Back Road Ramblings

by Donna Poole

Once upon a time I got mail, real mail, lots of mail! It came with colorful stamps and ended up in the battered rural mailbox we had back then.

Before people had the internet and could just type a quick note on Facebook or a comment at the end of a blog, it took real work to contact a writer. In retrospect, I’m surprised so many did it. I have heaps of mail I’ve saved through the years so my kids can have the honor of throwing it out after I depart these premises and go where no one gets mail.

Sometimes a letter arrived addressed to “Donna Poole Writer Pittsford, Michigan.” Other times an envelope said “Lickley’s Corners Baptist Church Donna Poole Pastor’s Wife Pittsford Michigan.” The mailman knew us; it’s a small town, and the letters arrived. If, perchance, one went into a neighbor’s mailbox, the neighbor brought it over.

Usually, my fan (or hate) mail was addressed, not to me, but to the publications I wrote for. Editors then forwarded it to me. One editor often included humorous remarks to take the sting off if the letter was of the “you stink” variety.

Once an editor wrote, “If you quote me, I’ll deny it, but I’d hate to be married to this woman. I think she has problems beyond her dislike of your column and our publication.”

Why did I get so much mail? I had a column in one magazine for twenty-two years; that’s long enough to make readers either love you or hate you.

I also wrote Sunday school curriculum for children for over fifty years. Some of my favorite mail came from kids. One little girl wrote, “I liked your lesson. Do you know anything else about the Bible? If you do, will you write back and tell me what it is?”

The children drew pictures of me the way they imagined I might look and decorated their pictures with hearts and stickers and almost always signed their notes, “I love you.” I didn’t get any hate mail from children.

I didn’t really get much negative mail from adults either. People wrote for other reasons. Some people contacted me to share their sorrows; cancer at age thirty-five with five children nine years and younger, the loss of a daughter at the hands of a drunk driver, a woman only in her thirties needing dialysis three times a week. Many people wrote to tell me about their lives or families. Some people wanted my help; to compile a book for them, to locate an out-of-print book, to sell something, to find a topic for a mother-daughter banquet, to do some research for them, to send them a list of recommended books for a certain age. Some people wanted advice on how to get started with writing or how to fix a broken relationship. I got asked for recipes. I received requests to speak in many places as far away as a remote village in India.

I didn’t get any neutral letters. Some people asked me to write more; some asked me to shut up and never write again. Some asked me to use more quotes; some said I quoted far too often. Some praised my style: “So glad it’s deep and not the fluff most women’s columns are.” Another reader dismissed my writing as “fluff” and “out of touch with reality.”

One man threatened my editor if he continued to print “this kind of thing” (my column) his church would stop buying all material published by that press including their Sunday school curriculum.

A lady in her late eighties wrote to tell me she had a mission in life, and it was to correct authors’ mistakes. She pointed out a word I’d misspelled. I wrote back. You’d be proud of my humility; I didn’t say I was glad she had such a noble purpose for staying alive.

Another sweet lady, also in her eighties, wrote to suggest a topic for my next column. She wanted me to write about people who refuse to help clean the church. She was the only one in a church of one-hundred members who offered to help when the pastor requested. She closed with, “When you write about this, please don’t use my name.”

One woman took offense at the authors I quoted. She was sure none of them were headed for heaven. She went on to say she didn’t believe I was a true Christian either, and that if I didn’t know enough not to read those kinds of books, my pastor husband should stop me, and if he didn’t know any better either, he certainly did not belong behind the pulpit!

Did I respond? I’m sure I did. I answered every letter unless my editor told me not to. There were several vicious ones from a man in California. My editor told me to quit responding and also told me he hoped I never ran into that man in a dark alley somewhere!

Well, a sage wisely said everyone who has a dog who loves him needs a cat who hates him.

Probably ninety-eight percent of the letters were kind. The phrase I heard most often and the one that warmed my heart was, “I feel like I know you.”

When a columnist or a blogger can make that kind of connection with her readers, she’s done her job.

I still occasionally get real mail with stamps on it. A reader from Ireland has brightened my day several times with mail, but most people are like me. We use snail mail now and then, but we rely on text messages, email, Facebook, and Facebook messenger. And that’s fine. I enjoy the connections I make with readers on the internet too.

By the way, let me be perfectly clear. Whether you live in a remote village in India or the town next to mine, please don’t ask me to come speak at your mother-daughter banquet, or your puppy’s adoption, or at your boat’s christening. Why not? I won’t be able to come. I’ll have laryngitis. I can guarantee it.

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

All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

by Donna Poole

I have thousands of them.

Half a century ago, I started copying on three by five cards quotes from books I was reading. I did this for many years, stopped, and recently started again. Something is different this time. My handwriting is wobbly now, looks like an old lady’s scrawl, and I can’t imagine why. But something else is different too.

“John, feel this.” I handed my husband an old three by five card I’d written a quote on many years ago.

“Now feel this.” I gave him a newborn three by five, baby-fresh from its package.

The old card was thick, sturdy, dependable; something made to last half a century.

The new card is a lightweight piece of junk. I don’t know how long it will survive being pulled out and pushed into its place in my antique card file cabinet.

This small irritation, during all the world’s enormous crises, bugged me. It was like a tiny mosquito buzzing around my ear and refusing to be swatted. So, I asked Siri and Safari why three by five cards are thinner now, and when they shrugged and yawned, I went to know-it-all Google. Eureka! I found I was not alone in my angst. Others have noticed and commented too, not just on the decline in quality of the humble index card, but also in construction paper, and many other things too.

It seems in many ways we’re paying more but getting less for our buck. There’s even a word for what’s happening, “Shrinkflation.”

“It kind of feels like you’ve been had.” So says Professor Hitendra Chaturvedi from Arizona State University when commenting on shrinkflation.

No “kinda” about it, Prof. We’ve been had alright!

Shrinkflation: Put less in the package but charge the consumer the same amount of money or even more.

Shrinkflation: make index cards almost as thin as notebook paper.

The consumer won’t notice.

I sympathize with manufacturers’ dilemmas; raw materials cost more. Way more. But I resent their assumption that the average consumer won’t notice there’s five to twenty percent less than there used to be inside bags and boxes. I resent even more they were correct; with most products, I didn’t notice.

I read an article listing some of the products included in shrinkflation: Cottenelle, Sun Maid Raisins, Safeguard soap, Keebler’s M & M cookies, GM cereals, and others.

I’ve noticed shrinkflation in something everyone needs that isn’t for sale. We may offer less of ourselves to others after circumstances and people leave us battle scarred and hurt. We put up shields. We become a little less kind and giving. Perhaps we present ourselves as the same package we once were, but there’s less inside. We have no intention of putting ourselves out there for others the way we once did; what if we get hurt again?

Or maybe we aren’t battle scarred and hurt; we’re just weary. Why keep caring and giving when so few others do?

Kindness shrinkflation is everywhere.

In a world that’s growing colder, more callous, and more self-centered, I’m blessed to know so many givers, people who’ve resisted shrinkflation, the way they do at my favorite coffee shop, Pam’s Place.

Pam sets the tone at her place. She opens before most of us wake up every morning, ready to welcome the earliest risers, not just with delicious coffee, but also with a smile and an encouraging word or two. I’ve gotten to know several of her regular customers. It’s a place where people actually connect with each other.

There’s no shrinkflation of kindness at Pam’s Place; it’s everywhere. No one argues. We don’t talk much about politics, except maybe to tease Ken about being in Facebook jail so often. People don’t stay long; we’re all busy. Someone may tell a joke. Someone else may ask for prayer. We stop by, say good morning, grab our coffee, and we’re gone. But the kindness of Pam’s Place lingers for the rest of the day.

Pam’s Place isn’t real. That is, it’s not brick and mortar real. There isn’t even a coffee shop named Pam’s Place; that’s just what I call it.

Pam is real. She’s a Facebook friend I’ve known since high school. Pam does something many would think a little thing. Every morning she finds an attractive photo of coffee cups, adds a few words of encouragement, and posts it on Facebook. Every evening Pam shares a lovely picture and says goodnight. In a world where kindness is shrinking, Pam spends time, every single day, to give a little joy to the people in her world.

Several of us check in with Pam each morning. Chris was a regular; she was a tea drinker, and Pam often had some virtual tea waiting for her. When Chris died of cancer, we stopped by Pam’s page and found comfort from each other. A little thing became a big thing that day.

You don’t have to post on Facebook every morning to add kindness to this hurting world.

At the cancer center where I go many different nurses come to collect patients when it’s time for a treatment. One nurse comes into the large room and sings the patient’s name. It makes me smile, and I’m not the only one who smiles in that room where many are hiding tears.

A text. A phone call. A plate of cookies. A smile. A hand on a shoulder. A prayer. Find your own way to give a little kindness. Little things become big things.

Call me D.P.—not Donna Poole but Dreamer Pollyanna; I can see it now, a world without any shrinkflation of kindness. It could happen too if everyone would just be a Pam.

Meanwhile, while I wait for that to happen, does anyone know where I can buy some decent three by five cards?

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

All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

by Donna Poole

The corn grew tall that July weekend, just as it had done when the Potawatomi had roamed this land. Sweet and clear, the church bell rang out over the green fields. It was saying, “It’s time to celebrate! Come on over.”

The church had hosted many celebrations in its century long history, standing on the corner where two dirt roads meet. Old timers told of weddings where guests had stood four-deep outside around open windows trying to catch a glimpse of the bride and groom. And the one room schoolhouse next door that had served as both a community club and a church fellowship hall had its own stories to tell of spelling bees and quilt making parties.

The four corners had once boasted a post office, a country store, a grange hall, and a church. Only the church was left. A local newspaper said the once bustling corners was now “barely a presence on the map.” That might be true for some, but for the pastor who’d spent his entire adult life there, loving on the broken and the hurt, the church was his heart.

The pastor had guided several generations of children during his years at that church, including his own children and his grandchildren. When his kids had been young, they’d gone to church for Sunday school, morning worship, evening service, and Wednesday prayer service. They’d never questioned going or complained about it, even when they were teens; it was just part of life. They’d loved the church, and the church had usually loved them back. That’s not to say they hadn’t rejoiced when a snowstorm, or a loss of electrical power. or some other event had closed the church for the day.

When the kids had been young, prayer meeting had started late to give the farmers a chance to finish milking before coming. It had also been the service most poorly attended. The pastor’s boys had often stood, feet planted firmly on the hardwood floor, peering out of the clear glass section of the stained-glass windows, hoping against hope that no one would pull into the parking lot.

“Dad, it’s five minutes after eight. How long do we have to wait until we can go home?”

“Someone might still be coming. Let’s give it until quarter after.”

If it had been winter, they’d taken turns abdicating the window watch to go stand on the big square register between the pews, the only heat source. The old furnace beneath the register had moaned and groaned, struggling to keep up with the wild winds whipping around the white frame building. Usually, the winds had won.

Sometimes, when the fifteen minutes had expired, the kids had gotten their wish. No one had come to prayer meeting, and they’d gotten to go home.

Other times, the boys had groaned at twelve minutes after eight o’clock. “Oh no! Here comes Anna May.”

The children, two boys, two girls, now middle-aged adults were there today for the celebration. And so were many others who’d grown up travelling down the dirt roads to the white frame church. As they waited for the celebration to begin, people reminisced about the old days.

“Remember when you threw the baseball through the stained-glass window?”

“As I recall, it was you who did that!”

“Well, remember when you tried to throw one of the girls’ flip flops over the roof and it got stuck up there, so you tried to knock it off with a frisbee, and that got stuck too?”

“I do believe I remember that.”

The new fellowship hall, the one the pastor didn’t think he’d ever live long enough to see finished, was completed, but barely in time. It still smelled like fresh paint. It could seat one-hundred twenty people, a proud number for the little church on the corners, and it was packed full of at least that many. Some talked fondly of happy fellowships in the old schoolhouse, but it had seated only about fifty people and had no running water, and no indoor bathroom.

For that matter, the church itself had no running water and no indoor bathroom when the young pastor and his wife had come, with their two-year-old, to rural southern Michigan fifty years before. The “bathroom” had been an outhouse outback. The pastor’s wife had found it humorous that in warm weather every child in the church had to make at least one trip to the outhouse, but when it had been cold or rainy, no one had to go.

The pastor’s wife was quiet that celebration day as she watched the women bustling in the kitchen area, finishing the last-minute food preparations. For years she’d overseen everything like that and had cooked a good deal of the food too, but those days were long gone. She looked at her walker, but not with regret. The years had been good years. Time had dulled the hurts that had happened in the little country church and had left in their place only a warm gratitude for the love and community she’d found here. She’d never expected to feel contented to be an old lady, but she was, except for that one thing she couldn’t change. She’d not fight with the Lord about that; what good would it do?

Someone tapped the mic. It was time for the celebration to start; the church was honoring her husband’s fifty years of faithful service. He’d come to the country community not knowing a combine from a planter or beans from winter wheat. But he’d learned. He’d helped chase down stray cows and pigs, saved a calf from a pack of wild dogs, and once had dropped down a coal chute to rescue children accidentally locked inside a house. God had blessed him for that half-century. Big churches might scoff at what looked small to them, but she believed the old song, “Little is much when God is in it.”

He was no Billy Graham, her man, but he’d helped a few here and there find God. And he’d loved his people well and taught them to love one another. He’d loved her well too, and his children and grandchildren. Some of them were speaking today to honor him.

But first the singing! How that church could sing! Then came the speaking. So many people, so many words.

One son said, “There aren’t many left like my dad. I’m proud to be his son.”

A daughter said, “He tried everyday to live what he preached. I love him so much.”

A little girl said, “His face made me happy.”

After thirty minutes of praise that would have made an angel blush, they asked the pastor’s wife to speak. She said only a few words; she didn’t have strength for more. “I want to say we love you and thank you. We wouldn’t be what we are; we couldn’t have done what we have without you. Now I want to read you one of our favorite verses.”

Her hands trembled as she tried to turn the pages, and a daughter helped her find Psalm 115:1. “Not unto us, O Lord,” she read, “but unto thy name give the glory, for thy mercy and for thy truth’s sake.”

And then came the food, such an abundance of food prepared by loving hands in honor of this celebration.

The pastor’s wife didn’t eat much; she was so tired, but she loved hearing the conversation and laughter flow around her. She wished today never had to end; she’d hold it in her heart forever. But it did end, as all things must.

Her son helped her to the car. “Mom, do you ever wonder about God’s timing? Why did He have to take Dad to heaven last week? Dad would have loved today.”

She looked up at him and smiled through her tears. “I missed him terribly today, but I kept thinking this beautiful celebration was nothing compared to what he’s enjoying now.”

Her son bent down and hugged her. “You’re right, Mom. He’s having the grandest celebration of all.”

The church bell rang sweetly again, signaling the end of another wonderful day at the corner where two dirt roads meet. And the corn grew tall.

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

All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

by Donna Poole

Dead is dead, right? I mean you can’t say something is so dead.

But it is. It is so dead.

The beautiful tree we bought the day after Thanksgiving 2022 and decorated with so much joy and hope stands desolate and dead in our living room. Needles scatter all over the floor, along with a few ornaments the cats have knocked down.

I look at the dead tree and at the needles slowly taking over the house and sigh. Symbolic they are. For all the plans we had for Christmas activities that never happened. Why not? Let’s just say it was this, that, and the other thing. Including influenza and Covid.

It’s past the middle of January 2023 now and we still haven’t had family Christmas. I happen to know three grandkids in Ohio ask almost every day when it’s going to happen, and I imagine the rest of our crew of fourteen grandchildren wonder the same thing. It’s now scheduled for the last Sunday of the month, Lord willing and if the creek don’t rise, and hope against hope.

But the tree is dead. No one has had the physical or emotional energy to remove its decorations. I’m going to do that as soon as I finish writing this article. Maybe. I know John will help me. I’m already hearing hundreds, thousands, millions of dead needles falling as we remove ornaments.

Okay, so I exaggerate. It’s a prerogative of authors and evangelists.

Which reminds me. Did you hear about the evangelist who went to a pastor pleading for an intervention?

“Please, help me. I’m preaching at your church Sunday, and the Lord has convicted me of sin. I have a ginormous problem with exaggeration. I’ve literally cried gallons of tears about it.”

The pastor nodded. “You do have a problem.”

“Will you sit behind me when I preach? If I exaggerate, tug on my suitcoat.”

Sunday came. The evangelist held the congregation spellbound with his persuasive personality and superb storytelling.

“I don’t usually preach in churches this small,” he said. “The last auditorium I preached in was one-thousand feet long!”

He felt a strong tug on his suit coat and cleared his throat.

“Yes, five-hundred feet long…and two feet wide.”

Well, we didn’t have a Walton Family Christmas or a Hallmark movie one either this year, but lest I exaggerate our woes we had many blessings too. Our kids’ program at church was excellent; I loved every minute. Our candlelight service, always a favorite, lived up to expectations. True, no one remembered to bring a candle, not even us, but the readings and specials captured hearts. Christmas Day here with just the four of us really was wonderful, white Christmas and all, until I got sick in the middle of it.

And there hasn’t been a day since when everyone here has felt completely well. That’s why the dead tree still stands, yet undecorated, a metaphor for shattered plans.

Life’s magical moments, its joy filled days can’t last forever. During a celebration death knocks on a door somewhere; or a doctor gives a grim diagnosis, or a heartbreak ends a relationship.

You and I, we climbed our hills with so much hope, didn’t we? The highest height was just in sight when we slipped and began a downward slide. I see a sled. Grab it my friend; hold on tight, and off you go. Let the tears freeze on your cheeks as you zig zag down. It’s quiet now, peaceful even, and the sled finds its own way through beautiful snow draped pines. You aren’t going in the direction you’d hoped, but you see beauty through those frozen tears. The sled skids sideways and stops. You’re at the bottom now. You climb off, weary and sad, and look up at where you once were. Perhaps one day you’ll have the energy to climb again, but not now. You’re too tired; the hill is too steep. Your hands are freezing; somehow, you’ve lost your mittens. You shove your hands into your pockets to warm them and feel a flicker of warmth in your heart. You know right away what it is, and you thank God you haven’t lost that. It’s hope. You glance to your left and see someone else climbing off a sled. It’s me, I haven’t lost hope either, not yet.  

Hope is why we’re decorating another tree here in the next few days.

Our daughter who lives with us discovered an artificial flocked tree at an after Christmas sale. We split the cost. It arrives today. Those decorations I’m taking off the dead tree are going on the new one. No one in this house is a big fan of artificial trees, but I think we’re going to love this one.

Are we crazy to decorate again? Maybe. But family Christmas, like life, is what you make it. And along with love, laughter, and lots of good food, we want a tree at our family Christmas. For the grandkids. Okay, for the grandma too. Trees are metaphors for lots of things. Ours has lots of lights and a spinning antique star ornament. It says yesterday. It says today. And it says maybe tomorrow.  

“Through the years we all will be together

If the Lord allows

Hang a shining star upon the highest bough

And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.” –Hannah Kerr lyrics

by Donna Poole

It wasn’t the smartest decision I’ve ever made but I couldn’t help myself.

You see, our dear pastor friend had died. Because of my cancer treatments I couldn’t do any of the things I used to do. I couldn’t go to the memorial service to honor him and comfort his wife or hug his family members, also my dear friends. I couldn’t serve at the funeral dinner.

I’m no longer on one of the hospitality groups at church. Every January I still print up the sign-up lists for the hospitality groups and children’s church workers, but the last three Januarys I haven’t been able to add my name the way I always did before.

I’ve lost count of how many funeral dinners I once oversaw, but those days are no more.

Our church didn’t fix the entire meal for our pastor friend’s funeral dinner. The people in charge only requested salads.

My husband, John, started to call Martha and Marilyn, the two women on our church hospitality committee that month, so they could arrange the salads.

“Tell them I’ll make enough macaroni salad for one-hundred and fifty people,” I told John. “That way they won’t have to get so many other salads.”

He stared at me.

His Donna? The one who usually must take a nap after a simple shower because she’s so exhausted?

“Don’t forget you have the family coming here for Thanksgiving the day before, honey.”

“I know.”

“And Kimmee can’t help you make all that salad; she and Jenny have to shoot a wedding.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t know how much I can help you either. If I’m going to take Thanksgiving Day off to be with family, get ready to preach the funeral on Saturday, and prepare for Sunday, I probably won’t have much time available to help you on Friday.”

“I’ll be fine. I love that family and I can’t be there to comfort them. And I love Martha and Marilyn. There’s so much I can’t do, honey. Please, let me do this for everyone.”

“If you’re sure….”

“I’m sure. Make the call.”

The following days were a storm of activity, cooking, cleaning, moving furniture, setting up tables, and decorating for Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving was wonderful, a day of love and laughter, one of those days you keep in your heart forever.

After everyone left and we cleaned up I think I must have found our bed. I don’t remember.

The next morning, I could barely wake up. Then I remembered. Macaroni salad for one-hundred fifty! My feet hit the ground with a groan and a prayer. Well, the recipe was easy enough. Just in case you ever need it, here it is.

Macaroni Salad for 150

8 pounds macaroni cooked and drained

4 ½ pounds shredded cheddar cheese

8 pounds fully cooked ham cubed

3 bags frozen peas, 20-oz each, thawed

3 bunches celery, chopped (about 18 cups)

3 large onions, chopped

3 jars green olives, sliced (Sorry, I can’t remember the size.)

Dressing:

12 cups mayonnaise

12 ounces Western or French salad dressing

½ cup white vinegar

½ cup sugar

2 cups half and half

2 ¼ t onion salt

2 ¼ t garlic salt

1 ½ t salt

1 ½ t pepper

Directions:

In several large bowls, combine the first seven ingredients. In a large bowl, combine all the dressing ingredients; pour over ham mixture and toss to coat. Cover and refrigerate until serving.

“You call me if you need me,” John said.

“I won’t need you,” I promised.

So much for promises!

In generosity added to love I forgot to calculate one vital factor: Who has containers big enough to mix that much macaroni salad?

It wasn’t long before John was in the kitchen helping me. I still don’t know how we did it. I’m pretty sure our guardian angels were laughing, not helping. Finally, we got all the salad mixed and put into sturdy, disposable lasagna pans, all that would fit, that is.

There was a considerable amount of salad left.

“You know I love macaroni salad, honey,” John said as he started hunting for containers to put the leftovers in.

I looked at the kitchen. Every pot, pan, and bowl we had was dirty. There wasn’t a clean spot to sit even a coffee cup.

About then our granddaughter stopped by and were we ever happy to see her! We were more than ready to sit.

“Come in, Megan!” I laughed when she walked into the kitchen. “This is what a kitchen looks like when you make macaroni salad for one-hundred fifty people. Want some?”

“No, but thanks, Grandma.”

She looked around the messy kitchen with those wide blue eyes of hers and offered to clean it up, but I refused.

“Just stay and talk awhile, if you have time.”

Megan did stay, and her grandpa and I loved every minute. Lunch time came and went. She had to be hungry. Again, I offered macaroni salad. Again, she politely refused.

We hated to see Megan leave; we always do.

And then we tackled the kitchen. What a job.

“She…went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends—a mammoth task.” –O’ Henry

When we finally finished cleaning up, John was ready for macaroni salad. We ate it several times that day.

By the next morning when John left early to deliver the pans of salad for the funeral dinner, I was already tired of eating it.

“Tell them to give any leftovers to the family or the kitchen help, okay?”

“I think they said they’re going to give the dinner leftovers to the homeless shelter.”

I’m pretty sure I made way too much macaroni salad. I’m pretty sure the people at the homeless shelter couldn’t eat it all. I’m pretty sure it ended up in a dumpster somewhere, but that’s okay. I was just glad it didn’t come back home because we ate the macaroni salad we had here way longer than it’s safe to eat it, and I haven’t made it since. Nor do I plan to.

A few days later I remembered something. Megan doesn’t like macaroni salad. And it seems I don’t either, not anymore!

Is it possible to have too much of a good thing? Maybe. I do believe I ate way too many pieces of Christmas chocolate candy. But I don’t think you can have too much generosity mixed with love. I’d do it again it a heartbeat; if I thought it could bring a little help and comfort to my friends, I’d offer to make salad for one-hundred and fifty people.

But you better believe it wouldn’t be macaroni salad.

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

All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

by Donna Poole

“Addie, it’s almost midnight,” Paul said. “You should be sleeping.”

She was sitting up in bed, notebook propped on her knees, pencil in hand. “I know, Daddy, but I’m working on my New Year’s substitutions.”

“Your what?”

“You know. Like you and Mommy made. I heard you say you want to lose a few pounds, and Mommy said she wants to read more, especially her Bible.”

Paul chuckled and adjusted the beanie that had slid too far forward on Addie’s bald head. “Oh, I see, your resolutions.”

“Uh huh. That’s what I said.”

“Well, how about if I unplug your Christmas tree lights now so it’s darker in here so you can sleep. You can work on your resolutions tomorrow.”

“Do you want to see what I wrote?”

“Maybe tomorrow, honey. You need to sleep.”

He put her notebook and pencil on the bedside table, and she snuggled down under her covers.

“I’ll go to sleep, Daddy, but please leave the tree lights on. I wish we could leave the decorations up until Valentine’s Day!”

He kissed her forehead. She felt warm.

Please, Lord, not neutropenia again and another trip to the ER.

He took her temperature. It wasn’t yet to the point the oncologist ordered ER visits.

“You come get Mommy and me if you start feeling sick.”

“I will, but I feel fine! Daddy, does your angel whisper to you before you fall asleep?”

He shook his head.

“You do believe in angels, don’t you Daddy? Because my angel whispers to me.”

If she wants to believe an angel whispers to her, and that gives her comfort, let her believe it.

He kept back sobs until he got to the living room where Jenna folded him in her arms.

“Let it out, honey. I’ve been crying most of the day. I’m not sure the treatments are working, and the oncologist gives such vague answers. And he’s always in a hurry and never smiles. It’s hard talking to him.”

Paul wiped his eyes. “He doesn’t have an easy job, honey. He isn’t God; he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want us to lose hope.”

He felt her tremble. “I’m not losing hope, Paul, but I’m scared. It’s so hard having to take a seven-year-old for chemotherapy. Last week a little three-year-old was next to us. She sobbed the whole time, until Addie asked if she wanted her to tell her a story. Addie told her a beautiful story about how her guardian angel whispers to her a bedtime. She told the little girl she had an angel too, and she should listen right before she falls asleep, and maybe the angel will talk to her about heaven or even sing to her. That little girl of ours has quite an imagination.”

Paul turned on the gas fireplace and they sat on the couch in front of it. “I’m not so sure it’s her imagination. I think she really believes it. She told me tonight her angel whispers to her.”

Jenna looked at him. “Do you think it’s possible?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? The Bible says children have angels.”

Jenna put her head on his shoulder. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this tired, body, soul, and spirit. She usually took down Christmas decorations on New Year’s Day, and here it was the third, and she couldn’t even think about beginning the chore. She told Paul how she felt.

Paul said, “Addie said she wished we could leave decorations up until Valentine’s Day. Why don’t we do that for her. Just in case…” He cleared his throat. “You know what she was doing tonight? She was working on what she called her New Year’s Substitutions.”

Jenna sat up. “Her what?”

“You know, substitutions. Resolutions?”

“Oh!” Jenna laughed.

“What were they?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look.”

“Do you think she’d mind if we sneak in there and take a peek?”

Paul shook his head. “She wouldn’t mind. She tried to show them to me earlier. I want to check on her anyway. Her temperature was up a little.”

Jenna groaned. “Not again!”

Addie’s room glowed with the soft lights from her tree. Jenna went to her bed and softly kissed her forehead. Her temperature felt normal.

Thank you, Lord.

Addie smiled in her sleep. Jenna checked to be sure her bucket was next to her bed, just in case she got sick during the night, a frequent occurrence.

Paul was reading the notebook and tears were running down his face.

He took Jenna’s hand and led her back to the living room couch. He handed her the notebook.

Jenna read what Addie had printed:

My New Year Subtatoshuns

Help kids not to cry

Help nurses not to be sad

Help doctur to smile

Help mommy and daddy not to be afrade about if I dye becuse Jesus will take care of me

It took quite awhile before Jenna could speak. “She knows we’re afraid.”

Paul nodded. “She’s a smart kid.”

“We can do better that this,” Jenna said. “I have a New Year’s substitution of my own. How about if we try to practice what we believe? Why don’t we face the future with faith instead of fear? Yes, we may lose Addie this year, but let’s not let fear spoil the time we have left with her!”

Paul smiled. “Well look at me. I have a smart daughter, and a smart wife.”

He hugged Jenna tightly. When she came up for air she asked, “What do you think that angel whispers in her ear every night?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he tells her that whatever happens, it’s going to be okay.”

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

All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

by Donna Poole

Kat touched Johnny’s shoulder. She didn’t reach for his hand; he was gripping the steering wheel and staring out at the snow whipping across the country roads. He was used to city driving in Chicago, not backroads like these.

“Oh, the things you do for love, Johnny Dryden,” she said.

He gave her a quick smile. “Hard to believe it’s been a year and a week since I found you in your grandparent’s room at Riverside Assisted Living and Memory Care. I grabbed your hand that day and haven’t let go since!”

“You aren’t holding it now.” She teased.

“In just a few hours you’re going to be Kathleen Dryden and I’d like you to be able to say your vows in one piece. This storm is something else! At least it might keep some party goers off the road. Tell me again why we decided to get married on New Year’s Eve?”

“Because, after all the tears of this year, we wanted to begin next year with joy.”

Kat’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of the agonizing pain Grandma had suffered for weeks before she died, and the heart attack that took Grandpa a few hours after she went to be with Jesus. And then just a month after Mr. Ken had their joint memorial service, he joined them in heaven. Losing her grandparents and then her dear older friend had sent Kat spiraling into a deeper grief than she’d ever known.

She could barely choke out the words. “Johnny, I’m glad God took Grandpa before his beloved Corners Church in Wisconsin burned to the ground after the lightning strike. He would have been heartbroken to hear the small congregation disbanded. And somehow it seemed to me like the end. The end of so many things….”

Johnny took one hand off the steering wheel and reached for hers.

“I’m sorry, Kat. I loved your grandparents and I’m glad they didn’t have to know about the church. They suffered enough this year. The year wasn’t all bad though; they had some wonderful times. We all did!”

She laughed through her tears, and Johnny smiled at her.

If Mom and Dad were still alive, they’d love this woman I’m marrying.

“Wasn’t it amazing, Johnny, the way Mr. Ken and Grandma and Grandpa found each other again after all those years? Only God could do that! And they were inseparable after they were reunited last Christmas.”

Johnny nodded. “Remember last June when we brought your grandparents to your apartment? And your grandma insisted on making pancakes for all of us? Kat! I can understand burning one or two pancakes, but how does someone burn an entire two dozen of them? We had to open the windows so we could breathe!”

“Well, Johnny, you may have noticed I’ve inherited Grandma’s cooking talent.”

He laughed. “Good thing for you I love to cook. Good thing for me too!”

“Johnny, I’m glad you proposed to me when we were with Grandma, Grandpa, and Mr. Ken. It was so sweet.”

“It was supposed to be a little more romantic, but when your grandma said, ‘So I see you’ve finally decided what your intentions are toward my granddaughter. You may now hold her hand!’ we all laughed. So much for romance.”

“Laughter’s very romantic, Johnny. I love to laugh. But remember how happy Grandpa was? He said he wished we could get married at Corners Church and he could officiate. And we told him we’d try to make it happen.”

A small sob escaped. “But Johnny, you did the next best thing. I still don’t know how you found a church for our wedding that’s so much like Grandpa’s was. Internet?”

“Nope. I told our pastor you felt sad about not being able to get married in your grandpa’s little country church, and he told me he knew a man who’d once pastored a church in Chicago, one even larger than ours. The guy left and became pastor of a country church in Michigan. It sounds a lot like your grandpa’s church. It even has the same name, ‘Corners Church.’”

Suddenly, their vehicle slid, spun out, and came to rest in a snowbank on the lonely country road.

“Are you okay, honey?”

“I am, but I’m afraid we’re going to be late to our own wedding.”

He glanced at the dashboard and saw the time. They had only a half-hour left to make it to the church by five. Johnny had a great sense of direction and had memorized the route, but to check how much travel time they had left, he punched the church address into his phone.

“Oh great. No cell service. So, no GPS. And I don’t have a shovel.”

“Johnny! We have another problem. I forgot the marriage license!”

“No, you didn’t. I grabbed it off your table on the way out. It was great how the county clerk let us apply for it virtually, so we didn’t have to make this trip twice.”

“Yeah, the trip from Chicago to here that was supposed to take three hours? We’ve been on the road five already. What are we going to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, grinning, impossibly blue eyes holding her gaze. “We could panic or pray. You choose.”

“Can I choose both?”

He laughed and reached for her hands. He was still praying when someone knocked on his window.

“Looks like you folks need some help.”

“Are you an angel?” Kat asked.

The man laughed. “I’m not often called that. I’m Davey, and this is my son, Reece. The rest of my family is in the car. You don’t look too badly stuck; I think we can dig you out in no time.”

And they did. Johnny offered pay, but Davey shook his head. “Just have a safe and happy New Year, and God bless. Anything else I can do for you?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know how far Corner’s Church is, would you? It’s a white frame building on the corner of….”

“Two dirt roads.” Davey finished. “My family and I are on our way there now. You wouldn’t happen to be getting married this afternoon, would you?”

As Johnny followed Davey’s vehicle down dirt roads Kat began worrying.

“Johnny, didn’t the pastor say the church auditorium would be empty and available for us to use? Why are these people going there?”

Her heart sunk even more when they arrived, and the parking lot was full. The simple wedding of her dreams was evaporating. Had that pastor—what was his name—J.D.—gone and invited his entire congregation to her wedding that was supposed to be just her, Johnny, and the required witnesses?

Johnny was already in his suit. Kat took her satin dress with its fur cape from the backseat, and they walked into the auditorium. She caught her breath. It looked so much like Grandpa’s church. And it was decorated with beautiful simplicity, white lights on two real pine trees and on a garland strung across the front.

A gorgeous, tiny woman with red curls came toward her, smiling. “I’m Trish, J.D.’s wife. Let me show you where to change. Would you like some help?”

“I’m Kat, and I’d love some help. I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage the zipper, and I didn’t want to have to ask Johnny to help me with it when I got to the front of the church!”

Trish laughed. Kat thought it sounded like bells. She noticed Trish walked with a pronounced limp and wondered what had happened to her.

“J.D. and I got married here last Christmas. I decorated the same way for you. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? It’s perfect!”

“And for my wedding a dear friend whose heart’s the only thing bigger than his bank account ordered flowers from overseas for me. When he heard we were going to have another Corner’s Church wedding, he did the same for you. Do you like lilacs?”

Fresh tears ran down Kat’s face. “They’re only my favorite flower.”

Trish left and returned with a box of tissues and a beautiful bouquet of purple, lavender, and white lilacs. She put the flowers into Kat’s hands, wiped her tears with a Kleenex, and said, “It’s time. Go meet your happily ever after.”

Trish stood in the back of the auditorium.

There are only a couple of people here. Where are the rest of them?

She heard the back door close, and her heart sunk. Were they all coming in now? It was only Reece, the teen who had helped shovel them out. He reached up, and pulled on a long, thick rope. The beautiful sound of a bell echoed over farms and fields.

How can it sound just like Grandpa’s church bell?

Kat whispered a thank you. Reece smiled and left.

The wedding march began. Kat took a few steps and stopped, suddenly feeling lonely and wishing she had someone to walk her down the aisle. As if by magic an older man appeared at her side and offered his arm.

“I’m George. May I?”

The ceremony was perfect, though Kat had a hard time concentrating because Johnny’s eyes kept promising he’d love her beyond forever.

When they signed the marriage license, she and Johnny used their matching antique Christmas pens. She had her grandpa’s, and he had Mr. Ken’s.

“J.D. uses an antique fountain pen too, but yours are unusual,” Trish said as she signed her name.

Kat said, “These pens have quite a story. They’re the Christmas pens. I wish I had time to tell you about them.”

“Oh, you have time. Our church people wouldn’t hear of you not having a reception. Do you smell that amazing sauce? I hope you like spaghetti because our Edna makes pasta you’ll never forget!”

“That’s so kind, but it’s a long drive back to Chicago, and this storm, and….”

Johnny laughed and hugged her. “We aren’t going back to Chicago tonight, honey. J.D. and Trish checked with me weeks ago. They’re giving us a wedding gift, two nights at a nearby log cabin bed and breakfast.”

The reception was wonderful, and Trish was right; she’d never forget Edna’s pasta, or the bread fresh from the oven, or the table full of pies people had brought. There was even a small, perfect wedding cake topped with a lighted country church.

Everyone wanted to hear the story of the Christmas pen. There were a few tears when Kat finished telling it.

Kat tried to keep names and faces straight. She hadn’t been hugged by this many people since she’d been at Grandpa’s church so many years before. A sign in the fellowship hall said, “Live, Love, Laugh.” These people sure knew how to do that, and how to share God’s love too.

Finally, an old man pounded his fist twice on the table. Kat jumped and Trish laughed.

“Don’t worry; that’s just Uncle Cyrus being Uncle Cyrus.”

The old man stood. “I say it’s getting late and we let this here sweet bride and groom head on out. We’ll meet again sometime, Lord willin’ and if the creek don’t rise.”

Kat and Johnny tried to express their gratitude, but it got swallowed up in more hugs.

Later, at the bed and breakfast, Kat asked, “Do you want to hear my crazy idea? I’d like to move here. I haven’t felt this much at home since I was a kid.”

Johnny laughed. “I’m always ready for adventure. A physician’s assistant can find work anywhere, but what are you going to do? I doubt there’s going to be a job here for a biomedical engineer.”

“Maybe I could work virtually.”

Johnny pulled her to the window that overlooked a field covered with snow. The clouds drifted apart, and a full moon glistened on the snow.

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

“Let’s pray about it, Kat. And let’s make a lifetime of beautiful memories because life goes way too fast. Someday memories are all we’ll have. But for now, we have each other, and I don’t think anything could be more perfect. Do you agree?”

Her kiss answered his question, and the angels smiled.

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

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

by Donna Poole

Kathleen had wondered about Mr. Ken a few times during the week.

Has he been able to fix the pen? Did he even remember to take it out of his overcoat pocket?

He’d said she could come up to his apartment and get Grandpa’s antique fountain pen he was supposed to be repairing for her, but she’d felt funny doing that. After all, he was practically a stranger, even though, in some strange way, she felt close to the old man.

You must be desperate for human connections, Kat.

Wait. So, now I’m calling myself “Kat,” my childhood nickname, the name I never use but gave to Mr. Ken for some unknown reason?

She thought back to their taxi ride home from church the previous Sunday. Ken had told her she reminded him of someone.

“A granddaughter, maybe?” she’d asked.

“No, Ruth and I never had any children.”

“So, Ruth was the love of your life?”

“Ruth and Jesus! But Ruth would say it was Jesus who came first!”

Not for the first time he’d reminded her of Grandpa. That’s what Grandpa had always said about Grandma. “The loves of my life, Grandma and Jesus.”

And sweet little Grandma had said, “Tell it like it is, dear. You know I come second. It’s always Jesus first with you. And that’s okay with me. Like you say, ‘a Christian marriage is a triangle, two people and Jesus. Keep Jesus at the top, and the closer the two people at the sides of the triangle move to Jesus, the closer they get to each other.’”

Kathleen suspected maybe it was because Grandpa loved Jesus best, he had so much love to give to others.

“Who do I remind you of if not a granddaughter?”

“It’s your smile. You remind me of a friend I had once.”

“You remind me of someone too. My grandpa.”

“Tell me about him.”

But they were back at the apartment building by then. She’d helped him out of the cab and to the elevator. They’d parted ways when she got off on her floor.

Kathleen didn’t know if she’d see Ken at church on Sunday. She had no idea if he attended often. But when she slipped into the pew where she always sat, there he was.  

“You’re here! And sitting right where you sat last week,” she said.

He chuckled softly. “I’ve sat in this same pew far longer than you’ve been attending church here. I’ve been sitting next to you for five years now.”

Her face flushed. “Would you believe I never noticed?”

He chuckled again. “I’d believe. You’ve probably never noticed the handsome young man who sits two pews ahead and sometimes glances back at you.”

What handsome young man? The only man I see in that pew has a bald spot on the back of his head.  

But she couldn’t ask Mr. Ken about it now; the prelude was beginning, and the pipe organ’s swelling music reached the rafters. “O Come, Let Us Adore Him.”

Kathleen forgot about Mr. Ken, her grandpa’s pen, and the supposedly handsome young man as she worshipped the Lord Jesus, the One she’d learned to love long ago when she’d been a little girl in Grandpa’s country church.

During the sermon Mr. Ken once again took copious notes with his antique fountain pen, the one that matched her grandpa’s broken one.

Kathleen’s mind wandered during the sermon. How did I not notice the person sitting next to me for five years? Well, he sits to my right, and I always go left to exit the pew, but still….

She remembered something Grandpa had taught her to pray, “Love through me, love of Jesus.” She had a feeling Jesus wouldn’t sit next to someone for five years and never notice them. Had she really let a decade ago broken heart make her that cold toward people?

Well, he’s never said anything to me either. Or has he? I don’t remember. Pay attention to the sermon, Kathleen.

“What can you give the Lord this Christmas?” the pastor was asking. “He said whatever we do for the least of His children we do for Him. I’m asking you to leave your comfort zone and do something you’re unaccustomed to doing in this church. I’m going to stop talking for sixty seconds. Look around you, to your left, your right, in front of you, and behind you. Who do you see that might need a smile, a helping hand, a meal, a friend this Christmas?”

Sixty seconds can seem a long time. Kathleen knew she wasn’t the only one who felt uncomfortable. Uneasiness hung thick in the air. In this beautiful, professionally decorated cathedral, something like this just wasn’t done. She stared at her folded hands in her lap.

Okay, Kathleen, it’s not like he asked you to go on a yearlong mission’s trip.

She looked up and smiled at the woman in furs to her left. The woman didn’t smile back. She glanced at the people in front of her. The man with the bald spot looked directly at her and grinned. His eyes were the brightest blue she’d ever seen. She forced herself to look away and glanced at Mr. Ken. He was smiling.

Invite Mr. Ken Fisher to dinner next Sunday. It’s Christmas, and no one should eat alone, including you, Kat Jones.

She pushed aside the thought. She was a terrible cook. No one should have to eat her food; she could barely stand to eat it herself and ordered take out whenever possible.

When the service ended, Mr. Ken took forever to struggle to his feet. Bent nearly double, he craned his head, looked up at her and smiled.

“Would you like to share a cab again?”

This week the foyer wasn’t empty when they finally got there. The young man with the bald spot and incredibly blue eyes was waiting there.

“Pastor Fisher!” He bent down and hugged the older man. “I don’t expect you remember me, but you baptized me the last year you were pastor here.”

Ken smiled. “Of course, I remember you. Little Johnny Dryden. You were nine years old. You probably go by John now.”

The man laughed. “Nope. Johnny Dryden, physician’s assistant, at your service. How do you remember me after all these years?”

“Because,” Ken said, “I’ve prayed for you every day, you and all the others I’ve baptized.”

Johnny’s eyes filled with quick tears. “You’ve prayed for me for twenty years?”

Kathleen did the math. Johnny was the same age she was. But he wasn’t here to talk to her; he hadn’t said a word to her.

The next thing she knew her hand was in his two warm ones. “I’m glad to finally meet you. I’ve been trying to catch you to talk to you for a long time, but you usually hurry out and are gone before I can get out of my pew.”

She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Ken laughed.

“Johnny Dryden, meet Kat Jones. She’s my neighbor, and we’re just about to share a cab home. Don’t suppose you’d care to join us?”

“I wish I could,” Johnny answered Ken, still looking at Kat, “but I have a deacon’s meeting. It’s probably already started. I’m late, but I’m going to be later, because I’m going to help the two of you get a cab.”

Johnny helped Ken get his overcoat from the rack and waited patiently while he buttoned it and knotted the red and green plaid scarf around his neck, tying it just so. Johnny acted like he had all the time in the world as Ken slowly struggled into his leather gloves.

Johnny linked one arm into Ken’s and the other into Kat’s and walked them out into the snowstorm. This Sunday, one cab was left from the long line that always formed in front of the large church. He helped them into it.

Before he shut the door he said, “Kat Jones, I’d like to get to know you.”

She smiled. She still hadn’t said a word. Her thoughts were reeling. After a few minutes she turned to Ken.

“Mr. Ken, you were a pastor? Here at Christ Calvary Cathedral?”

He nodded. “I was. I retired twenty years ago.”

“But last Sunday you told me you didn’t know many people here anymore.”

He sighed. “I don’t. The congregation now is mostly newer people, and the ones who were here when I was a pastor seem to have forgotten me now.”

“Johnny Dryden remembers you.”

He raised white, bushy eyebrows and smiled at her.

“That young man doesn’t seem like the kind likely to forget anyone who matters to him.”

“Mr. Ken, would you like to come to dinner next Sunday? I’m a terrible cook.”

He laughed. “I had a friend long ago who always said that. She really was a terrible cook too, but I enjoyed every meal I ever ate in that house. I’d love to come. And I should have your grandpa’s pen fixed by then. I had to order some parts.”

“Oh! I’ll pay you!”

He waved one hand. “No, you fix me a terrible dinner and we’ll call it steven-even.”

She caught her breath. “Grandpa always said steven-even instead of even-steven.”

He smiled again. “Did he now?”

The End

Be sure to come back for The Christmas Pen Part Three

***

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

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole