Back Road Ramblings

by Donna Poole

The old lady’s eyes were closed in prayer, but she knew the scene by heart. Seven half pews lined each side of the tiny church, just as they had for the last fifty plus years her husband had been pastor here. The bare wooden floor, worn and stained from one-hundred-fifty years of use, still creaked in the same places. The views outside of the six windows, three on a side, changed with the seasons. Today they showed empty fields gifted golden with round bales of hay. The last cutting of the year.

Eyes still closed, she pictured Macy, her granddaughter sitting next to her, light brown hair in one thick braid tied with a pink ribbon and hanging over her shoulder, paisley ruffled dress, and brown and turquoise cowboy boots. How she loved this granddaughter, the one who found school lessons difficult but spoke expertly a language few can master, the language of love.

It was communion Sunday. The pastor, her husband, had said what he’d always said. She knew those words by heart too.

“To be sure our hearts are right with the Lord, let’s spend a few minutes in silent prayer before we begin.”

A baby whimpered, but other than that, she heard only a holy hush that called her spirit to prayer.

Lord, I think things are better between you and me than they’ve ever been. Today’s the day we eat the broken bread and drink the cup, symbolizing your death when you gave all you had to give so we could have eternal life. I put my faith in your sacrifice long ago, and I know that’s all I need to do to live in heaven with you. But because I love you and your people, I’ve tried to follow in your steps. I’ve given everything I have to you.

Have you though?

She knew in an instant what he was talking about. Not that. Please, not that. But if everything isn’t everything it’s nothing.

What to do? The old lady knew well joy comes from giving, but this was almost too much. A tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it quickly away before Macy noticed. Always compassionate, Macy lived the motto: your pain is in my heart. She could not, she would not worry this woman-child.

I’ll do it, Lord. I’ll give that too.

Softly she slipped passed Macy and out of the pew. What would she say when her granddaughter noticed she was leaving? But Macy seemed unaware.

She tiptoed up the wooden floor trying not to make a sound, hard to do with a cane and her lack of balance. She caught herself on a pew and stepped down hard on a creaky place, but no one opened their eyes. Strange. She looked around. Even the fussy baby had her eyes closed now.

She glanced out of the windows as she continued to the front. The fields whispered back to her, See, we’re empty now; our round bales say how happy it is to give until you have nothing left to give.

The old lady went into the room where the children had junior church. They were still in the pews; her husband didn’t dismiss them until after communion. She found what she was looking for. She’d left it there the previous Christmas, and in that little country church, no one threw out anything.

She unrolled the sparkly gold paper, fit for a gift for the King, and cut off the right size. She wrapped her gift quickly; she didn’t have much time to get back to her pew. With a smile, a tear, and a prayer, she left her gift on the communion table.

Here, my sweet Lord Jesus, this is for you. I promise I’ll never ask for it back. You deserve so much more, but I’m old now, and this is all I can think of to give you that I haven’t already given.

She was amazed on her return trip to her pew. No one seemed to hear her cane tapping on the hard wooden floor. Macy didn’t notice when she slipped back into the pew.

Macy nudged her. A deacon was offering the silver plate with the broken crackers.

“Grandma,” Macy whispered, “you’re not supposed to fall asleep in communion!”

Confused, the old lady looked at the communion table, but her precious gift wasn’t there.

She put the cracker in her mouth and bowed her head.

I guess the golden gift was a dream, Lord, but I do give you what was inside the package—my precious hope of retiring someday. I’ll never ask my husband about it again. I see the pain in his eyes when I do. But you’re going to have to help me because I’m a tired eighty years old. I’d hoped for a little place for the two of us. I’d imagined coffee on the porch in the mornings with quiet days stretching in front of us and nothing to do except maybe welcome the grandkids running in and out. . ..

Macy patted her hand. A deacon was offering the tiny cup full of grape juice.

Her husband was quoting the words of Jesus as he had done for more than fifty years, “‘This do as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.’

He added, “Let’s remember him together.”

Together they raised their cups and drank. Together they remembered.

After church Macy hugged her, a worried look in her blue eyes. “Are you okay, Grandma?”

“Never better, Macy. Never better.”

She walked slowly to her car, leaning heavily on her cane, smiling at the harvested fields as she passed.

Was it her imagination, or did the fields look a bit sad? Maybe it was just that the shadow of a passing cloud hid the sun, and the golden field looked a drab brown.

In the rustle of the late-summer breeze, she thought she heard the fields speak.

It’s okay to be sad about the death of a dream. Just remember seasons change; they always do. And a season better than any dream is coming soon for you.

“Thank you,” the old lady said.

Macy came up behind her and touched her arm.

“Who are you talking to, Grandma? No one’s out here. I think I better help you to your car.”

The old lady laughed. “I think you better.”

And they walked slowly on together, the young woman child who knew the language of love and the old dreamer of dreams.

by Donna Poole

So many things signal the back-to-school season. Here in Michigan, the slant of the sun comes from farther south; the fireflies are gone where good lightning bugs go, and it’s quiet outside. Sumac leaves are just beginning to redden. Yellow buses pick up kindergarten children who are wearing new sneakers and backpacks, and moms wipe away tears as their little ones take their first solo flights.

I can’t remember my first day of kindergarten. I don’t know who walked me to school or who my teacher was. I have only one memory of my time in that school. I wore a fuzzy white jacket to school in the morning, but it was warm when school ended. I stood on some steep cement steps, held the jacket over one arm, and clung to an iron railing. Somehow, I dropped my beautiful jacket and watched with tears in my eyes as thousands—it seemed to me—of bigger kids poured out of school and trampled my beautiful jacket underfoot as they ran down the stairs.

Finally, my big sister Eve, seven years older, appeared in the crowd.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

I couldn’t speak; I pointed at my jacket.

“Why didn’t you just pick it up?”

And then with a true hero’s bravery she reached between the herd of thundering feet, grabbed my jacket, took my hand, and helped me down the stairs. I must have had short legs, because those stairs were terrifyingly steep, but with Eve holding my hand, I could do anything.

We moved half-way through kindergarten, and I had to go to another school. I remember two things about my first day. The teacher plunked down a small cardboard carton of milk and said, “In this school, we drink all of our milk. No excuses.”

I opened my milk, put in the straw, and saw it. A dead fly was floating on top. But in this school, we drink all of our milk. No excuses.

I drank that milk until there was just a tiny drop left at the bottom with the dead fly lying in it. Would it be enough? Would the teacher make me drink the fly too? I remember the relief I felt when she picked up my little carton and never glanced at it. I didn’t have to drink the fly.

Then it was play time. I’d been noticing a huge playhouse built out of giant-sized Lincon Logs. I couldn’t wait to see inside. I’d barely bent over to look when another child pushed me back.

 “She can’t come in here. She’s a new kid.”

“Yeah! She’s a new kid. She can’t come inside our playhouse.”

I stood frozen, telling my feet to go back to my desk, but they wouldn’t move.

Then a little girl with dark brown curls and beautiful blue eyes took my hand. “She can come in here. She’s my friend now, and I say she can play with us.”

Instantly I had a whole classroom full of new friends, but my best friend until we moved again was that little girl with the dark brown curls and beautiful blue eyes, Maureen O’Riley. I’ll never forget her. I lost her in our many moves.

It’s that time of year, the time for solo flights. Children all over are starting kindergarten, or junior high, high school, college, or grad school. I hope they all have an Eve to rescue a trampled jacket or a Maureen O’Riley to say, “She’s my friend now.”

I took a solo flight of my own today. I went for a short walk alone outside for the first time in three years. Three years of cancer treatments can leave an older person weak and unsteady, but I’ve been working to get stronger.

John was in the yard doing some chores when I took my walking stick and headed down the driveway. He saw me.

“Hey! Where are you going? You’re not supposed to be doing that by yourself!”

“I think I can, honey. I really want to.”

“Okay, but don’t go far. Only walk to that next driveway up there, okay?”

I nodded. It felt a little scary walking on uneven ground, just me and my walking stick with no one’s arm to hold, but it felt exhilarating too. Walking down our dirt road, just God and I, used to be my favorite thing.

It was a hot, humid morning, but the breeze felt wonderful on my face. There was no traffic; there seldom is. Like most September mornings, it was quiet. I’d forgotten how I love the sounds of silence. A few of the maple leaves are turning; I saw one on the ground and stopped to take a picture.

A voice from far behind me called, “Are you okay?”

I laughed. “I’m fine, honey. Keep working. I just stopped to take a picture.”

The road called my name and suddenly I realized I’d passed the driveway where I’d promised to turn around. I wanted to keep going, but I didn’t. I headed back; I’d gone such a short distance, so I was surprised at how exhausted I was.

Suddenly a young woman with dark curls and beautiful brown eyes came hurrying toward me. “I couldn’t find you in the house, and I couldn’t find you outside. Dad said you were taking a walk.”

“I went to kindergarten,” I said. “I went all by myself.”

“Did you?” She laughed and didn’t ask any more questions. After all these years, she’s used to her mom. “I need to go to the garden,” she said. “Do you want to come with me?”

She offered her arm, and I took it.

It’s that time of year, the time for solo flights. Children all over are starting kindergarten, or junior high, high school, college, or grad school. I hope they all have an Eve to rescue a trampled jacket or a Maureen O’Riley to say, “She’s my friend now.”

And if the ones taking solo flights are old ladies who walk a little too far to get safely home alone but don’t want to admit it, I hope they have someone come find them, offer an arm, and help them get home by way of a beautiful garden.

The End

Photo credit for gladiolus: Kimmee Kiefer

***

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 four other books on Amazon as well.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

He’d lived with her for four years and thought by now he knew everything there was to know about her, but who knows anyone, really? This was the first time he’d suggested playing cards for money. She hadn’t wanted to, but he’d talked her into it. His stash was getting a bit low, and he’d thought she’d be easy money.

I wish I’d never started this game, but I can’t quit now.

He tried not to fidget or give away his nervousness. A good gambler never does that; no one had to tell him. He knew it instinctively. Gambling was in his blood.

He studied his opponent. Older than he was, she probably wouldn’t have been his first choice to live with, but when you’re down on your luck, you take what you can get. Her hair was getting the tiniest bit gray around the temples, but she was still beautiful. Her blue eyes met his with a smile, but he didn’t smile back.

She held her smile.

If he only knew how I’ve lied and cheated in this game. He doesn’t know I have it in me. But when the stakes are this high, you gotta do what you gotta do.

The smile made him even more nervous than he already was. His hands felt clammy.

What cards is she holding? I can’t tell by her face. She’s scaring me.

He glanced at the money he had left on the table. That pile and one more thing, his prized possession, were all he had left. She’d taken everything else. He studied his cards and her face. Everyone always said about him that he had a gift for knowing what people were thinking, but it wasn’t working this time, not with her.

Had he ever known what she was thinking? He wasn’t sure. And then he lost that hand. And the next. He knew he should quit, but he couldn’t. He shoved his prized possession to the middle of the table and glared at her.

When he’d lost the last hand he’d felt like crying, except he’d never cried once. Not in the four years he’d lived with her.

He loved her, but he was so angry he couldn’t even look at her. She’d known what this game had meant to him, and she’d taken everything.

“I’m going to bed.”

He hadn’t looked at her, and she hadn’t answered.

She sat at the table, calmly gathering the cash into a pile, thinking I couldn’t let him win. Yes, he had a lot to lose, but I had more. If only I’d steeled my heart against that other gambler, I wouldn’t have lost my beautiful house. I wouldn’t be living in this stinking, low-income apartment fighting roaches and bed bugs and listening to drunken brawls through thin walls every night. I’ll never let another gambler win, not if I can help it, especially not this one I just took for everything he’s got. I love him too much. Gambling’s in his blood, I know it is. And I don’t know if I can flush it out, but God help me, I’m going to do my best.

She was exhausted, more tired than she’d ever been, but she went to check on him. The night was chilly, and she wanted to be sure he wasn’t cold. She pulled a blanket up carefully, trying not to wake him. She wondered how long he’d be angry with her.

He woke up and looked at her with those beautiful blue eyes so like her own.

“Goodnight, Grandma. I’m not mad at you anymore. Gambling’s stupid, isn’t it?”

And then he rolled over and popped his thumb in his mouth.

Four-years-old might be too old to suck your thumb, but she never tried to stop him. Poor baby. His father, her son, had staggered drunkenly into her apartment and had dropped him on her table on a cold winter’s day. The newborn had worn only a soaking wet diaper. His mother had died in childbirth a few weeks earlier.

“Here you go, Mom,” her son had said. “I’ve gambled away everything you own and my own life, but don’t say I never gave you anything.”

He’d disappeared into the night before she could say a word. The court had given her custody of the baby.

She didn’t know if her son was dead or alive.

She went back to the kitchen and sat at the table. Then she dropped her head to her arms, confessed her lying and cheating, and prayed for her son.

“Lord, help us all.”

She cried for a while. Then she wiped her face.

She looked at the mess on the table and laughed.

She put the pile of pennies back into the piggy bank, his dearest treasure, the one engraved with his name, Thomas J. Thompson II. Tonight had been Tommy’s first experience with gambling, hopefully it would be his last. If not, she’d be smarter than she’d been with her son, Tom. She knew what to watch for now, and she knew where to get help.

She picked up the cards from the table. Then she picked up the ones she’d hidden on the chair next to her to win the last hand. She put them all back into the box.

“Go Fish,” she whispered.

by Donna Poole

Sometimes, it’s simpler to text.

On June 1, 2020, I texted family members, “I had an X-ray today and it showed an atypical mass peri-hilar region. I need a CT and a pulmonary consult. It could be pneumonia, but they need to be sure ‘it’s not something worse.’ The doctor said whatever it is, it’s the reason why I’m wheezing, short of breath, have chest pain, and am tired. Let’s keep this in the family until we find out what it is. I don’t see any sense in terrifying everyone at this point…. Love you all. Don’t worry. I’m not going to die. I have too many books to write and jokes to tell.”

It was the “something worse.”

George Matheson said, “Show me that my tears have made a rainbow.”

Yes, I found many rainbows on my cancer journey, each uniquely beautiful, some even double. Yes, God has been good, and there have been blessings, love, and laughter. But there’s no denying the tears.

 I’ve prayed; I’ve laughed whenever I could, and I’ve enjoyed every possible minute of life, but only God and another cancer patient knows how tough non-stop cancer treatment is and what three years of it does to a person’s body and mind.

Still, in August of 2023, I thought I looked pretty good for my age, just another average camper at Lake Michigan Channel Campground. I was walking from the channel back up to our campsite with my two faithful companions, my cane, and my husband, John, when a couple headed the other way met us.

She looked straight at me.

“Good for you!” Her voice was loud. “You’re walking! That’s the best thing for you!”

What? Do I look that bad? I’m just an ordinary looking older camper, aren’t I?

I looked down at myself. It was a super-hot day, according to John. Most people, even the few in wheelchairs, wore swimsuits or shorts, tank tops, and flip flops. I still shivered in my jeans, long sleeved shirt, sweater, warm socks, and loafers—I’d forgotten my tennis shoes. And my balance was so tipsy I needed both my companions to remain upright.

I guess I do look that bad.

But I smiled at the woman and kept walking. She’d meant to encourage me. And I was encouraged. It was the first time in the three hard years John and I had gone camping, and there’d been times we doubted we’d ever go again. Now that we were holding our dream in our hands, we didn’t want to waste a minute of lake breezes, sand dunes, gorgeous sunsets, and crackling campfires. We begrudged even having to leave to get a few groceries and a can opener.

Knowing I had to go for more scans when we got home made our time together even more precious. The four days came gift wrapped from heaven, and God didn’t add any sorrow with them.

Our favorite activity was walking down to the channel that connects Muskegon Lake and Lake Michigan. The walkway is lined with benches where you can sit and watch everything from little kayaks to huge ships carrying cranes and other machinery.

Sometimes you can hear the conversations of the people on the water. Two guys on jet skis were talking as they flew by us going way too fast; the channel has a strictly enforced speed limit.

“Once I got too close to the ferry.” one young man said to the other. “They called the coast guard on me.”

They looked up, saw us sitting on a bench, and grinned at us. I couldn’t help it. So much life and laughter—I smiled back, even though I knew what our son, a marine patrol officer would say, and he did say it when I told him.

“I would have given them a ticket.”

Yes, you would have, Danny, and rightly so. Too much youthful enthusiasm can cause destruction and even death, and you’ve seen that in your other job as a fireman. But I recall two brothers who drag raced each other down a road not far from their home and didn’t tell their mom about it until many years later. I’m sure one of them wasn’t you.

Well, I suppose more than a few of us have given our guardian angels a run for their money. We didn’t keep ours too busy though, just sitting on the benches. We weren’t just watching life go by from those benches though, we were living it. I loved reading the inscriptions on them. Here are a few, just as inscribed:

“In memory of Jeff Januska

Dedicated with great love from family and friends

So guess what…. have a seat, tell a story, catch a fish, give a hug.”

“Don & Carol Herrgord

Faith and Family

To God be the Gory”

“In memory of Herm & Alice Stafford

Of all the paths you take in life,

Make some lead to the channel.”

“In memory of ‘Peachie” Witham

Memories made while camping are in our hearts forever

Your loving friends

Rosemary ‘Peach” Witham

You still live on in the hearts and minds of your loving family

We’ll meet again”

“Always in our hearts

John and Dini Viveen

Devoted Parents-Devoted Opa and Oma

‘The most important thing in the world is family and love’”

The time came to leave our dream come true and head home, but we have a good life at home, a wonderful life. We returned home and got more scans for me, a PET and two CTs. They’d tell me the status of the cancer. What would they say? We’d followed closely the news of the drug trial I’m on; we knew I’d already far passed the statistical time of a good response on it. Still, “hope” is our word. We hoped and prayed it would be the same as what we’d been hearing since I’d flunked chemo and radiation and entered the clinical drug trial: Stable. Stable means the cancer is still active but isn’t spreading.

After each scan, my oncology team assures me “stable” is a good word, and the best word I can hope for at this stage of the game. “Complete response” is too much to expect at this point, but anything except disease progression is wonderful news.

I’ve gotten pretty good at deciphering PETs and CTs; I’ve had lots of practice. John estimates I’ve had over a dozen PETs and almost two dozen CTs, but when these results arrived in my patient portal I looked and looked again. I read them to John.

“Does it mean…?” he asked.

“I don’t know. This time I have to ask.”

Sometimes, it’s simpler to text.

 On August 17, 2023, at 2:55 PM I got a message from an oncologist at my cancer center. It read in part, “Hi Donna. You are in complete response. Meaning we can not see any active disease on PET.

In the trial you are on, epco continues until disease progression. So as long as you are responding, no plan to stop therapy.”

Complete response!

John and I thanked God together for this rainbow, one more beautiful than we’d ever hoped to see this side of heaven.  

I texted family, “Who’s ready for some incredibly good news?”

Then in my imagination I took a path back to the channel and sat on a bench, the one that says, “To God be the Glory.” I pulled my sweater close around me, watched the yachts sail by, and put some thoughts in order.

On June 1, 2020, I’d texted my family, “Love you all. Don’t worry. I’m not going to die. I have too many books to write and jokes to tell.”

How silly of me. Of course, I’m going to die; everyone does, but it seems I’m not going to heaven as soon as I expected. And as much as I love the benches at the channel, when my time comes to say, “See you later,” a bench isn’t what I want to leave behind.   

When I die, I hope to leave a heart-memory that says this: “She loved God. She loved her family. She loved her friends. And she thought of everyone as a friend.”

Even strangers who holler encouragement in voices a bit too loud.

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 four other books on Amazon as well.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author.

by Donna Poole

The clouds threatened rain and the chilly wind echoed their warning. The usually crowded beach at Lake Michigan was almost empty except for the two people flying kites, a grandpa, and his little grandson.

The grandpa had three kites in the air already. Then he helped the little boy launch his kite, a beautiful butterfly, translucent blue, yellow and red with four long tails. The kite was taller than the boy was. The wind tugged at the kite and tousled the boy’s sandy blond hair. He danced with excitement, bare feet sometimes in the sand and sometimes at the edge of the asphalt parking lot. With Grandpa’s help his kite soared effortlessly high into the sky. Grandpa handed the string to his grandson, and the kite began wobbling erratically. Then it plunged to the sand.

I caught my breath as the child ran to his kite, sure it was broken and waiting for tears, but no, the kite was unharmed. Patiently, the grandpa helped the boy launch his kite again. It remained airborne for a few seconds longer this time, but again nose dived to the ground.

This time the grandpa didn’t help. He all but ignored the boy’s efforts. The little boy struggled to even pick up the kite, taller than he was. He dropped it once, twice, three times. The third time he tangled himself in the long red tails, but he just brushed them aside and tried again.

I guessed the boy to be three, maybe four years old, a little thing in a long-sleeved t-shirt and tan shorts. I kept waiting for him to call for his grandpa’s help or for his grandpa to offer, but neither thing happened. I only managed to stay in my own lane and mind my own business because I can barely keep my balance with my cane; I’d be no help to a little boy trying to get his kite in the air.

He was a determined little kid. The fourth time the kite lifted up, up…I held my breath. But no. Down it came with a crash. The fifth time he let the string out and the kite soared up high and higher into the sky above the lake.

“Yay!” he hollered. “Look! Look!” And he danced across the sand looking up at his beautiful butterfly kite, translucent blue, yellow and red with four long tails.

His grandpa looked; I looked; my eyes filled with tears. You go, little boy. Oh, the places you’ll go. Your grandpa won’t always be here to help you. Old ladies watching from cars with their canes won’t be able to help you. But I hope you know the Someone who will be able to help.

I sent the video I’d taken of the little boy with his kite to our granddaughter, Megan. She’d just finished her first semester of Physicians’ Assistant School. It had been hard. Megan is brilliant; if she says something is tough; it’s tough.

I knew if something had been difficult for Megan it would be impossible for me. She’d graduated cum laude with a degree in bio-chem from Hillsdale College. Bio-chem? I’d barely passed high school biology, had flunked high school chemistry once and just passed it the second time. So often during Megan’s semester I’d wanted to help her, but she was flying the kite, one shaped like a white coat. I was the old lady sitting in the car with my cane. But an old lady with a cane can pray for a beautiful young woman with blond hair and one dimple struggling to fly a kite taller than she is.

When I sent Megan the video of the little boy with his kite I texted, “He is you.”

 She texted back, “Little buddy was having a hard time for a minute there.”

When it came time for finals Megan was sick. Now she was struggling to fly her kite over Lake Michigan in a thunderstorm. And the old lady watching from the car with her cane cried. And prayed. And cried some more.

I hope that little boy with his kite learns to know the God Megan knows well. She worked impossibly hard, and she prayed even harder. And she flew her kite, the one taller than she is. It’s somewhere out of sight now, and all of us who love Megan are cheering! Her white coat ceremony is in a few weeks.

I just hope at the ceremony I can keep from pointing up and hollering, “Yay! Look! Look!”

Because if no one else there sees a kite shaped like a white coat dancing way up at the ceiling, they need an old lady with a cane to help them see it.

The End

Photo credit for Megan and me: Kimmee Kiefer

***

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 four other books on Amazon as well.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

Fiction based on fact

by Donna Poole

The preacher’s gnarled hands gripped the steering wheel, and he struggled to keep his eyes opened. He didn’t need to look in the review mirror to know his hair was white and his face lined; he only hoped the discouragement didn’t show on the outside.  As he drove to town he thought of his wife and sighed. There’d been so much he’d wanted to give her through the years, especially now, but so little he’d been able to do. Mostly she’d just wanted more time together, but now the two-week vacation he’d promised her had been reduced to five days at the most and even that was iffy.

She wouldn’t complain; he knew her well after sixty years of marriage. She understood when people needed him, he didn’t leave town. Some pastors might, but he couldn’t. She not only understood, she loved that about him. Still, it was hard. This was to have been their first camping trip in three years.

Cancer had taken a lot from her.

He sighed again. It was lonelier now going to preach at the Medical Care services. She’d always gone with him BC—before cancer, but now her oncology team didn’t think it wise for her to be in a small room crowded with older, sick people. So, he went alone. He’d gone many places alone the last three years. Yes, he was used to it, but it didn’t make it any easier.

The old preacher thought of something his father-in-law had said years before. His wife had asked, “Dad, does life ever get any easier?”

She’d been young then, with long, brown hair and an easy laugh. She still had the easy laugh, but she’d lost all her hair with the chemo treatments, and it had returned thin and white as worn bleached cotton.

Her dad, an old man himself back then had studied her a minute then smiled. “No, honey. Life never gets any easier. But Jesus gets sweeter.”

It’s true. Jesus gets sweeter. If I ever get too old and tired to preach anything else, I can always preach that.

The old preacher was almost to Medical Care. He felt too tired to get out of the car, but he did it. He always did what he had to do.

He walked down the hall and pushed the elevator button. The old people were already singing when he got to the little room.

Why do I call them ‘the old people’? Some of them are younger than I am.

He sang with them and looked around the room. Many of the faces were familiar. Some of the usual ones were gone. That happened more and more often. They were getting older, just like he was, and no one lives forever.

Leah was there. He smiled. If anyone would live forever, it would be Leah. His wife had always liked talking to Leah; they had a connection. They’d both had surgery for brain aneurysms. Leah’s ruptured aneurysm had left her a patient in the Medical Care she’d once worked at.

Leah loved life. She loved Jesus. And she loved telling the other patients what to do. That sometimes didn’t end well. The others didn’t always understand that Leah only bossed them for their own good. They didn’t see her beautiful heart; they only saw one more person telling them what to do, and since this person didn’t have a uniform or a badge, they weren’t having it.

He got up to preach and, as usual, began with a prayer. Instead of starting his sermon he heard himself say, “I’m sorry if I seem tired tonight. My wife and I spent the afternoon in a hospital in Toledo visiting a very sick friend. I had just five minutes at home. Then I visited another woman here in the hospital in Hillsdale and came here to be with you. You may remember my wife isn’t allowed to come here because of her cancer. Tomorrow, we have to leave at five o’clock in the morning because she has a long day at U of M Hospital.”

He gave himself a verbal shaking. Get a grip. You might think you need some rest, but these people would give anything to have the busy life you have. You might feel bad your wife can’t be with you. Some of these people would love to have a mate even if that person was battling cancer.

He shot a silent prayer for help heavenward and began preaching with the love and compassion he was known for, but he was slightly distracted. Leah kept motioning for an aide and whispering loudly.

Oh, no. Is Leah not feeling well?

The aide removed something from Leah’s neck and put into her hand. It didn’t matter that the preacher was in the middle of his sermon. When Leah had something to do; Leah did it.

She wheeled her chair up to the side of the pulpit and motioned for him to put his head down to hers.

“What is it, Leah?”

“Hold out your hand,” she ordered.

He obeyed.

She dropped a cross necklace into his hand.

“This is for your wife. She needs it more than I do. I want her to remember Jesus is with her when she goes to the hospital. Jesus is with her wherever she goes.”

“Well, thank you, Leah.”

“You’re welcome.” She smiled. She wheeled herself back to her place.

He continued with his message, but he really didn’t need to. The preacher had already delivered her excellent sermon.

The old preacher wasn’t as tired going home as he had been driving in. He thought of his wife, exhausted from the long afternoon hospital visit, and probably sleeping. There’d been so much he’d wanted to give her through the years, especially now, but so little he’d been able to do. Mostly she’d just wanted more time together, but now the two-week vacation he’d promised her had been reduced to five days at the most and even that was iffy.

But he had a gift in his pocket he knew would make her smile. He’d wake her and give it to her. She loved Leah.

The cross was a crucifix, and his wife was a Baptist pastor’s wife. She didn’t wear a crucifix, because she worshipped a risen Savior, not one still on the cross, but she’d keep this gift forever. She knew from talking to Leah that she too was trusting a crucified and risen Savior to save her from her sin, not any religion or church, not Catholic, not Baptist. Just Jesus.

And Leah had preached a powerful sermon with her gift, a sermon of one word with four letters. Love.

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

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

Just in time for the fourth of July, the fireflies add their celebration to the nighttime skies. Maybe you call them “lightning bugs.” If you live in the west or in the New England states, you probably say “firefly.” But if you’re from the south or the Midwest you’re more likely to say, “lightning bug.” It’s kind of like you say soda, and I say pop. Or perhaps you use the generic term “coke.”

Long ago our brother-in-law, Mississippi born and bred, asked if we wanted a Coke. We told him we did.

“What kind of coke do you want?” he asked. He then offered what they had, root beer, Pepsi, Mountain Dew, and I can’t remember what else.

It’s the same with the firefly versus lighting bug, only it goes by even more names! You might be one of the people in the United States who calls it a lamp bug, glowworm, will-o’-the-wisp, jack-o-lantern, firebob, or firebug. Call them what you will; they are the same insect, but there are about 170 species of them each with its own color and flash.

I know the scientific reason for their glow, but no one can really define the magic they bring to a summer evening. I hope you’ve been lucky enough at some time in your life to stand in a large yard or in a field full of them like I was on a warm evening not long ago.  

“Look!” I said to my little granddaughter Ruby as we walked out to the bonfire waiting for us in her side yard, “Fireflies! Lightning bugs!”

She nodded and laughed. “I’ve been trying to catch some.”

No matter what you called them when you were a child you probably chased them on a warm July night, caught a few, watched them light up in the darkness of your curled hand, and then set them free. And as you watched them fly away, if you were a wise child, perhaps you felt something you couldn’t put words to yet.

When I see the fireflies, I know it’s really July. In sweet July the golden wheat waves in the fields, the corn keeps its promise to be knee high by the fourth of July, and wildflowers add colorful beauty to dusty country roads. The blue skies stretch to infinity.

July is the month for swimming in lakes and creeks, for camping and hiking, for picnics and potlucks. It’s a wonderful month for family, and friends, and fun. It’s the perfect time for picking berries and making pies.

The July days pass quickly, the golden wheat darkens, and it’s harvest time. Tomatoes begin ripening on the vine. That corn, knee high at the beginning of the month, tassels out and the earliest ears are ready. It’s best fresh picked, grilled, and slathered with butter. If the butter doesn’t run down to your elbows when you eat the corn, you haven’t put on enough.

In July, some families pack up and vacation to the beach or the mountains. Maybe they go camping, one of the best ways ever invented to make memories. If you’ve never laughed around a campfire with family or friends, munched a smore, and lingered until the last embers, you haven’t really vacationed. Keep your cruises; give me a trail to hike, a sunset to watch, and a campfire to fall asleep by.

July is a good month to be alive. But by the end of the month the days are already getting shorter; July 25 brought us our last 9 PM sunset of this year. We won’t see another one until May 28 of next year, and that’s a long way off for a girl who loves the long hours of daylight.

I’d like to ask July to linger a little longer. Oh, sweet July will return next year, but it won’t be the same July; it’s different every year, and always it glides into August so quickly we barely notice summer slipping through our fingers.  

By the last day of July, the fireflies aren’t quite so numerous in the dark corn fields. Mornings are quieter; some of the songbirds have already flown south. These are subtle reminders that all good, sweet things end—or do they?

For those who know God as he spelled himself out in the person of his Son, the Lord Jesus, the most beautiful moment we’ve known here is just a dream-shadow of what’s coming.

“All the beauty and joy we meet on earth represent ‘only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited,’” writes Philp Yancey, quoting C.S. Lewis.

And I love what Matthew Henry wrote way back in the 1700s, “Heaven is life, it is all happiness…. There is no death to put a period to the life itself, nor old age to put a period to the comfort of it, or any sorrow to embitter it.”

Today the calendar puts a period after July; tomorrow is August first. Soon enough September 22 will put a period on what we call Summer. But the day is coming, joyful beyond our wildest imaginings, when we’ll no longer have any use for that punctuation mark we call a period.

 But for now, treasure sweet July because on her best days, when she isn’t having a temper tantrum of thunderstorm or deciding to turn up the thermostat to furnace degrees, she gives us something wonderful. With her starry night skies, and fields of fireflies, with her golden wheat and ripening corn, with her generous scatterings of wildflowers, she makes us feel something we can’t quite put words to yet. We glimpse it and then it’s gone, like a firefly in the night sky. It’s music we hear in a dream and can neither forget nor remember when we wake.

Goodbye, July, and thank you. You gave us something too breathtakingly beautiful for our limited vocabulary, a feeling too deep for words. You cracked open a door and we heard it for a second. It was a whisper from that far country calling us home. Even a child can follow the road. It’s found in John 3:16.

The End

First two photos by Kimmee Kiefer

***

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

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

Back when I was just a piece of pliable plastic, PVC, Polyvinyl Chloride to be exact, I had a lofty goal. Some of my plastic friends hoped to become window frames, or drainpipes. Others wanted to go into high fashion and footwear. Many hoped to enter the automotive industry and become car interiors and seat coverings and contribute to that new car smell everyone loves. The brainy ones aspired to careers in medicine; they wanted to become medical devises and blood storage bags.

Not me!

I wasn’t interested in any of that. I had my own ambition, even though my friends laughed.

“Pete, you gotta be kidding! You want a job where you bake outside in the summer and freeze your base off in the winter? For what? Where’s the glory in that?”

They didn’t get it. I wanted to be a traffic cone, a pylon, and not just any pylon; I aimed for the top. I didn’t want to be just a six-inch pylon used for driver’s ed classes, or a twelve-inch one marking out an athletic field, or an eighteen-inch one used for landscaping or in parking areas. No sir: those weren’t for me. I aimed sky-high; thirty-six inches high to be exact.

I wanted to warn people of danger on roads. I would save lives, hundreds, maybe thousands of lives! What could be more glorious than that?

I knew I had what it took. I was the right color, Orange-152, blaze orange, the high visibility color. I was sturdy but soft and pliable enough so I wouldn’t dent vehicles that might hit me. I practiced my flexibility exercises to get prepared for my dream job. I had courage too; it takes courage to be a pylon. You can’t flinch when semi-trucks come within inches of you.

Not every piece of plastic is cut out to be a traffic cone. Pylons must be patient. They can’t lose their tempers when a stray dog decides to add a bit of yellow to their orange or when a disgruntled construction worker tosses them into a truck with unnecessary force.

I was ready. I was waiting. Would they pick me?

Finally, my day came. I was what I’d always dreamed of being: a traffic cone, a channelizing device, a pylon. Not just any cone; I was Pete, the Pylon! When they loaded me on the truck my orange heart almost beat out of my chest.

Where are they taking me? Chicago? New York City? Los Angeles? Atlanta?

Don’t laugh, but even Pylons dream, and I’d always dreamed high as you may have noticed by now. So, at first, I was more than a little disappointed when they plopped me down on a little two-lane road in rural southern Michigan where they were doing construction. But my dismay didn’t last long. Unless you’ve been part of something bigger than yourself, you have no idea how it feels to stand soldier straight in a line with others, doing your duty in all kinds of weather.

The cone next to me was weathered and dented. He told me I could call him Mr. Bill. He said he was the oldest cone he knew; he been made by the Kelch Company.

“I think I’m about forty years old now, kid,” he said. “I belong in a museum somewhere. Some cones like us only last minutes.”

“What happens to us?”

“Oh, a semi runs over us, or some kid steals us for a T-ball stand or a soccer field marker. It’s a misdemeanor to steal us or deliberately run over us, but about one million of us are taken every year. Some people use us to advertise their garage sales!”

Pliable Pete shuddered.

“You okay there, kid?”

“Yeah, it’s just I’ve dreamed my whole life of standing straight and true warning people of danger, and I don’t want to end up advertising some old lady’s garage sale.”

Mr. Bill laughed. “Your whole life, huh? That can’t have been very long. Tell you what. You have a good heart. I’ll do my best to look out for you.”

Through the long, hot Michigan summer the two cones stood next to each other. Pliable Pete told Mr. Bill he wanted to live to be the oldest traffic cone in history and save hundreds, maybe thousands of lives. Mr. Bill told Pete stories of when he’d been in the Big Apple, the Windy City, and within sight of the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Do you think I’ll get to go any of those places, Mr. Bill?”

“Maybe, kid. Never hurts to dream.”

And then it happened. One rainy September day a semi barely missed Mr. Bill but clipped Pete. Dented and crumpled, he tumbled on his side partway into the ditch and began to cry.

The last thing he heard was Mr. Bill saying, “Hey, kid, you did what you could for as long as you could. No one could do more.”

A car was passing, windshield wipers whipping away the deluge. There were almost as many tears inside as outside; the husband was trying to comfort his wife. Neither of them saw the long line of straight warning soldiers, Orange-152, but at the last minute she spotted the traffic cone lying on its side partway in the ditch.

“Honey, be careful!”

He swerved just in time to avoid joining Pliable Pete, and who knows, two lives may have been saved.

They continued their journey to the cancer center at the University of Michigan.

“I just feel so useless these days. I can’t do one-tenth of what I used to do,” she said.

“Rest when you need to,” he said, “and then do what you can for as long as you can. No one can do more.”

She wiped her face and nodded. “Do you think I’ll ever get well?”

The rain had stopped. He took one hand from the steering wheel and squeezed hers. “It never hurts to dream. And pray.”

And they did.