Posts

Posted on

This! This is the Day!

by Donna Poole

It was a great Christmas season at the little church on the corner of two dirt roads, weeks of wonderful holiday celebrations at our old farmhouse, and its music still lingers in my heart. It’s not over; I’m not ready to let it go, because this was my year!

I don’t know if I’ve ever enjoyed a Christmas season more! Oh, it wasn’t perfect. Pneumonia and two other nasty infections invaded, required seven weeks of antibiotics, and forced me to miss long anticipated holiday events at the grandkids’ schools. I had to skip my cancer treatments too. My husband, John, also got sick. Unwelcomed guests in form house repairs showed up.

But oh, the joy that rang through it all, echoing yet like the old bell at our country church. Have you ever seen the beautiful frozen fog that sometimes forms on trees and makes you catch your breath with delight when the sunrise hits it and the world for just a second sparkles like a diamond? That’s what this season was like for me. I wish I could package it all up, put a big red bow on it, and let you peek inside so you could share my joy.

I think I’ll try!

Let’s begin at church. You’ll have to drive up a dirt road to get there and try not to get muddy when you get out. It’s an acquired art, and one I haven’t yet mastered. This was our fiftieth Christmas here; we were twenty five when John came as pastor. Like any small country church, we’ve known times of feast and famine when it comes to attendance. Right now, we’re big on love but small on numbers, and we didn’t really have enough children to pull off the traditional Christmas program. Someone suggested we skip it.

Skip the program on John’s fiftieth Christmas here? I don’t think so! Over my dead body!

My daughter Kimmee helped me, and we wrote a program that featured all ages. We called it “The Invisible Woman.” Everyone at church was willing to help. The choir sang three awesome numbers; the angels glowed, and each child and old person played their part to perfection. We had beautiful special music too. We felt again the ancient awe as we worshipped the God who loved us and sent his Son!

The program ended and people clustered around the Christmas table at the back of the church. Everyone got a bag packed with candy people brought to share with each other. Each year our family makes Christmas ornaments to give away; this year Kimmee did most of the work. People took the ornament they wanted off the tree on the table. Cards and hugs were exchanged. And when people said, “Merry Christmas!” they meant it.

George Fee used to attend our church until God called him home many years ago. After every program George smiled his famous smile and said, “That was wonderful. Couldn’t have seen anything better, not even in New York City!”

And if you don’t think I heard George say that to me after our Christmas program this year, you need to go to the doctor and get your imagination checked.

Oh, and we had my favorite, the candlelight church service. That’s an informal time; everyone who wants to can read, or sing, or play an instrument. Carole Knowlton always reads A Cup of Christmas Tea, and then, each year, it’s suddenly Christmas for me. John closes with a short devotional; we dim the lights, and we sing “Silent Night.”

Now come over to our farmhouse, the one given us by a sweet neighbor years ago, called to heaven just a few months ago. But that beautiful story is one I’ve already told, and I’ll probably tell it again another day.

We start preparing for our big family Christmas early. We get the tree the day after Thanksgiving, and this year’s tree was a beauty! She stands to this day, tall and proud, still drinking water, still alive, still, like me, soaking up leftover Christmas joy and not ready yet to say goodbye to it all.

Long before our family gathering we make the Christmas cookies John’s parents made when he was a boy and put them in the freezer. We plan and replan how to fit twenty-four of us at tables. We clean, shop, and cook. I cook the main part of the meal, each of the families brings good food too, and Kimmee makes fantastic desserts.

The hardest part of it all, the part that requires prayer and a miracle, is getting all of us together on a day and time that works for everyone—and not having anyone get sick. This year, it happened on December 22. The rest of my family probably guessed, but only God could see the overflowing joy in my heart as they all came in the kitchen door. When those dear faces gathered together, and our grandson read Luke chapter two, and our granddaughter was home from Physician’s Assistant school and back with us, when my children and their wonderful spouses, and my fourteen beautiful grandchildren crowded together, and made such a delightful noise and mess—I’ve never been happier.

It ended so quickly. John and I stood outside in the soft falling rain and waved goodbye. When we came back inside, not all of the wetness I brushed from my cheeks was from the rain.

Because, you see, living in the limbo of cancer teaches you to treasure like never before each day, each moment when family stories are retold, and new ones are made.

Not long-ago John preached a sermon he titled “This is the Day!” His text was, “This is the day the Lord has made. We will rejoice and be glad in it.”

Oh yes, we will say “This is the day,” this day and every day! Whatever it brings! We will find something to be thankful for, and somedays you don’t have to look too hard, because joy wraps you up so warmly you can hardly catch your breath. Family Christmas was like that for me. I can’t thank my family enough for giving it to me.

Christmas Day itself was quieter here with just the four of us, Kimmee and Drew, our daughter and son-in-law who live with us, and John and me. Kimmee and Drew made us their traditional Christmas brunch with food so delicious I dare not tell you lest you get distracted from the rest of my story. After brunch, the four of us exchanged some gifts.

As we began picking up wrapping paper, Drew said to wait just a minute, because he had received a message for us on his cell. He read, “Hello-ho-ho! This is Kris Kringle, finally taking a moment to catch up on some post-Christmas Night messages to my favorite helper! You may have not noticed, but I had to hide a special gift for John and Donna in the dishwasher. Could you be a dear and tell them about it? It would really make my Christmas Day extra, extra wonderful.”

Out to the dishwasher we went. It had been broken now for over a year, but we’d kept it because its top provided valuable counter top space. Inside we found a gigantic red bow attached to a plastic bag of dishwasher pods. We stared at Kimmee and Drew. This couldn’t mean what we thought, did it? They laughed.

“Your new dishwasher is coming tomorrow.”

Flabbergasted is a good word, is it not? Christmas tears are special, aren’t they?

Our church family, family, neighbors, and friends showered us with love and gifts this year. The monetary gifts alone more than made up for the unexpected house expenses. This was all wonderful, and it made John and me cry. I mean really cry.

There was more, so much more—playing marathon games of Phase 10, going to see Christmas lights twice, eating at a little deli we love, spending time with beloved friends from out of town, a turkey dinner on New Year’s Day.

But what made this Christmas season so very dear to me was the strands of love running through each of our days and connecting us to the one great Love that will still be here when I finally agree to take down the tree and the decorations. It’s the Love that never fails.

God loved us and sent his son. Those seven perfect words change time and eternity.

Jesus willingly came to earth to make a way for us all to go Home for a forever Christmas. No tearful driveway goodbyes. No shutting off the lights and closing the doors of the old country church. No ending the music. No putting away the decorations.  

Here’s how the Bible says it.

“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

Believe what exactly? The rest of the Bible tells us what we already instinctively know. We’ve all got a big problem with sin. Jesus, the God man who never sinned, did something beyond comprehension on the cross. He gathered into his own heart every sin ever committed, suffered the horrible guilt and pain of each of them, and made them not to be. And now every sinner who falls at his feet and believes is suddenly on the road Home to God.

And that is why, even though one day you may stand in the driveway waving a tearful goodbye to me as I leave this earth, or I to you, joy will still remain. Christmas, real Christmas, never needs to leave our hearts. Because we have that long, forever tomorrow, we can say, “This! This is the day!” We can say it sobbing, but we can say it!

I suppose I will have to give in soon and say goodbye to this tree, pack away the decorations, and save the music for another year. Well, maybe not the music.

This afternoon a friend reminded me that January 7 is the day the Russian Orthodox Church celebrates Christmas, and so it’s not too late to say “Merry Christmas.”

It’s never too late. So, if you see me on July 4 and I say it to you, just laugh and hug me. And don’t be surprised if I ask you, “Did you know that this is the day?”

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

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

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Posted on

And the Needles Kept Dropping

by Donna Poole

What to do next?

That was always the question. Bonnie sighed and looked at her lengthy to-do list on the fridge. Number one: Take decorations off the Christmas tree.

Not that. That always makes me cry. Maybe if I sweep up the pile of needles Ed won’t notice how dead the tree is getting, and we can keep it up longer.

Number four on the list caught her eye. Make Ed’s fruitcake.

She smiled. Ed had devoured the first fruitcake she’d made him even before Christmas. Their grown kids poked fun at his fruitcake addiction; no one else in the family could stand it. He’d looked so sad when he’d scraped the last crumb from his plate. When she’d found the candied fruit half-off at an after Christmas sale, she’d snatched it up. She was going to make him another one for a surprise treat.

The phone rang just as she got started. “Hi, Mom! What are you up to today?”

“I’m making a fruitcake for your dad.”

Becky laughed. “Not another one! I suppose he’s at work?”

Bonnie shrugged. “Where else?”

“Seventy-five and Dad still goes to the shop every day. If he didn’t own the place someone would have made him retire by now. Do you wish he would?”

“Two cups of water, one-fourth cup of oil.”

“What?”

“Oh, sorry honey. If I don’t say recipe ingredients out loud, I forget something. What did you ask me?”

“Do you wish Dad would retire?”

“Yes. But no. He loves it there, and the work isn’t too much for him. He mostly answers the phone, sets up appointments, and chats with the customers waiting for their vehicles. People talk to him about their troubles, and he tells them about Jesus and prays for them. And when an older model car comes in, he still likes to get his hands greasy working on it.”

“But sometimes I worry about you being home alone.”

“I’m fine honey. Two cups of raisins, one cup candied pineapple. Okay. I think that’s it. Give me a minute while I pour this into the bundt pan. Done! Oh bother!”

“What’s wrong? You didn’t burn yourself putting it into the oven, did you?”

“No, I forgot the eggs. I’ll just scrape the batter back into the bowl and add the eggs.”

It was quiet for a minute, and then Becky heard the refrigerator door slam and her mom laugh.

“Well, I guess we’ll see how fruitcake tastes without eggs. We don’t have any.”

“Mom, remember that trick I told you? Put out and measure all your ingredients before you start baking.”

“It’s a great idea, if I only could remember it.”

They both laughed.

“I forgot something else. I wrote the recipe on a three by five card, but I forgot to write down the oven temperature and how long to cook it. I saved the recipe on my cell, but now I can’t find my phone.”

Becky grinned. Should she? She couldn’t resist, and Mom always loved a good joke.

“Look on the counter. No? Check the couch cushions. You often lose your cell there. Not there either? You don’t suppose you put it in the fridge when you were looking for eggs do you?”

“It’s not anywhere! You don’t happen to know the oven temperature for fruitcake do you, honey?”

“Mom, the day I bake fruitcake is the day you know I am one. Do me a favor, okay? Go look in the mirror.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

She heard her mom start laughing. “Becky Joy if I had you here, I’d…”

“I take it you found your phone?”

“Honey, do you think I’m getting dementia?”

“Nope. I did the same thing I just did to you to my friend the other day. He was talking to me on his cell and couldn’t find it, and he’s only in his thirties.”

“You’re as much of a tease as your dad. But now I have to stop talking and look up the oven temperature. Love you.”

“Love you too. I’ll call you back later.”

Becky did worry though. She didn’t think her mom had dementia, but she did have some memory problems. She wished Dad would stay home more. Her parents seemed happy with their lives, but she hoped they could enjoy a few years of retirement before God took one of them home to heaven.

She whispered a prayer and then chuckled. “Another fruitcake! She’ll probably make him one for Valentine’s Day too!”

Bonnie turned the oven to 350 degrees. The old thing took a long time to preheat; what should she do while she was waiting? She glanced at the list again. Number seven: Find old Bible.

She was tired of reading the Bible on her cell, though the kids had installed three versions for her. She wanted to hold her old Bible in her hands, the one with dates, underlining, and tear stains, the one she’d had since the kids were little. She didn’t care that the spine had fallen off. She’d go find it while she waited for the oven to preheat.

Short of breath by the time she got to the top of the stairs, Bonnie stared at the empty shelves in the study.

Where in the world are all our books? Oh, that’s right. We put them in boxes on the closed in porch so we could get this room ready to paint. Where is my brain today? Oh, look, there’s a box of the kids’ baby pictures!

Bonnie sat down in a chair and laughed and cried her way through photos for the next hour before she headed back downstairs. A warm blast of heat met her near the bottom,

Why is it so hot down here? Oh! The oven! I forgot!

Bonnie popped the fruitcake in the oven, set the timer, and sat down on the couch to read her Bible on her cell. No way could she manage to find her old Bible in all those boxes on the porch. Engrossed in reading and a bit deaf, she didn’t hear the oven timer go off. Eventually, her nose told her Ed’s favorite dessert was overdone.

She ruefully set the fruitcake on the counter to cool, and its black edges looked condemningly back at her.

“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t turn you into a complete charcoal briquet. Not quite.”

Since the oven is hot, I might as well think about supper. Did Ed say something about supper? I can’t remember. Well, I have that roast thawed out in the fridge. I think I’ll brown it and pop it in the oven with some potatoes and carrots.

After fifty-five years of making pot roast, she knew that recipe by heart. She even remembered the cream of mushroom, cream of celery, and dried onion soups. Soon the kitchen smelled heavenly. She could barely smell burned fruitcake.

Bonnie tackled more things on her to-do list. She swept up the needles under the tree, but as soon as she did, more fell. She ignored them and went on to other tasks. She disregarded her aching muscles too; she knew she was overdoing, but it felt good to get a lot done. The phone never rang to interrupt her.

The kitchen door opened earlier than usual, and Ed hurried inside, snow on his shoulders, and a grin on his face. He put a big pizza box on the counter, swept Bonnie into his arms, and danced her around the kitchen.

“What are you doing New Year’s Eve?” he sang to her.

“This is New Year’s Eve?”

“You forgot?”

“I guess I did.”

“Remember, I told you I’d be home early and bring our favorite pizza.”

“Whoops. I made your favorite pot roast.”

They both laughed. “I’m eating roast,” he said.

“I’m having pizza!” she answered.

“I tried to call you several times to remind you about the pizza.”

She patted her apron pocket. “Oh dear. My phone. I seem to have lost it again.”

He went right to the couch and pulled it out from between the cushions.

“How did you know?”

“Lucky guess. You missed four calls from Becky. You better call her back. You know how she worries.”

Ed ate a piece of fruitcake even before supper and said it was delicious. They curled up in bed right after they ate and turned on a movie Bonnie had been wanting to watch, “The Man Who Invented Christmas.”

A few minutes into the movie Ed glanced over at Bonnie. She was sound asleep, and it was only six o’clock. He grinned, muted the movie, and slipped out of bed. They’d planned to undecorate the tree tomorrow, but that job always made her cry. He’d do it now and get it over with. And then he’d wake her up and tell her his good news. He took down all the red ornaments first. He couldn’t believe how many needles fell from the tree. How had it died so quickly? It had been alive just a few days earlier.

An hour later he went to wake Bonnie. Her wispy white bangs had moved to the side and he could plainly see her dented forehead from the brain surgery and the purple star shaped plate that bulged out. His throat tightened as he thought of the times he’d almost lost her. They’d have some good years yet. Wait until he told her his news.

“Bonnie!” He shook her shoulder. The patchwork quilt covering her wasn’t rising and falling; she wasn’t breathing! He thought of the pile of dead needles dropping from the tree and could barely catch a breath between sobs.

“Bonnie!” He groaned and pulled her to his chest, tears flowing.

“Ed!” She pounded him. “You’re hugging me too tightly. I can’t breathe!”

She pushed away and stared at his tear covered face. “You didn’t think I was…?”

She laughed. “Honey, you need new glasses!”

He climbed in beside her and told her his plans for semi-retirement, and she listened, a contented smile making her look as beautiful to him as she had when they’d married at twenty. They talked on as hours passed. He felt God still wanted him at the shop part time for the people who needed him, and she agreed. They’d always tried to let God love others through them, and Ed was in a good place to do that.

Bonnie didn’t tell him, but she wasn’t ready to give up her quiet hours of reading and writing either. This was a happy compromise; it would be wonderful to be together more.

“Happy New Year, honey,” Ed said when the grandfather clock struck twelve.

“Oh! Is that today?” she asked.

He nodded and kissed her.

“I think it will be our best year ever!” she said, and he agreed.

They fell asleep holding hands. And in the living room the needles kept dropping from the tree.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

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

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Posted on

Jasmine, Kate, and the Christmas Cups

by Donna Poole

Jasmine and Kate had been unusually close as toddlers, teens, twenty somethings, and they still were in their mid-seventies, but twins are often like that.

Steam from the dishwater fogged Jasmine’s glasses as she worked her way through the pile. The kitchen was a bit chilly when the wind blew from the east, and the hot dishwater felt good.

Kate curled both hands around the cup of coffee Jasmine had fixed for her. The steam from the delicious brew was clouding her glasses too. She pulled back a bit, looked at the cup, and laughed.

“Still have your Christmas cups out, I see.”

“Yes, and the tree is still up too. I suppose you took yours down the day after Christmas.”

“Wrong! We opened gifts early Christmas morning, and then the kids were all off to celebrate with their in-laws. I got busy and had the tree down and decorations put back in the attic by late afternoon.”

Jasmine pulled her hands from the sudsy water and turned to stare at her sister. “Kate! On Christmas Day! How could you! Did you put away your Christmas cups too, even the ones Mom gave us?”

Kate nodded. “Jasmine, you’re so sentimental. Out with the old, in with the new. The house looks so fresh and clean without the clutter. And I think I have too many Christmas mugs; no one uses them. We all use the disposable ones at family gatherings. I might just donate the cups to charity. So, when are you going to take down your tree? You’re getting quite a pile of needles on the floor there.”

Jasmine sighed. “If I had my way, I’d leave it up until February. I love to sit with my coffee in a Christmas cup, look at the tree, and try to remember every single minute of the holidays. They were especially beautiful this year.”

“That’s what you say every year.”

“Well, it’s true every year.”

“It looks the same in here every year, I’ll give you that. Don’t you ever want to do something different, like, oh, I don’t know, decorate with purple and black instead of red and green?”

Jasmine’s mouth dropped and Kate laughed.

“I’m kidding, but you know I’m right. You have a hard time with change. You bawled like a baby all over four college campuses when you left your kids there. And I bet you still cry when the kids and grandkids leave after family Christmas, don’t you?”

Jasmine pictured herself, standing in the driveway in the drizzling rain waving as the cars turned out of the driveway, leaving one by one. When she’d gone back inside, the moisture on her face hadn’t been all from the rain.

Kate sat down her coffee and hugged her sister. “It’s okay. I love you just like you are. I know you don’t really wish the kids were all little and home again. You’re as happy for them as adults as I am for mine. You do seem especially nostalgic this year though. What gives?”

Jasmine wiped away a tear. “It’s been a good year, hasn’t it Kate? And we don’t know what sorrows next year might bring. We already heard about a sweet friend going on Hospice. And our own health isn’t so good either, and…”

Kate pulled her closer and patted her back. “I know, honey. I know. But remember what we said to each other on Christmas Day? We’ve seen a Great Light, and it will grow brighter and brighter all the way Home! We can trust God to take care of us and the people we love. And you know perfectly well, not putting away those Christmas cups isn’t going to help you hang on to what’s beautiful now. Ready or not, the future is coming for us with is sorrows and its joys. Remember, God is already there!”

Jasmine laughed and hugged her sister. “You’re right, as usual. What would I do without you?”

“You’d be a mess.”

Jasmine laughed again and returned to the dishes.

John came into the kitchen. “Sorry, Donna, I found some more dishes. And are you talking to yourself again?

“Just listening to Jasmine and Kate.”

“Oh, is that a podcast or something?”

“Or something.”

“You aren’t crying, are you?”

“Not anymore. Hey, what do you think about leaving the Christmas tree up until February?”

She looked at his face and laughed. “That’s what I thought. “Well, can we keep the Christmas cups out awhile longer?”

“That we can do.”

She went to work on the new pile of dishes John had brought her and looked out the window. The clouds parted and sun poured in, flooding the kitchen with light, sparkling off the bubbles in the dishwater, and making new dreams.

Posted on

The Street Kid

by Donna Poole

The street kid knew things; he’d always known things. At nine Davey had known he’d die if he’d stayed home any longer. It was only his mother who’d kept his father from killing him in one of his drunken rages, and with her gone he knew he’d suffer way more than beatings and being thrown against the wall.

His dad had killed his mom on Christmas Eve; Davey had seen him throw her down the stairs. He’d also heard him tell his cop friends she’d fallen. His dad would get away with it. In that big city the blue wall of silence was a real thing; Davey and his mom had learned that the hard way when they’d tried to report his dad’s abuse to his fellow officers. Like I said, Davey knew things, things a nine-year-old shouldn’t know. So, the night his mom had died, he’d hit the streets.

What he hadn’t known on the streets he’d learned in a hurry. Sometimes the victim, sometimes the aggressor, he’d survived seven harsh winters since the Christmas Eve he’d left home at nine years old. With the wail of sirens and cops crawling all over the house, it had been easy for him to escape unnoticed.

He’d wiped away one tear when he’d looked at his mom crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. She’d still had on her red apron, the one she’d worn earlier in the day to make him Christmas cookies. The frosted Christmas tree cookies were still on the table when he’d left, but he hadn’t taken one. He’d thought about them often in the years that followed and wondered what had happened to them. His father hadn’t liked sugar cookies.

That tear was the last one Davey cried. Street kids don’t cry. Only the strong survive, and they survive any way they can. I won’t tell you the horrible things that happened to Davey or the terrible things he did to others, because they’re too sad. This story has already been sad enough, and it’s a Christmas story.

Once, when he’d been about thirteen, a girl his age had asked him, “Don’t you ever get homesick?”

Davey had laughed, a bitter sound. “Homesick? For what? Home is the last place I’d ever want to go. If you want to go home, why don’t you?”

She’d shrugged. “I have my reasons.”

He hadn’t asked what reasons. He’d kept a small circle, watched his back, and looked out for number one. That’s how you survive on the streets.

Sixteen now, Davey was as tough as any man in the northside homeless camp. Fists or knives, Davey could hold his own…until he couldn’t. A wound to his calf festered for weeks, and then the fevers and nightmares started.

Davey woke from a dream with tears on his face and heard the laughter. Someone mocked, “Did you hear him call for his mama?”

He didn’t know it; his fever was so high he didn’t know much of anything, but it was Christmas Eve again when he stumbled out of the camp, once again afraid for his life. The weak didn’t survive there, and he was weak. That much he knew.

Davey stumbled down dark streets and lurched into buildings, feeling warm tears freeze on his cheeks. It was snowing, and the snow wasn’t gentle. The wicked winds from the north blasted through his clothes, and he began shivering uncontrollably.

Then he smelled them, those sugar cookies. And he saw her in her red apron, smiling at him.

“Mama?”

He slid down a building into the snow.

Davey felt someone shaking his shoulder. “May I help you, son?”

He looked up. The man was tall, taller than he was. Davey tasted the fear.

“Get away from me!”

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before!”

Davey lurched to his feet and bent to reach for the knife in his boot but toppled forward. The man caught him.

“Son, do you want to go home? I can help you find home.”

“Are you crazy, man? Home is gone. No one can help me find home.”

“Come on. You’re going home.”

Too weak to protest and half-conscious Davey felt the man half lead, half carry him through the blinding snow. He felt the man lay him down and smelled sugar cookies.  

When he woke, he was lying on a couch and covered with blankets. A young couple was smiling at him.

“Are you feeling better?” the woman asked. “I’m a doctor. I hope you don’t mind, but blood was seeping through your jeans. I cut off the bottom of them, dressed your wound, and gave you a shot of antibiotic. I don’t usually keep that kind of medication at home, but I had a bad infection myself after I had the baby.”

Davey just stared at her.

“I think you need to give him a minute to wake up, Mary,” the man said. “I don’t think he knows where he is.”

“Where’s the man who carried me in here?” Davey asked.

“What man?” Mary looked puzzled. “Did you see a man when you answered the door, Joseph?”

He shook his head. “There wasn’t any man. You were just pounding on our door mumbling “mama.” You looked half dead. We would have taken you to the hospital, and we will as soon as the roads get cleared from this storm.”

Davey tried to sit up. “No! No hospital. I don’t have any money. No insurance either.”

The two of them looked at each other. “Listen. We try to do something to help someone every Christmas. Please, let us help you.”

He tried to say thank you, but the words got stuck. Joseph patted his shoulder. A baby cried, and Mary hurried out of the room. Davey fell asleep again. When he woke again Mary fed him hot chicken noodle soup. He sat up, looked around, and noticed a tall tree dazzling with lights.

“Merry Christmas.” Mary smiled at him. “Are you still hungry?”

He nodded. “You don’t happen to have any sugar cookies, do you?”

She laughed. “Matter of fact I do.”

Shadows fell, and Davey dozed on and off. Mary rocked the baby, and Joeseph sat next to her reading.

Davey woke again. “So, Mary, you’re a doctor. What do you do, Joseph?”

“I’m a carpenter; I make custom cabinets and many other things.”

Davey sat straight up. “No way! My mom took me to Sunday school when I was a kid. Mary, Joseph…wasn’t the Joseph in the Christmas story a carpenter?”

Joseph laughed. “We get that a lot.”

Davey nodded at the baby in Mary’s arms. “What’s the kid’s name?”

“It’s Joshua,” Joseph answered, “another name for Jesus. Jesus means ‘The Lord is salvation.’ Hey, we need to talk. I could use an apprentice, and you look like you could use a job. And we have a little guest house out back. You can live there if you want and eat your meals with us. What do you say?”

Davey swore then apologized. “I’m sorry, but are you people crazy? You don’t know a thing about me!”

“Let’s give it a month and see how it goes. Then we’ll reassess. Okay?”

The street kid, who hadn’t willingly shed a tear since he’d seen his mom crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, started to sob. A half a box and several hugs and Christmas cookies later, Joseph opened a Bible.

“We always read from Luke chapter two at the end of Christmas day,” he said. “‘For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.’”

Davey fell asleep before the reading was finished. His last thought was these people are the real deal. I know. I’ve always known things.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

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

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Posted on

Lessons from a Turkey Leg

by Donna Poole

Emma, the old pastor’s wife, woke in the middle of the night and opened the wrong door. Confused, she stood staring at the family room, the living room, and the Christmas tree.

Why is the Christmas tree in the bathroom? Wait. Where’s the bathroom?

She shook her head to clear it, closed the door, and opened it again—the same door. She remembered one definition of insanity, “repeating the same thing and expecting different results.” But she wasn’t out of her mind, not quite yet, just tired, so tired. She rubbed her eyes, turned around and saw it. Relieved, she headed for the right door. The bathroom hadn’t disappeared after all.

Back in bed, cuddled under her many blankets, and snuggled next to her softly snoring husband, Emma couldn’t quite wake up, but neither could she drift back into sleep. It was almost Christmas.

Christmas! Her mind wandered off to years gone by and a gift never forgotten.

They’d been young then, she and her husband, and not yet in the ministry. They’d spent a year before they’d gone to their country church as pastor and wife absorbing all they could from Tom and Becky, a young pastor and wife at a thriving church on the outskirts of an Indiana town. And they’d learned a lot.

James had worked full time at American Motors and served as a deacon and a department Sunday school superintendent.

Emma had plunged into every opportunity available for service, and surprisingly, even in that large church, there were many holes to be filled. She taught Sunday school, children’s church, and helped in the nursery. Months went by without her hearing a single sermon.

Finally, she timidly approached Pastor Tom and asked if anything could be done about her workload. He laughed.

“Sure! I’ll find someone to cover something for you. But remember, around here, we only grease the wheels that squeak.”

She filed that thought away for future reference. Around here we only grease the wheels that squeak.  

Emma and Becky, the pastor’s wife, became good friends. They both liked to have fun, perhaps a bit too much fun, at least in the eyes of some of the stern older church ladies.

Missionary group was, how shall we put it nicely? Missionary group was dull; there is no nicer word. Emma suggested to Becky they liven things up a bit with a skit, and they enjoyed writing and performing it. In the skit they dressed as two impoverished, elderly, worn-out missionaries and acted the part complete with shuffling walk and quavering voices. They particularly enjoyed two lines they said to each other:

“You poor dear, what is that on your sneaker?”

“Oh, please excuse me. I have dysentery.”

They barely managed the lines without giggling.

Later, Becky told Emma with a sigh the stern older church ladies had not shared their amusement. They’d said the skit had been inappropriate and they hoped in the future Becky would show more decorum.

“No one said a word to me,” Emma replied.

“They wouldn’t,” Becky said. She tapped her chest. “When you’re the pastor’s wife, the buck stops here.”

Emma filed that away for future reference. When you’re the pastor’s wife, the buck stops here.

Quite a few families with money attended the church so Emma and her husband James were surprised to see Tom and Becky’s home with its threadbare carpet and sparse furnishings. They were even more surprised to discover the church paid their young pastor a meager wage, not that Tom ever complained, but it wasn’t too hard to figure it out.

The four of them sometimes enjoyed a meal together at Tom and Becky’s. They shared a turkey leg and a can of vegetables. The first time the turkey leg was a bit tough.

“I should have cooked it longer,” Becky said. “Next time I will.”

“Do you eat turkey legs often?” Emma asked.

Tom and Becky looked at each other and laughed.

“We do when we can afford them,” Becky said. “Sometimes you can get them on sale for nineteen cents a pound. And a big one makes a couple of meals.”

There was no apology for the meager meal and no dessert. There was just love, laughter, and fun around the table. It was a gift of hospitality never forgotten.

Share what you have and serve it with love and laughter. Emma filed that thought away for future reference.

The year passed quickly. The two couples hugged goodbye, and James and Emma went off to begin their ministry in a little church on the corner of two dirt roads. Emma’s favorite thing was to fill their home with family and friends, love and laughter. She never served a turkey leg, but she sometimes made a third of a pound of hamburger into a casserole that fed many. She discovered that a few loaves of homemade bread still warm from the oven go a long way toward covering a multitude of sins in the culinary department.

The years at the little church passed quickly also, too quickly. Emma calculated in her head, whispering so she didn’t wake James. Could it be? Yes. This was their fifty-fifth Christmas as a married couple and their fiftieth at the church they both loved so much.

Memories flooded in of the many meals she’d served over the years. Some had been large and lavish; some had been sweet and simple, but all had been served with love. And after each group of family or friends had left, and she’d crawled into bed tired and happy, she’d imagined she’d heard the Lord saying, “Thank you for a wonderful meal, Emma. I really enjoyed that.”

A tear trickled down her cheek. Cancer treatments had kept her immunocompromised for a few years. She was only allowed to invite family for meals, no more large groups of friends. She remembered years gone by when she’d invited everyone from their little church to come enjoy a meal around Christmas time, but once again, that couldn’t happen this year.

“Maybe next year,” she whispered to herself. “Let’s see. I’ve done Italian, Mexican, soups and sandwiches. If I can ever have my big Christmas party again, maybe I’ll serve turkey legs!”

And she fell asleep with a laugh, a hope, and a dream.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

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

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Posted on

The Lady Wore Red

by Donna Poole

No one did Christmas as well as Ruthie; her family was sure of that. She almost looked like Christmas all year round, always wearing her pearl earrings and often wearing red. When she wore her red suit to church, she was the most beautiful woman there, even when she was sixty years old. Her dark eyes sparkled; her dark hair didn’t turn gray, and everyone agreed red was her color.

And if Ruthie was Mrs. Christmas, her husband, Claytie was the best Mr. Christmas in history. He didn’t let her do a thing alone; he was there for it all, the shopping, the wrapping, the decorating, the cookie baking.

And when the kids and grandkids came home for Christmas, Ruthie spared no effort to make the Christmas magic happen. Her heart was in her home, and never more so than at Christmas time. Porcelain angels bowed low, stretched their arms high, or danced with one another on every shelf of the hutch. Santa and Mrs. Claus sat on the round side table next to the couch perched on crocheted doilies. The perfectly decorated Christmas tree stood center stage in front of the bay window, and behind it, on the window shelf, Ruthie’s collection of antique red glass sparkled.

A red cardinal tablecloth covered the dining room table every year; cardinals were Ruthie’s favorite bird, and cardinal ornaments and knickknacks were tucked into every nook and cranny. A set of cardinal Christmas lights wound around the banister, and Ruthie, in a red apron, waited with face aglow at the door to welcome her family home for Christmas.

“Come in! Come in!”

And Claytie was right behind her, enveloping everyone in huge hugs, making even the in-law out-laws feel wanted and at home.

If hugs and kisses could have made it so, their family would have stayed forever.

Each year the menu included every one’s favorites; a HoneyBaked spiral ham, sweet potato, green bean, and carrot casseroles, stuffing, dinner rolls, and Ruthie’s home canned bread and butter pickles. Oh, and the potato salad. Though the recipe passed down to the next generation, no one was ever able to make that potato salad the way Ruthie did. It was worth driving one-thousand miles for. Dessert wasn’t too shabby either—homemade pie and apple crisp, delicious chocolate fudge and penuche, and spritz cookies, forever after called “Grandma’s cookies” no matter who made them.

Love and food meant practically the same thing, so Ruthie spoiled her family with both. No one ever forgot her delicious lasagna, or spaghetti topped with sauce she’d made from garden tomatoes and kept freezer ready for the holidays. Scalloped potatoes and leftover ham were on the menu too.

The red tablecloth stayed pristine clean, only because it was protected with a thick, clear plastic covering. When it wasn’t holding a heavy load of food, it found itself covered with board games and elbows of people leaning forward to talk and laugh with the person across from them or at the other end of the table.

Gift opening was wonderful too, but it would have been Christmas even without it. Often there were homemade gifts from Ruthie under the tree; she was a beautiful seamstress and a creative crafter.

And then each year, Claytie put the icing on the cake. The family called it “Grandpa’s party.” They would all go down to the family room and enjoy the treats he’d made or gone out to get; pizza, hot spiced apple cider, popcorn balls, summer sausage, cheese, crackers, little Pepperidge Farm breads, fun and games, love and laughter. There never was another party like it; I don’t believe.

It seemed to the family those days of coming home for Christmas would never end, but even the sweetest of fairy tales draws to a close. Claytie’s health failed before Ruthie’s did, and the two of them bought a small house in the south to live closer to their daughter.

The home of so many Christmases was sold.

A few years later, Mr. Christmas went home to be with God, and Ruthie lived part of each year with her daughter, and the other part of the year with her son. Her dementia worsened year by year.

One year she said to her son and daughter-in-law, “I can’t remember what home looks like.”

Out came the pictures of each home she’d lived in, but she just frowned at each one and shook her head. “No, that’s not it. That’s not it. I miss home.”

She seemed to enjoy Christmas with her son and daughter in law each year, and they did their best to keep up the family traditions, but it wasn’t the same, even though all the family still gathered together. She smiled politely at her gifts, often something red, a sweater, another cardinal, but she often had a far off look in her eyes.  

Her daughter-in-law noticed. She’s missing Dad and days gone by, but there’s something else too. What is she missing? I think she wants to go home, even though she can’t remember where it is.

More years passed as years do; the chapters in the book seemed to write themselves more quickly now. A severe infection sent Ruthie to a care home. She was happy there and didn’t seem to remember she’d ever lived anywhere else.

Except for that one day. Her son and daughter-in-law tried to visit her every day they could. One day she saw her son coming down the hall and her face lit up the way her daughter-in-law remembered it looking when she’d stood at the door at Christmas.

“Have you come to take me home?” she asked.

Tears filled her son’s eyes.

A nurse gently said, “You live here now, remember?”

“Oh, yes!” Ruthie said, sounding happy but still looking confused.

“Do you know who this is?” the nurse asked, gesturing toward her son.

“Why yes! He’s my husband!”

“No, he’s your son.”

“That’s right. He’s my son.”

The daughter-in-law’s eyes filled with tears too. Husband. Home. There’s no going back, is there? On the way out of the care home that day she clung a little tighter to her husband’s arm, looking back at the windows of the home, and wondering how long it might be before one of them might be there without the other.

One of the gifts they bought Ruthie for Christmas that year was a beautiful mobile with eight glass cardinals hanging from different lengths of string. They looked like they were flying. They were Ruthie’s favorite bird, and her favorite color, but by then she didn’t remember that anymore. Still, she sometimes looked at them and smiled. She had some of her porcelain angels in her room too, and other things she’d once loved, but none of them seemed to matter anymore.

Ruthie did love visits from family though, right up until the end. The nurses told the family she didn’t remember they’d been there two minutes after they’d left, but that didn’t matter, because when they were together, sometimes, just for a brief moment or two, a flash of memory would return, and often it would be about Christmas.

“Hey, Mom, remember how you got the kids blanket sleeper pajamas every year and took a picture of them by the Christmas tree?”

She nodded. “Except for Karen. She wanted nightgowns.”

The son and daughter-in-law looked at each other in surprise. “That’s right! And you and Dad got the grandkids Hess trucks every year.”

“Where is Dad? He was here just a minute ago. Be sure you find him and say goodbye before you leave. He’ll feel bad if you don’t.”

“We’ll look for him on the way out, Mom.”

Winter faded into spring, because no matter how cold the winds blow or how dark and short the days, spring always comes. And one evening, when Ruthie was cozy in bed, an angel came for her. She was surprised to see him; he didn’t look at all like her sweet, cuddly porcelain angels.

He was tall and bright like lightning, but she wasn’t afraid. She caught her breath with joy and felt like a child at Christmas.

He said, “Ruthie, I hear you want to go Home.”

“Oh, I do! Would you mind if I put on my red suit before we go?”

He laughed, and it sounded like an echo of faraway thunder. The windows in the care home rattled, but still she wasn’t afraid.

“Make it snappy,” he said.

And soon, while everyone else in the home slept, two figures soared upward, one an angel looking like lightning, and the other a lady. And the lady wore red.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

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

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Posted on

A Late Thanksgiving and Making Do

by Donna Poole

Shortly before he died, President Calvin Coolidge made this phrase popular among our parents and grandparents who were struggling through the the Great Depression, “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.”

“Make do.” It’s an interesting concept, isn’t it? It means, “Okay, I guess that’ll do,” in the sense “it’s not quite right or what I would have wanted, but it will suffice.”

Who first used it? Charlotte Bronte penned “make it do” in “Jane Eyre,” the beloved novel she wrote in 1847.

I guess being flexible is one way of “making do,” and if we don’t learn to bend with circumstances life will be difficult indeed.

We had a make-do-late-Thanksgiving this year. Our original plan was grand; family was coming from near and far. The big birds were in the freezer next to a ginormous ham. We knew exactly how we were going to decorate the tables in three rooms; it was going to be spectacular, and of course Kimmee and I would bake our legendary array of pies.

But life happened. Sticky, germ filled, too busy life. Instead of tables full of family in three rooms we finally managed Thanksgiving last evening with just the four of us who live here. We cooked one of the three huge birds we had in the freezer and made the trimmings we could. Instead of many pies we decided on just three; a pumpkin for Drew, a peanut butter one for John, and a blueberry peach for Kimmee and me. Kimmee is allergic to the other two.

The blueberry peach pie became blueberry turnovers when we discovered one of the turkeys in the freezer had eaten the frozen peaches; he must have. Why else were there no peaches when all four of us were sure they were there?

Two doctor visits that lasted much longer than anticipated put the offending turkey who’d eaten the peaches into the oven quite a bit later than we’d hoped. We staved off starvation with a snack of cheese, crackers, and sparkling grape juice. Finally, around nine o’clock, the turkey decided to come out of the oven. By then some of us whose normal bedtime is seven thirty were getting tired. I never exaggerate; please remember that.

We didn’t decorate any table at all; we decided to eat in the living room and put all the food on the coffee table, so no one had to go back to the kitchen to get seconds, because who had the energy?

But we did something I’ve always wanted to do that won’t work when you have people sitting at several tables in three rooms. Instead of carving up the turkey before people come through a serving line, I’ve always wanted to serve the turkey whole on a platter, the way you see it done in pictures in magazines and in old movies on television. And so, we did!

We managed to crowd all the food onto the coffee table around the huge platter of turkey.

“Who’s going to carve it? Do you want to, Dad?” Kimmee asked.

“Not me! I don’t know how to carve a turkey!” John replied.

“Okay, you do it Drew! I have directions!” Out came her cell phone.

“First you…”

We put lids back on the crock pots so the food wouldn’t get cold.

Drew was a magnificent turkey carver, and that turkey—the one Kimmee had brined and made a spice rub for, and that she, Drew and I, had rubbed all over it, and the bird had complained, and we’d told him to hush, he deserved far worse after eating all of our frozen peaches—that bird was the best tasting turkey any one has ever eaten on the face of the earth. And I never exaggerate.

Kimmee’s rolls and bread were delicious. John pronounced my mashed potatoes, gravy, and side dishes a ten out of ten. Everyone somehow had room for dessert.

And then I called for the maid to come clean up.

“Yes?” Kimmee answered.

“You are not the maid,” I replied.

“Are you sure?”

We laughed. We looked at all the leftovers and sighed. I headed to the kitchen to scrape, rinse, and wash the dishes. That left the rest of them to put away leftovers, my least favorite job in the entire universe, and I never exaggerate. When we all finished it was about eleven o’clock.

I think we told each other goodnight? I remember crawling into bed; I don’t remember hearing a single verse from the chapter of Proverbs John plays for us every night before we fall asleep. But I do know two things. The four of us are very grateful for each other. And we have enough turkey—the one who ate the frozen peaches—left for many meals yet to come, perhaps enough for a month of Sundays, and I never exaggerate.

Also, Drew loves leftovers. They are his favorite thing. And I never lie either.

This, however, is true. It was a late, make do Thanksgiving last night, and it was lovely!

We woke this morning to find our old furnace, the one I’ve christened “Dragon Breath,” had decided to die. And we found a message from the University of Michigan that my cancer treatments are up in the air because I’ve missed so many visits because of pneumonia. We don’t know what comes next, and they don’t either. They are reaching out to the sponsor of my trial drug to try to come up with a plan.

Life is full of make-do situations, and you know what? It’s still a wonderful life. We thank God for it! And we’ll make do. God will help us.

He’ll help you too. God bless us, everyone!

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

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

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Posted on

The Thanksgiving that Wasn’t

by Donna Poole

The Thanksgiving that Wasn’t

by Donna Poole

You have to give a lot of notice if you hope thirty-two people can arrange their schedules to gather together in the same place at the same time.

I sent my first message on July 11, 2023: “Hey family! I know it’s early, but I wanted to let you all know we’re going to have family Thanksgiving this year on Saturday, November 18 at 1:30 p.m. at our house. Love you all!”

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, and I couldn’t believe it when thirty-two replied they planned to come. Happy? That’s an understatement!

The months flew by, as months always do. As Thanksgiving time grew closer, we hoped for sales, and soon our freezer held the biggest turkey available and a large ham. We planned side dishes and desserts, and family members started telling us what they planned to bring.

I arranged and rearranged the house trying to figure out how to set up enough tables so everyone could sit comfortably and no one would feel isolated. I did this in bed at three o’clock in the morning when I woke up too excited to sleep.

“Traditions are stories families write together,” and our family had been writing its Thanksgiving book for many years. We wrote most of the chapters at my sister Eve’s home. From the time our children were small we always went “over the river and through the woods” to celebrate Thanksgiving with Eve and Bruce and their family, my sister Ginny, her husband Bob, and their children, and whatever other assorted people might be there. Eve and Bruce were famous for their hospitality.

At first the cousins were so little they lay on blankets and chewed on teething rings at Aunt Eve’s. Then they got a little older. I remember one of our children sitting in a high chair, eyes wide at the huge array of food, and pointing at each dish.

He said, “I want dis, and dat, and dese, and dem, and dose!”

Growing still older led to cousin dart games and wrestling in the basement. Someone usually put a movie in the VCR to settle them down.

One by one the cousins grew up, married, had children of their own, and some still came back to Aunt Eve’s and Uncle Bruce’s to celebrate Thanksgiving. As adults they offered to fix some of the dings to walls and woodwork they’d caused when they’d been kids, but Eve said, “Don’t you dare touch a thing. Those are my precious memories.”

Saying goodbye at Eve’s on Thanksgiving night was hard and done the midwestern way. It took awhile for everyone to find their shoes in the pile in the entryway hall. Then the hugs and kisses began in the hall, kitchen, and living room, and spilled out into the driveway, only to be repeated again.

“Did I hug you yet?” “Did you remember your leftovers?” “I love you!” “Be careful driving home!” “Everything was perfect; thank you!” “I can’t wait to see you again!” “I’ll be praying for you!”

And then car after car would back out of the driveway and Eve and Bruce would stand there alone, waving until the last of the tail lights was out of sight. Just like that it was over, and all we had left were the memories, but that was okay, because there would always be next year.

Until there wasn’t a next year. Cancer took Eve home to heaven, and Thanksgiving chapters began to be written at our home. I couldn’t write them like Eve had, but I did my best, and we had some good times. Thanksgiving 2023 looked to be one of the best yet. Why? One family, who had never come, was going to join us, our son, daughter-in-law, and seven grandchildren. You know the phrase “over the moon”? That was me.

Over the moon we all were—until we got under the weather.

When pneumonia hit it was a heavy weight brawler of a boxer and I went down for the count. Sure that I could beat the bug quickly, I waited to cancel Thanksgiving until the doctor said I had to. Another message went out, a sad one this time, telling people not to gather at our home. My husband John got pneumonia too, and our daughter and son-in-law who live with us got sick. A person with Xray vision could have probably seen the tiny germs giving each other high-fives and dancing up and down the walls.

We’d had monthly events lined up like a row of dominoes standing on a table, and pneumonia gave them a rude push. Everything started falling. We had to cancel many doctor appointments not related to the treatment of pneumonia. University of Michigan postponed all cancer treatments until I’m 100% normal—as if I ever was. John wasn’t able to preach Thanksgiving Sunday, and it was his fiftieth one at our little church on the corner of two dirt roads. Sadly, we also had to miss our church’s community harvest dinner, but we hear they managed to have a good time without us, if you can imagine that!

Sad at things missed? Yes, but I feel a strange kind of contentment too, like being wrapped in a cozy blanket in front of a fire on a cold night. As John and I follow doctor’s orders to nap three hours a day we’re contemplating with a smile a quiet Thanksgiving at home. Oh, yes, we’ll miss our family, but they’ll be here soon for Christmas, Lord willing and germs cooperating, and we’re looking forward to that.

So tomorrow, Thanksgiving Day, the two of us will rest. We’ll count our many blessings, not the least of which is still having each other. We won’t forget to thank God for eternal life, for a wonderful church family, for amazing friends, and for the best family anyone could have. We’ll nap; we’ll hold hands and watch the Thanksgiving parade like two happy kids, and we’ll eat a good dinner.

And we’ll say, “Oh, blest be God for love and laughter, today, tomorrow, and hereafter.”

The Thanksgiving that wasn’t? Not in this house, not tomorrow. It will be a wonderful Thanksgiving. Evening shadows may be falling, but we say with William L. Stidger,

“Father, we thank Thee for this day

For food, for fun, for life, for play;

And as the evening shadows fall

We bring to Thee, dear Lord our all;

And as we pray, we ask Thy grace,

Upon this happy, happy place.”

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

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

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Posted on

Jim’s Punctuation Ordination

by Donna Poole

Darlene settled into the pew next to Jim’s parents who’d come all the way from New York State for this landmark day in their son’s life. After Jim had served as pastor of the little country church on the corner of two dirt roads for over a year, Deacon Pete and the board figured it was about time to get their young preacher properly ordained. Then he’d be Reverend Jim Peters.

Darlene glanced around the tiny auditorium and smiled at the people she knew and loved. The women all dressed in simple cotton dresses; some of the men wore denim overalls.

Jim sat in a chair on the platform looking handsome in a leisure suit coat made by his mother, an excellent seamstress. His mom smiled at him proudly. Mom Peters was the only woman present in a store-bought suit and heels, the only one wearing makeup and jewelry, the only one with a beauty parlor hair style, and for sure the only one wearing so much perfume. Darlene coughed a bit at the heavy scent of “Charlie” filling the auditorium. Dad Peters grinned at his son. Dad’s leisure coat was opened, probably because it couldn’t quite button anymore, and he chewed gum and smiled his infectious grin everyone loved.

Dad reached for baby Jimmy and Darlene smiled at him gratefully. She knew she’d have her hands full keeping April, just a toddler quiet for however long this might take. She would have been horrified had she known then exactly how long.

As Darlene waited for the service to start, she did a mental checklist. Was everything ready for the dinner next door in the old one-room country schoolhouse they used for a fellowship hall? Meatloaf and lasagna warmed in the oven; crockpots were plugged in; the ancient refrigerator with the broken handle only she and a few others could manage to open was stuffed with food. The ladies at Corners Church were famous for their cooking. Darlene had covered the antique tables with white paper and set out the dishes and silverware. She only hoped the inevitable mouse who’d manage to escape the traps would stay off the tables long enough for this service to finish and the celebration dinner to begin.

Wait. There would for sure be a celebration, right?

She’d never heard of an ordination council not voting to approve a candidate, but she and Jim knew so little about these things.

Darlene looked up at Jim and caught his eye. He smiled his I’m nervous grin at her, and she smiled her I love you and I’m praying for you one back at him.

And then it started. The members of the ordination council, pastors who’d been invited from near and far, filed in as a group and sat together in the front pews. Their footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors. Only a few of them were smiling.

What an austere bunch! These guys look like they’re out hunting for a fox that’s been eating someone’s chickens! All they need are guns!

Darlene barely managed to stifle a giggle as she pictured the reserved, dignified pastors, mostly older men, tramping through muddy fields in their spotless black suits and shiny shoes, carrying guns.

Whoops. I forgot to check Jim’s boots for mud. Too late now. It’s about impossible not to have a speck of something on your boots when you live on a dirt road.

But then some of the pastors looked over at Darlene, nodded, and smiled. She breathed a sigh of relief. They didn’t look so bad after all, except for the one, the youngest of the group. He dusted the pew with a white handkerchief before he sat and looked around with an unmistakable sneer.

Oh boy. He’s going to be trouble with a capital T!

It wasn’t too bad at first. They started the service with hymn singing as they always did at Corners Church. Darlene almost forgot to be nervous for Jim as she joined in the praises to God that filled the tiny auditorium and went straight to heaven.

Jesus is here. He’s with Jim. It’s going to be okay.

And then the questions began. Jim stood alone behind the pulpit. He looked so young. Minutes ticked by and became hours. Darlene noticed the sweat on his forehead. From every side the questions came covering all the ologies she’d ever heard of and a few she hadn’t: theology, Christology, soteriology, pneumatology, eschatology, bibliology. Did he prefer topical preaching or expository and why? What were his views on inspiration, predestination, justification, propitiation, and punctuation?

Okay, maybe they didn’t ask about punctuation, but they asked about everything else and then some. Her babies were getting restless. She was getting restless. Jim looked like he might get sick.

Is the food in the fellowship hall burning? It’s way past lunchtime.

Darlene glanced behind her and saw a few women were already on their way out the door. She knew they were going to check on the food. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Darlene glanced uneasily at Jim’s mom. Mom Peters didn’t take kindly to anyone giving Jim a hard time, but she didn’t seem to realize that one of these pastors was doing just that. The young one seemed to be trying to stump him. Mom just kept smiling at Jim and occasionally whispering to Darlene asking if she didn’t think he was doing well and looking handsome.

Darlene knew it wasn’t very Christian of her, but she started thinking of the man haggling Jim as “Pastor Smart Alec.”

Finally! A kind looking older pastor said, “Gentlemen, I think we’ve asked this young man enough questions, and he’s done quite well. Why don’t we wrap this up? I call for a vote.”

Pastor Smart Alec stood. His face was red. “I don’t think he’s done all that well. Several answers were not thorough enough for my liking. And I have one more question. Jim! Could you stand up straighter when you reply to us? What’s the definition of unction and how important is it to you in your ministry?”

One look at Jim’s face told Darlene all she needed to know. He was exhausted, rattled, and his brain was empty. She tried sending her thoughts to him; they’d taken the same classes.

Jim, you know this! It’s the anointing of the Holy Spirit. It’s his convicting, empowering work when he calls someone to do a job. It’s vital for every Christian, but especially for those teaching and preaching God’s Word.

Her mental telepathy failed. Jim looked wearily at Pastor Smart Alec and said, “I’m sorry, brother. I don’t know.”

Whereupon the said brother stepped out in the aisle, up onto the platform, and with arms waving delivered an incredibly detailed, lengthy, and angry exposition on unction. He concluded with, “Perhaps this little pastor might be good enough for this little church on the corner of two dirt roads, but I say even they deserve someone better!”

It was a good thing thoughts didn’t appear in bubbles over heads. Darlene’s would have said, “And you, Reverend Smart Alec, just showed us what unction isn’t. Or if you had unction, you sure didn’t get it from God!”

The auditorium sat in stunned silence. Darlene risked a quick glance at Mom Peters. Mom was smiling but she had a look in her eye. Darlene grinned. Smart Alec was sure to hear from Mom before the day was through.

Doubtless, had there been a place to vote in private, the pastors would have gone there. But the little church had no such place, not even a bathroom, and the outhouse wouldn’t have held that many distinguished guests. They couldn’t go outside; it was pouring.

The gentle looking older pastor stood. He gave Reverend Smart Alec a look of his own, but all he said was, “I call for a vote.”

It was a unanimous yes. Well, almost. One loud “No!” sounded from the midst.

And then Jim came down from the pulpit, knelt on the floor, and the pastors, minus one, circled him, laid their hands on his head, and prayed for him. Darlene cried.

With one last joyful hymn, the congregation dismissed for a lunch so late it was almost supper.

Mom Peters made her way straight to Reverend Smart Alec and extended her hand. He barely touched it. Conversation stopped, and everyone in the auditorium looked at the two of them.

Mom Peters said, “I just want you to know that I’m going to pray every day for this little pastor, my son. And I’m going to pray that this little church on this little corner will be a lighthouse until Jesus comes!”

“Huh!” he scoffed. “As if that could ever happen.”

“Oh my!” she said, looking surprised. “Don’t you know the meaning of faith as small as a mustard seed?”

There were more than a few chuckles.

Then Mom Peters went back to where Dad and Darlene were each holding a sleeping child. She opened her purse and pulled out her rain hat and tied it carefully under her chin.

“Ruthie.” Dad laughed. “You don’t need that. It stopped raining. The sun’s out.”

“It might be windy. I don’t want my hair to blow.”

Dad and Darlene grinned at each other.

Dad said, “Your hair couldn’t move in a hurricane!”

Darlene laughed. It was true. Mom used so much hairspray; her hair was a force to be reckoned with, and come to think of it, so was she.

“Let’s go next door and eat,” Darlene said. “I’m starved.”

Everyone headed to the schoolhouse fellowship hall except for Reverend Smart Alec. He used his elbow to wipe a speck off the door of his black Lincoln, got in, and drove off without a backward glance.

Suddenly Darlene felt sorry for him. He didn’t know what he was missing. She stopped walking and prayed silently for him.

“Come on, Darlene; hurry,” Mom Peters said. “Jim is probably waiting for us. I think he looked handsome; don’t you? And don’t you think he did a good job?”

Darlene laughed and wondered how she’d feel about her babies when they were grown up. “Yes, Mom, to both. He looked very handsome, and no one could have done a better job.

The End

***

If you enjoyed this short story about Jim and Darlene, look for an entire book about them on Amazon, “Corners Church,” by Donna Poole

The photo is a picture of a painting done by Megan Poole.

Posted on

Making History

by Donna Poole

I wish I had been there!

I wasn’t there, but I can see the look of determination on his face. I know it well.

Yesterday, Reece, our grandson, ran with his school’s cross-country team in the regional meet. He led most of the race but got passed in the last one-hundred fifty yards. Reece set a PR of 16:20.4. He’s now the fastest junior in his school’s history. His team hasn’t lost a race yet this year, and they’re headed to Michigan International Speedway next Saturday to run in the state meet. The girls’ team qualified for state too. Fire up, Colts!

Cross-country is a sport that builds character. It takes dedication, determination, and teamwork. It requires listening to the coaches and following directions. Because the runners go such long distances, they have to do more than run fast; they have to run smart. They must know when to pace themselves, when to push past their limits, and when to use that last bit of reserve to propel across the finish line. It’s not a “hey look at me” sport. A good team encourages one other.

I think cross-country is a lot like life. It’s the old saying in motion, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

Some people say John F. Kennedy’s father first used that phrase. Others say it became popular in football locker rooms in the 1950s and Texas coach, John Thomas, first used it.

Ralph Waldo Emerson understood the concept of when the going gets tough. He wrote, “What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are tiny matters to what lies within us.”

Dale Carnegie said, “Most of the important things in the world have been accomplished by people who have kept on trying when there seemed to be no hope at all.”

And Confucius said, “Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.”

I’ve seen runners ignore what was behind and ahead and reach inside for the determination within. I’ve seen one keep running and finish last when there was no hope of winning, and yet I called her a winner. I’ve seen runners fall, get up, and keep going, and I’ve thought, there goes a hero in the making.

Cross country runners who stick with it year after year have the stuff.

John and I enjoy fall camping and when it’s cold we say about the others camping nearby, “They’ve got the stuff.” We laugh when we say it, but we mean it. It’s a compliment. When it’s almost cold enough to snow, and it’s pouring rain, and we see a tent pitched in the woods, we say, “They’ve really got the stuff.”

We camped this fall for the first time in three years. First, we went north in Michigan, and it was cold. We braved a stiff north-east wind, walked to the channel at Muskegon, and watched the boats go out into Lake Michigan. We huddled around a fire, laughed, and told each other, “We’ve got the stuff.”

Next, we went to Indiana, and Indian Summer arrived. It was glorious.

“John,” I said, “I want to hike a trail.”

“You mean you want to go for a walk?”

“No! I want to hike a trail. A real trail. Come on! Let’s try! We’ve got the stuff.”

He laughed and looked at me dubiously.

“I don’t know, honey. You haven’t hiked in three years, and you still have trouble walking. What if you get out there and can’t get back? I can’t carry you!”

I knew he was right. And wrong. Cancer took so many things. Walking is still very difficult for me, but hiking used to be my passion. Just ask my kids.

“Mom!” Our son John groaned more than once. “Do you have to hike every trail in this park?”

“I do! You don’t have to come with me though.”

They came with me. Kimmee had a broken toe when she climbed up ladders on the sides of rock cliffs to hike with me. In my defense, I didn’t know she had a broken toe.

This Indiana campground had no rock cliffs, no mountains, no steep paths leading to waterfalls, no place we might meet a bear with her cubs—none of the excitement of trails past. It just had trails through meadows and up gentle hills.

“Please?” I begged.

John gave in.

When I put my feet on that trail, I was giddy with excitement. There were times I’d thought I’d never hike again, times when just brushing my teeth left me shaking with exhaustion.

“You sure you can do this?” John asked.

“We’ve got the stuff!” I answered.

He laughed, and we started hiking. Okay, hiking may be a bit of an exaggeration. I’m not sure what you’d call it, with me leaning on my cane with one hand and on John’s arm with the other and limping and hobbling along the path. Once I began, the old feelings returned, and I didn’t want to go back. I knew I’d passed my limit of endurance, but I still didn’t want to quit.

“That’s it,” John finally said. “You’re too tired. It’s a long way back to the car.”

“Please, let’s just get to the top of that hill. I want to see what’s next from up there.”

He gave in; we struggled up the hill. When we got to the top, we couldn’t see a thing. The path wandered away through thick underbrush. Disappointed is an understatement—until John touched my arm.

“Look,” he said softly, helping me turn around so I didn’t lose my balance.

We stood looking back at the way we’d come. I caught my breath at the beauty. The path was illuminated in shades of gold and red autumn leaves dressed in their best for their farewell party. Puffy white clouds drifted by in a brilliant blue sky. It was quiet, except for the distant hum of something that sounded like muted cicadas. We held hands, and my heart filled with worship.

Maybe that’s what it’s all about, not seeing where we’re going, but looking at the beauty of where we’ve been, and thanking God for the memories, even for the struggles that got us where we are today, at the top of the hill, looking back.

After a few minutes we started back.

“You okay?” John asked.

I nodded and laughed. “We’ve got the stuff.”

Actually, we don’t. We have God. He’s the one who gives us the determination, the will to fight, the resolve to keep trying against all odds, to keep on going when life gets tough.

And so, we hobbled back down the trail together, two people, three-quarters of a century old. The car was farther away than I had remembered it. John says we walked a mile. I don’t think so. I think he just felt that way because his arm hurt from me leaning on it. But together we made it back to the car and to the campground.

That was several days ago and I’m still sore. But it was worth it. I didn’t make the history Reece made, but I made my own kind of history. Maybe someday I’ll even be able to hike every trail in the campground again. I wonder if my kids will want to go with me?

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

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

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author