “You’re two of a kind!” He left to help Alice in the kitchen.

Bob could just imagine the kitchen conversation. Would he end up in a nursing home next?

“Grandpa Bob, why do Mommy and Daddy keep saying to act our age?”

He hugged her. “Oh, honey, they want the best for us, and they don’t always know how to make that happen. Hey, speaking of age, do you know how many years older I am than you are?”

Bella shook her head. “I know you’re seventy and I’m four, but I can’t do numbers. I heard teacher tell the parapro I’m not smart.”

That teacher is looking to get fired. Bob swallowed his anger. “Get me your scissors and some paper, please.”

Bob cut seventy squares and laid them on the coffee table. “That’s seventy squares, one for each of my years. You take away how many years you are.”

Bella picked up four squares.

“Sit on those.”

Bella laughed and sat on the four squares.

“Now count how many squares you have left. That’s a way to subtract your four years from my seventy years without using paper.”

Bella knew she could count to one-hundred, and there weren’t that many squares. This was going to be easy.

With their heads close together, neither Bob nor Bella noticed the noise from the kitchen had stopped. They didn’t see Alice and Andy standing in the doorway, watching them.

Bella yelled, “Sixty-six! You are sixty-six more than me! I subtracted from a bigger number than they do at preschool! I did it! I’m not stupid!”

About half an hour later Andy called, “Get your coats. We’re going out to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” Bob asked. “I thought I heard Alice fixing lunch. Why aren’t we eating here?”

“We’re celebrating New Year’s a little early,” Andy said. “Do you want to come or not?”

“I’m always good for a meal out.”

Bob looked around the upscale restaurant. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed a nice steak dinner out, and this was Bella’s first time.

Alice looked up from cutting Bella’s steak into tiny pieces. “Happy New Year, Dad,” she said. “Here’s to new beginnings. How would you like to homeschool Bella until she starts first grade? Andy and I’ve decided you’ll do a much better job than the teacher she has now.”

“Really?” Bella squealed with delight.

Bob sat silently, unable to say anything.

“Dad, don’t you have anything to say?”

Bob swallowed the lump in his throat. “Can we hold hands and pray? I suddenly feel about ten years younger and very thankful.”

Andy sighed. “Make it snappy; I don’t want my steak to get cold. And about that ten years younger thing? You have to promise, no more somersaults!”

Bob nodded. It was a small price to pay. Anyway, his knee didn’t seem to appreciate somersaults as much as he did.

Photo by HCCO Park. Used by permission.

The Broken Gift

by Donna Poole

“I don’t think so, not this year.” Annetta shook her head. If it weren’t for the white curls and deep lines in her face, she’d look just like a stubborn child.

Kate and Bob looked at each other. “Mom, come on! The candlelight service has always been your favorite! You know Bob will help you get into the church.”

After repeated refusals, Annetta’s family left. “Maybe she’ll change her mind before Sunday,” Bob said, but Kate cried.

As Bob pulled out onto the gravel road, Kate looked back at the old farmhouse thinking of Christmases past when Dad had been alive and the aroma of fresh cut pine and an impossible amount of baked goods had filled the home. Now the house smelled old and musty. It had been years since Mom had been able to host family Christmas. They couldn’t even let her walk to the end of the driveway to get her mail anymore; her balance was that bad. Mom couldn’t stay alone much longer, and that was going to be a battle Kate dreaded. After the holidays, they’d give her a choice, live with them or go to assisted living. She sighed; neither option was optimal. Kate felt sure Mom had no idea what they were thinking. Let her enjoy one last Christmas at home.

Annetta sat in her rocker; she too was thinking of Christmases past. How could she tell her family she didn’t want to go to the candlelight service because she was tired to the bone of having nothing left to share? Once she’d had so much to give her family and her church family. For many years the congregation had sat in awed silence at the candlelight service as she’d offered Christ and them her soprano solo of “O Holy Night.”

When her cracked and aging voice had stopped her from singing, Annetta had started writing short stories she’d read to the church children at the candlelight service. The adults had liked them as much as the kids. But then the cloud in her mind had ended the stories.

“It’s the beginning of dementia, hardening of the arteries,” the doctor called it.

“It’s hardening of the ought-eries,” Anetta murmured to herself. She couldn’t seem to remember what she ought to do, and when she did remember, she couldn’t find ambition to do it.

Annetta picked up her worn Bible, shivered, and pulled a quilt around her knees. Why is it always so cold?

“Lord, Lord,” she murmured, as a tear traced its way down a deep wrinkle in her cheek, “I can live with my body being so cold, but I can’t live with this empty, cold heart. I’ve nothing left to give.”

Everything was gone, even joy. Christmas would be at Kate’s again this year. Bless her heart; Kate tried, but she was busy. She worked full time, as did all of her siblings. No one cut a real tree anymore. No one had time to make crescent rolls or beautiful, layered Jell-O. And no one had read Luke chapter two on Christmas Day since her beloved Jacob had died. What she wouldn’t give to hear his strong voice read that once more.

Annetta sighed and opened her Bible. As she read about the wise men giving the Christ-child expensive gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, more tears followed. She longed to give the Lord Jesus something special this Christmas as she had so many years in the past, something of herself, but she was broken, body, soul, and spirit.

Blessed. Broken. Given. The words stirred a memory in Annetta’s foggy brain. Hadn’t Jesus used those words? He’d accepted a little boy’s meager lunch, blessed it, broken it, and given it to the hungry crowd and had miraculously fed a multitude.

Before He’d died on the cross for the sin of the world Jesus had taken bread, blessed it, broken it, and given it to His disciples. “This is my body, given for you,” He’d said.

Annetta remembered that after Christ’s resurrection His followers had recognized Him when He’d blessed, broken, and given them bread.

It must have been a habit of His, this blessing, breaking, and giving, if His friends recognized Him because of it, Annetta thought. But what does it mean? What does it have to do with me?

“I’ve been greatly blessed,” Annetta murmured, “and now I’m broken. Can I be given? What’s left of me to give?”

Annetta chuckled, remembering the year the pastor had preached, “Just give what you have to Jesus.” The next Sunday, Annetta had been shocked to see five-year-old Kate drop her favorite doll in the offering plate.

After church, the treasurer had come to Annetta, holding the grubby doll that was missing both an arm and a leg. “What exactly am I supposed to do with this?”

Annetta had laughed. “You’re the treasurer; you think of something. It’s Kate’s favorite doll, and she sleeps with it every night. I don’t know how she’ll get to sleep without it tonight, but she wanted to give it to Jesus.”

“What do you want, Lord?” Annetta whispered. “Do you want this mind, getting worse with dementia every year? Do you want this body, crippled with arthritis? Do you want this empty soul? It’s all less than worthless, but I give it to you.”

There. Her broken gift lay next to Kate’s grubby doll offering. Of the two, Annetta thought her present looked worse by far, but a quiet peace filled her soul.

Annetta went to the candlelight service. Bob helped her struggle to her feet, and in a halting voice, stumbling over words and missing several, she read Luke chapter two. There wasn’t a dry eye in the congregation.

On the way home, Annetta said to Kate and Bob, “I have a Christmas gift for you.”

Kate frowned. “Mom, we agreed, no gifts this year. No one needs anything.”

“Oh, you need this,” Annetta said mysteriously.

“What is it?”

“You have to wait until tomorrow.”

Christmas at Kate’s was nice. The catered ham dinner wasn’t too bad, and Annetta didn’t mention the dry rolls.

After they ate, Annetta handed Kate and Bob a small box. They opened it and pulled out a piece of paper. On it Annetta had written, “I’ve decided to go into assisted living at Maple Lawn after the first of the year. I love you, Mom.”

As Kate cried and hugged her, Annetta thought, blessed, broken, and given. It felt good to still have something to give. And to receive. The thought came suddenly. Adventure. It had been decades since she’d thought of that word in connection with herself, but who knew? Was she actually looking forward to a new life at Maple Lawn? Maybe. Maybe she was.

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Photo credit: Drones Over Broome: used by permission

Not on My Watch

by Donna Poole

The bottle of Dom Perignon was half-empty, but Jer hadn’t touched the Champagne. He wasn’t interested tonight in the pricey, popular Treasure Chest of drinks. Its dry ice drifted in a lazy fog over their table of four. He yawned and looked at the yellow-gold Rolex Lisa had given him.

“Here,” she’d kissed him lightly and laughed. “If you’re going to be appearing on billboards all over Chicago with my Dad, advertised as his brilliant, young, new law partner, you need to look the part.”

He hadn’t wanted to accept the watch; he and Lisa really weren’t at that point in their relationship. He didn’t know if he ever wanted to be, but things were complicated. He’d never have moved up so quickly in the law firm without Lisa’s dad, so he felt obligated to take the watch, obligated to keep being with Lisa, and he didn’t like the feeling. Jer sighed. He was tired and suddenly homesick for a place he hadn’t been in years, the hills of Tennessee.

“Hey!” Bud laughed. “What’s up, Jer? It isn’t like you to look bored at Three Dots and a Dash! This is our third club of the night, and you’ve only had one drink. Something wrong?”

Jer pushed aside his memories of a small church in the Tennessee hills where it snowed every Christmas, all roads led home, and grown men still called their fathers “Daddy.” His Daddy was the pastor at that church. Right now they were having the Christmas Eve candlelight service, and he knew light from inside was shining through the stained glass windows and reflecting on the snow. When Jer had been a boy, Daddy had always left the church lights on all night Christmas Eve, and as Jer’s family had left the snowy parking lot and headed home to the farm, he’d loved looking back at that reflection. It had seemed magical.

“Jer? You still with us?”

Jer looked at Bud, shrugged, and glanced at his watch. In a half-hour it would be Christmas. “I’m tired. Let’s go.”

“And leave the rest of the Treasure Chest? Well, it’s your buck! It you want to spend $400.00 for drinks plus your usual big tip and then not finish drinking, okay. The rest of us have probably had enough anyway.”

Enough and too much, Jer thought as he helped his friends out the door and waved for a cab.

Bud laughed again. “What’s that drunk doing here? He’s a long way from the mission!”

Jer hesitated, then walked over to the man lying on the sidewalk. What was a drunk, homeless-looking man doing in front of this trendy, expensive bar? Even in the dim light Jer could see the deep yellow of the man’s skin. If he wasn’t dead already from liver damage, he soon would be.

The man started shivering violently. Obviously not dead yet, Jer thought. But he’s soon going to freeze to death. They don’t call this the Windy City for nothing.

“Give him you coat, son.” Jer’s father’s voice sounded so clear, he looked around, startled.

Why not? It’s not like I can’t afford another one. I can afford to buy anything I want or need.

“Are you sure you don’t need something money can’t buy?”

Again, Jer looked around started. Why did he keep thinking he heard his father’s voice? He wasn’t drunk, not on one drink. Was he losing his mind? He took off his coat and bent to cover the man on the sidewalk.

Jer’s friends laughed. “Hope you never want to wear that coat again; it’s covered with lice and fleas now. Come on, Jer, cab’s waiting. Leave that guy. He’s just going to die anyway.”

“Not on my watch, he isn’t,” Jer said abruptly. “You guys go on. I’ll catch you later.”

Jer ignored his friends’ laughter and sarcastic comments as he dialed 9-1-1. He did hear Bud jeeringly call him a Good-Samarian Jeremiah. Bud knew he hated the name Jeremiah and all its biblical connotations. Jer was definitely not a Jeremiah, and he hadn’t been one, not for a long, long time.

Jer felt a hand grab his ankle. “Afraid,” a hoarse voice moaned.

Jer squatted next to the man. “What’s your name? And what are you doing here?”

“Samuel. Walked from the mission. Wanted to see Three Dots and a Dash one more time. Used to come here with my buddies.”

Jer’s thoughts raced. Wait. Three Dots and a Dash had only opened in 2013. This man looked like he’d lived on the streets at least forty years. When had he been sober and wealthy enough to have come here? And how had he walked from the mission?

Jer had volunteered at the mission when he’d first come to the city, before he’d left his faith behind, so he knew its location. It was a brisk forty minute walk away for a healthy man. It must have taken this man at least two hours to stumble here in his condition.

“Rum? Got rum?” Samuel’s voice was so low Jer could barely hear it.

Jer shook his head, and tears stung his eyes. It had been a long time since anything had made him cry.

“Don’t leave me. Don’t want to die alone.”

“I won’t leave, and you aren’t going to die, not on my watch!” Jer peered through the crowd of bodies that had gathered to gawk. Where was that ambulance? Finally.  

The paramedics rolled Samuel onto a stretcher. He grabbed Jer’s hand.

“May I ride with him? I promised not to leave him.”

“You a relative? You can only ride in the back if you’re family.”

Jer shook his head, but Samuel muttered, “He’s my brother.”

“Get in.” A paramedic chuckled and motioned to Jer. 

Samuel kept a grip on Jer’s hand. Jer had never seen such grime on a human body.

Again Samuel said, “Don’t want to die alone.”

“Hey! I told you. You aren’t going to die! Not on my watch.”

The paramedic caught Jer’s eye and shook his head slightly.

“Afraid, afraid!” Samuel moaned.

Jer was surprised to hear himself say, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him, should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

“John 3:16,” Samuel whispered. “I believe. So sorry. Almost forgot Jesus. Not alone. He’ll walk me Home.”

A few minutes later Samuel relaxed his grip. Jer didn’t need the paramedic to tell him Samuel was gone. Jesus had come and walked him the rest of the way Home.

“What happens to guys like him if they die without insurance or families?”

The paramedic shrugged. “DHS might help with cremation.”

“You look like an honest guy. “ Jer slipped off his watch. “Will you sell this, pay for a funeral for Samuel, and give the rest to the mission? I’d do it myself, but I need to catch the first flight to Tennessee.”

The ambulance pulled up to the hospital

The paramedic’s eyes widened as he looked at the yellow-gold Rolex in his hand. “Isn’t this thing worth like forty-grand? Sure, I’ll take care of it for you. It just so happens my grandpa is one of the chaplains at the mission. Who should I say the gift is from?”

Jer jumped down from the ambulance and turned to shake the paramedic’s hand. “Tell them Jeremiah gave it to you,” he said, “Jeremiah from Tennessee.” Then he sprinted off to find a cab.

Photo Credit: Drones Over Broome. Please visit their Facebook page for more breathtaking photos.

The Christmas Road Home

by Donna Poole

Which is true? You can’t go home again, or the greatest adventure of our lives is finding our way back home?

One hour and fifty-nine minutes. That’s how long it took to fly from Boston to Detroit. “Under two hours to fly to a different planet,” Darla muttered, “and wouldn’t you know, Mom and Dad would be late picking me up.”

Holiday music filled the crowded airport lobby. Travelers rushed to get to their destinations this Christmas Eve morning.

 “I’ll be home for Christmas,” the old song crooned. Darla wished she had earplugs. Detroit was only the beginning of what was sure to be an almost unendurable week. The ride to the family home south of Jackson, Michigan, would take thirty minutes longer than the flight from Boston to Detroit had. From experience Darla knew the trip would be filled with Mom’s irritating, optimistic chatter. And the questions! Mom’s questions never ended, but Darla dreaded most the one question she knew Dad would ask.

Who was it who said, “You can’t go home again?” Maybe they should have said, “Only a fool tries to go home again.”

Darla retrieved her bags, found a seat, and sighed. This wasn’t where she’d wanted to spend the holidays. She and her friends had planned to party through Christmas and then go to Times Square in New York to celebrate New Year’s Eve in style.

Darla almost wished she’d refused when Mom had called asking her to come home for Christmas and to stay for Grandma’s memorial service on December 31.  

Grandma. In spite of her black mood Darla smiled, visualizing her short, white-haired, grandmother. Darla could almost smell Grandma’s Christmas cookies. Every Christmas of Darla’s childhood had been spent at Grandma’s house, and at Corners Church.

Finally. There were the parents, hurrying toward her. She stood to accept Mom’s hug.  People always smiled at the contrast between her and her mother. Mom said Darla, at five-eleven, looked like Beauty in Beauty and the Beast, and that she looked like Mrs. Potts—the little talking tea pot.

As a little girl, Darla had sung, “Mommy’s a little tea pot, short and stout,” until Dad had made her stop. He’d feared she’d hurt Mom’s feelings. Darla still referred to Mom as “The Tea Pot” when she talked about her to her Boston friends.

As always, Darla felt half-amused and half-embarrassed by Mom’s looks. The way Mom dressed did nothing to enhance her five-foot frame. Even on tip toe she couldn’t quite reach Darla’s cheek.

Darla bent for Mom’s kiss. Then she felt the crush of Dad’s arms. They didn’t feel as strong as she remembered. She was surprised at the amount of gray in Dad’s hair and at the many wrinkles that lined Mom’s face. She glanced again at Mom’s cheeks. The pink cheeks she remembered were gone. Mom’s face looked pale and fragile.

The ride home was emotionally exhausting. Darla bit her lip more than once to stop from snapping.

“No, Mom, Devon and I have no plans to get married.”

“Yes, Mom, I know The Boston Globe is New England’s largest newspaper. I’ve worked for them for two years.”

“Yes, Mother, I keep my doors locked when I’m driving around the city.”

 “No Mom, I don’t eat three healthy meals a day. You have no idea how demanding my schedule is.”

Finally! Blessed quietness. Mom slept, her head leaned against the window. Darla noticed how the sunlight made Mom’s hair look even grayer than it had in the terminal.

Dad cleared his throat. Oh no, here it came. “The Question.”  Might as well get it over with. 

“I’m retiring the first of the year,” Dad said unexpectedly.

“What?” Darla bolted up in her seat. “You told Mom not to talk to you about retiring until you were seventy-five! Dad, why retire? You love your job!”

“Guess this is as good a time as any to tell you. Mom needs too much help now. I’m retiring to spend what time she has left with her.”

  “What do you mean ‘what time she has left?’ Does anyone in this family ever tell me anything?”

Dad’s voice was quiet “I wanted to wait and tell you in person. Mom has lymphoma. Stage four.” 

The size of the lump in Darla’s throat surprised her. She hadn’t felt close to her parents for years. Truthfully, she seldom thought of them except when she skimmed their too long weekly letters. Darla hadn’t been home for five years, and Mom and Dad had never visited Boston.  Darla was just as happy they didn’t come. The parents meeting her Boston friends? 

Darla didn’t know what to say to Dad. The car was silent except for Mom’s soft snores. Darla texted Devon the news of the lymphoma.

“So The Tea Pot’s going to whistle her last tune?” he texted back. It was exactly the kind of sarcastic, dark humor that had drawn Darla to Devon, but now it made her inexplicably angry. She turned her cell phone off and shoved it into the pocket of her jacket.

The trip took an eternity. Ann Arbor. Chelsea. Jackson. Spring Arbor. As Darla well remembered from her college days, there were still thirty minutes of car travel left before they reached her parents’ farm at the end of a dirt road.

Dad slowed as they passed the college. It looked even smaller and quainter than Darla remembered. She’d tried to forget her years there. If anyone asked where she got her education, she always said NYU, where she’d done her graduate work in journalism.

“Do you want me to stop at your old Alma Mater?” Dad asked.

“Don’t bother.” Darla sighed. “Let’s just get home and get this week over with.”

Dad glanced at her in the rear view mirror. His eyes looked sad. That was another thing Darla hated about coming home. It seemed she always said or did something to hurt Mom and Dad.

“Here,” Dad reached back over the seat and handed Darla an ad ripped from the paper. “I thought you might want to see this for what it’s worth.”

Darla couldn’t help it. She laughingly read out loud: “Wanted. Experienced journalist for the Hudson Daily Reporter. Salary based on experience. Benefits.” She remembered as a kid snickering at a story the paper had carried on its front page, “Calamity Cow Causes Car Crash.”

So the “Daily Blues,” as some called it, wanted to hire a reporter? Darla was surprised the paper hadn’t gone belly up years ago. When even Newsweek couldn’t survive the upheaval in print journalism, how had that little newspaper survived?

Hudson was only about ten miles from her parents’ home. Did her dad really think she’d return home and work for that nothing newspaper? Ludicrous! She crumpled the ad and put it in her jacket pocket. Her fingers touched her phone. Should she text Devon so they could mock her Dad’s idea together? Somehow, she just didn’t feel like it.

Darla carried one suitcase into the house, and Dad carried the other. Mom held his free arm. Darla knew she should say something to Mom about the cancer, but what? They’d never communicated well, not even when Darla had been a child. Mom was all the things Darla secretly despised, a stay-at-home Mom, with no higher education, and church as her only social life.

Darla felt she’d walked back in time when she stepped into the farmhouse. The tree was in the same corner. As usual, the top was crooked, and the tree topper had the same crack she remembered. The scent of pine filled the air. Darla sneezed. She’d forgotten about her allergy to pine.

Looking around, Darla sighed. Every nook was filled with something red and green. Her eyes widened at the array of home baked goods that filled the kitchen counter. She hoped her parents didn’t expect her to eat those. It took strict discipline to stay in her size six clothes. Dad saw Darla’s glance and smiled proudly.

“You think that’s something?” Dad said. “Wait until you taste the turkey, the ham, and the pork roast Mom has in the fridge.”

“I’m a vegan!” Darla hadn’t meant to sound so angry.

“What’s a vegan?” Dad asked.

How could anyone not know the definition of vegan? Darla tried to be patient. “I don’t eat anything that causes an animal to suffer. I don’t eat meat, eggs or dairy.”

“What do you eat?” Mom sounded stupefied.

“Veggies. Lots of veggies. And no baked goods.”

Mom took a long look at the counter. Tears came to her blue eyes. “I think I’m going to go take a nap,” she said softly.

Dad helped Mom into the bedroom and returned to Darla. “Sit, young lady!” he thundered. Darla almost laughed, but she sat. “Your Mom has been cooking for days for your visit. She has so little energy, and she used every bit of it to prepare for you to come home for the holidays.”

“OK, well I’m sorry.” Darla almost winced at the weak sound of her own voice. She spoke louder, “I’m a vegan by conviction. I’m not going to change just because Mom cooked!”

Dad’s face reddened. “By conviction!” he thundered. “Since when do you have any convictions about anything? You don’t even bother attending church. And do you think Mom and I are stupid? We know you and Devon are living together. And that last article you wrote for the paper on abortion? That made Mom cry. We prayed none of our friends would see it.”

Darla could feel her heart pounding in her head. One of her migraines was starting. “This isn’t going to work,” Darla said. “Home for Christmas? What a joke! This place isn’t home. I shouldn’t have come here. We live in two different worlds, and there’s nowhere left for us to meet. I’m flying back to Boston.”

“Maybe that would be best.” Dad sighed. “We’ll take you back to the airport in the morning. Perhaps you’ll stop thinking of yourself long enough to go to the Christmas Eve program at church with us tonight?”

Selfish? Dad thought she was selfish? She almost told him how much she’d donated to Planned Parenthood last year but realized just in time Dad wouldn’t consider that a point in her favor.

“Speaking of church,” Dad began.

Darla interrupted hastily. She already regretted her bitter words and didn’t want to argue anymore with Dad. “I’m going to do like Mom and take a little nap if I have to go to church tonight.”

Lying on the twin bed in her old room, Darla tried to sleep in spite of the pounding headache. Had she ever been that girl who loved pink gingham? Everything in the room looked like cotton candy. Pink was now her least favorite color.

From downstairs Darla could hear Christmas music playing and Mom and Dad talking softly. Her angry words with Dad must have prevented Mom’s nap. Was that noise Mom crying? Darla buried her head under a pillow. She would get through church. She would spend the night. She would fly back to her world in the morning and bury this one in the past where it belonged. Home for the holidays was just an outdated phrase; it had nothing to do with her.

Surprised that she’d slept so long, Darla woke. Downstairs Mom and Dad were waiting supper for her. No meats or treats were in sight. Two large trays of veggies and fruits sat on th counter.

“Are fruits okay?” Mom sounded timid.

“Oh Mom!” Darla reached down, hugged her, and realized Mom’s clothes no longer covered a plump frame. Mom was so tiny Darla could feel her bones. Darla pulled away, shocked.

 “You didn’t tell me about the lymphoma.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Mom said simply.

Darla nodded. She understood that, the not knowing what to say.

The three of them walked together through the snowy parking lot and into Corners Church. This part of Michigan enjoyed a white Christmas only fifty percent of the time. For some illogical reason, Darla was glad that it was snowing this year. She liked hearing the snow crunch under her feet. 

The white frame church was even smaller than Darla remembered. Just like every year of her childhood, there was candlelight, laughter, and music. The children in the play forgot their lines, just like they always did. Grandpas dozed and Grandmas looked proud. Babies fussed and were comforted. The same wreaths hung in the same windows. The same ridiculous Charlie Brown Christmas tree stood in the same corner. Its only ornaments were construction paper handprints. Must be the children were still tracing their hands to make Christmas ornaments.

Could it be? Darla leaned forward and peered at the tree. There it was—the handprint she’d made so long ago. It was the only one with a big yellow smiley face on it. At age seven, Darla had decorated everything with that silly smiley face.

Mom leaned close and whispered, “Do you remember the year you had to be Joseph in the Christmas play because there were no boys? You hated that. You wanted so badly to be Mary.”

From somewhere deep inside laughter bubbled. Mom started chuckling too. 

“Shh,” Dad whispered, but he was grinning broadly.

A little boy, reading, stumbled over the words in the old King James Bible, “And she brought forth her first born son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.”

I still believe those words, Darla thought, as a little girl placed a blanketed doll in a crude manger. That’s one thing Mom and Dad and I have in common.

Suddenly she no longer felt angry. Darla knew she couldn’t leave before Grandma’s memorial service. She leaned over and whispered to Dad, “I’m going to stay through the holidays.”

 Dad poked Mom, winked, and grinned. Had he known all along she wouldn’t leave?

I’ll answer Dad’s unasked question before I go to bed, Darla thought. It will make him happy. “Yes, Dad, I’ll look for a church when I get back to Boston. It’s not going to be anything like Corners Church, but I’ll start going back to church.”

She knew what her Dad would say. “Well, that’s a start.”

She wasn’t going to argue with him or Mom again, not about religion, or politics, or vegans. She was just going to enjoy being home, home for the holidays, perhaps for the last time.

Or . . . perhaps not for the last time. Darla reached into her jacket pocket and fished out the crumpled ad. It wouldn’t hurt to stop at the paper and just talk to them for a minute…. Had Dad just winked at Mom again? She watched him a minute, but he and Mom were staring straight ahead, holding hands, and smiling at the little angels with crooked tinsel halos who were singing quite off key, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, good will toward men.”

Photo Credit goes to Drones Over Broome who captures beautiful views in the area of New York where I spent many of my growing up years. Please visit the Drones Over Broome’s Facebook page for many more lovely scenes.

The Tale of Two Snow People

by Donna Poole

Quiet mystery hung over the restless night that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. Sometimes lazy snowflakes drifted down; other times the moon peeked out from behind dark clouds. Two snow people yawned on a front lawn facing a white house that smiled welcome with its green shutters. A Christmas wreath with silver bells hung on its red front door.

“You’re so tall and handsome,” the short snow person said to the other. “I like your black hat, your shiny straight buttons, and your glasses. What’s your name?”

“You may call me Professor. What is your name, little snow girl?”

“I. . .don’t know. I don’t think I have a name.”

“Silly child! Everyone has a name.”

The professor studied her. She was a chubby little snow girl with crooked buttons. Her red knit hat sat sideways on her head, and she had only one mitten. Her carrot nose looked ready to fall into the snow. The professor frowned. He disliked untidiness. Still, there was something charming about the little snow girl’s lopsided smile.

“I shall call you Scruffy,” he said.

“Scruffy? What does that mean?”

In his best lecture voice Professor said, “It means untidy, messy, shambolic, or disorganized.”

“Oh dear,” Scruffy said. “Am I all those things?”

“Yes, but it’s not your fault,” Professor said. “Things like this just happen.”

“So someone made me messy?”

“Silly child! Don’t you know anything? No one made us. We evolved.”

“What does ‘evolved’ mean?”

Professor frowned. How could he explain such a complex science to a simple-minded snow girl? “I’ll give you the easy version. First you were a snowflake. After a million years, you became a snowball. After a million more years you divided into three snowballs. By a process even I don’t fully understand the three snowballs stacked one on top of the other and. . .ta-da! You became you.”

“But who made the first snowflake? Who made my face?” Scruffy persisted. “Who gave me my hat and my mitten?”

The exhausted professor sighed. “Oh, do go to sleep, Scruffy. No more questions tonight. And look at that.” He sounded disgusted. “Your nose has fallen into the snow.”

Soon the professor was snoring softly, but Scruffy felt sad about her nose, and she had too many questions to sleep. So no one had made anything? That didn’t seem right. The snowflakes and the moon were so beautiful; she thought someone beautiful must have made them.

Lights came on in the house. Scruffy saw a tall man with a pipe and a messy little girl laughing together. The little girl pointed out the window and tugged the man’s hand. He nodded.

Silver bells rang as the red door with the Christmas wreath opened. The little girl and the man came outside. The little girl wore a red coat and red mittens, and the man had a long black coat. They walked right up to Professor and Scruffy.

The little girl bent down and picked up the carrot nose. “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t put your nose on very well. I’ll fix it.” She put the carrot back on Scruffy’s face and straightened Scruffy’s hat. “Look at that!” She laughed. “I forgot to give you your other mitten.” She pulled one off her own hand and put it on Scruffy. Scruffy felt happy and loved.

“Daddy,” the little girl said, “your snowman looks almost perfect. He looks like a professor, just like you. He’s just missing one thing. You should give him your pipe. You promised Mommy you would quit smoking. It could be your Christmas gift to her!”

The tall man shook his head and laughed. “You and your mom, always asking me to give up my pipe. It’s not even lit half the time, but if it will make you two happy, I guess I can live without it.” He carefully put his pipe just so in the snowman’s mouth. “Now let’s have some hot chocolate before bed. You’re already up too late; it’s Christmas Eve!”

The little girl tucked her hand in her dad’s hand. She smiled and waved at Scruffy.

As soon as the red door closed, Scruffy called, “Professor! Professor! Wake up! You missed it! We didn’t evolve from snowflakes. A man made you, and a little girl made me! Look! The little girl fixed my nose and gave me another mitten. The man gave you a pipe! Look in that window, and you’ll see them.”

Professor looked in the window. He saw no one. “Silly child! Next thing you’ll be telling me someone made the moon and the snowflakes. You must have been dreaming. Go back to sleep.”

Scruffy went to sleep, and she dreamed about a kind little girl.

Professor couldn’t sleep. Something puzzled him. Where had the mitten and pipe come from? How had Scruffy’s nose gotten back on her face? He thought evolution took millions of years. Surely his nap hadn’t lasted millions of years. Suddenly he saw something in the window. A tall man was carrying a small child in rumpled pajamas. Could it be? No! It went against everything he’d learned in all his years of study. Still. . . what if? He looked at the moon and the beautiful snowflakes. He looked, and he wondered for a long, long time.

Over the River and through the Woods

By Donna Poole

“Over the river and through the woods, to Aunt Eve’s house we go,” the kids used to sing when they were little and we made our annual Thanksgiving trek, the van loaded with food, to celebrate the holiday with family. How blessed we are, I often reflected on the drive, to have three of the four sisters living in Michigan. Who would have thought?

We Piarulli girls spent our growing-up years in New York State. My sisters, Eve and Ginny, along with their husbands and families, ended up in Michigan before we did. I never dared hope I’d live anywhere near a sister, but a year after John graduated from Bible college in Iowa, a tiny country church in Michigan asked him to come as pastor. There we’ve been ever since. So we became three sisters living in Michigan and deeply missing Mary, our New York sister, every time we gathered together.

Let me tell you something about Michigan. Just because three sisters live in Michigan doesn’t mean they will live anywhere near each other. The distance from our house in southern Lower Michigan to Eagle River in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is over 590 miles and takes over nine hours to travel in light traffic. Chattanooga, Tennessee is closer to us.  

But we three sisters were blessed. It took no more than a three hour drive for any of us to reach the other.

The drive to and from Eve and Bruce’s was full of traditions. “There’s the spanking place,” one of the kids hollered every year.

I always felt a bit miffed. Why, when we had so many wonderful memories, did they always point out the place where just once, years before, we’d pulled into an empty parking lot and spanked all of them before we arrived in time to stuff our faces with turkey and give thanks?

On the ride home the kids traditionally begged, “Wake us up to see the Christmas lights.”

When we got to the town that always lit its tree on Thanksgiving evening, John woke sleepy kids and sleepy me. I’m notorious for falling asleep in the car. There’s something about the rhythm of the wheels singing that lullaby, “Over the river and through the woods. . . .”

Years passed, and the stuffed turkey had nothing to brag about in comparison to the stuffed rooms at Eve and Bruce’s. Kids grew up, married, had children of their own, and still we all gathered “over the river and through the woods.”

That beautiful tradition ended when God called Eve home. Extended family began driving over the river and through the woods to gather at our home. Everyone helps with the meal and the food is as good as it ever was; our home rings with love and laughter, but it’s not the same. How could it be? Eve isn’t with us. This year another family member joined her in heaven, and more than one heart will smile through tears on Thanksgiving Day.

Thanksgiving was Eve’s holiday. I’m just pinch-hitting for her for a while. I do my best to spread the love for as long as I’m here, because someday someone will have to take over for me.

When Thanksgiving Day ends all too soon, we linger first at the door, then on the porch, next in the driveway in the traditional, drawn-out Midwestern kind of goodbye. There are a few rounds of hugs.

When Ginny can be with us I always fiercely hug her and whisper, “When will I see you again?” I cry because I love her. I cry because I really don’t like goodbyes.

One by one, cars and trucks leave. Our volunteer fireman son flashes his lights in the driveway so his nieces and nephews—and his mom—can see them and smile with delight.

John and I are two old people with tears in our eyes waving until the last taillights disappear down our gravel road, thanking God for memories of yesterday and today, and wondering how many more times we’ll have to gather together. Will someone else be missing next year when family gathers from over the river and through the woods?

I know what Eve would do if she were here. She’d hug me tightly. She’d remind me we’ll have forever together in heaven. She’d tell me to get back in the house before I catch cold. In my heart, I can see her beautiful smile and hear her say, “Good job, Donna. Thank you. It was a beautiful Thanksgiving.”

To Turkey Trot or Not

by Donna Poole

We get out of the truck, zip our hoodies tighter around our necks, and walk hand-in-hand through the field.

“Aren’t they cute?” someone says. “That old and still holding hands!”

We smile and keep walking. Yes, we still adore each other, but that’s not why we’re holding hands. We’re trying to keep from falling.

“Where’s the finish line?” we ask the first person who looks like he might know.

Reece, our grandson, placed second in this year’s community turkey trot race, and we missed it. We seem to be running for the worst grandparents of the year award, and we’re near the front!

Reece is only twelve. “I beat highschoolers, Grandma!” He grinned. “I even beat my athletic director.”

“Of course you beat him,” Reece’s mom said. “He has a bad knee.”

I ruffled Reece’s curls. I’m rather partial to them and to him. “Hey! You still beat him! Take what you can get!”

Reece’s sister, Megan, runs for Hillsdale College. I’m more than a little partial to her too.

I don’t often get to see my grandkids run, but every time I see their long legs flying around a track or through a field, I say to John, tongue-in-cheek, “They run that fast because of all the practice they got running away from their dad. And their dad was a good runner because of all the practice he got running from you!”

“Can I tell you a story?” Reece, our runner-grandson, asked in Sunday school this past Sunday.

“Is it a Bible story? Does it have any spiritual significance whatsoever?”

Looking disappointed, he sighed and shook his head.

“Tell you what. You tell me any story you want. I’ll make a spiritual application.”

“Really? Well, after I finished the turkey trot, lots of people were still running. I took my snowboard to the hill near the race. People were watching me. I was doing good; then all of a sudden I started. . . . .” He made a rolling motion with his hands.

“Head-over-heels? Not the impression you’d hoped to make?”

We both laughed. “Well, life is going to send you tumbling down many hills you didn’t choose, and sometimes people will be watching.”

We talked about how Reece didn’t get angry, put his snowboard away forever, or hide in his room. He picked himself up and laughed. We discussed the possible stroke or seizure I’d had a few days prior that today’s MRI will hopefully confirm or deny.

We can’t always choose our hills, roads, or tumbles, but we can get up, give God the pieces we have left, and keep going.

That kid snowboarded again Sunday afternoon.

Me? I just finished my MRI. The tech told me he did a special test for memory issues. That’s a good thing, because I walk Muddled Memory Lane often now, and I know many of you walk it with me.

Because of physical limitations, some of us may never again run a turkey trot or snowboard down a hill. I know some of you would love to just be able to get out of a wheelchair and meander a back country road. But there’s something we can do. We can help each other stand. We can keep walking each other Home. And we can cheer on those reaching the finish line.