Tag: friendship

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The Christmas Pen Part Four

by Donna Poole

“Aren’t you at least going to rinse the dinner dishes, Kat?” Mr. Ken asked.

She shook her head. “No time.”

She tried not to look impatient while he took his overcoat from the hall tree and put it on. His hands trembled over the buttons, and he nodded gratefully when she offered to button it for him. Then he knotted the red and green plaid scarf around his neck, tying it just so. And it seemed to take forever for him to pull on his leather gloves. Bent almost double, he tapped his gold tipped cane twice and smiled up at her.

“Aren’t you ready to go yet? What are we waiting for?”

Kathleen laughed. “Oh, Mr. Ken, some things are worth the wait. That’s what my grandpa always said.”

Ken almost fell when he slipped on the ice as they waited for a taxi. She caught him.

“Do you think a walker might be safer?”

“Maybe? Do they come with gold tips?”

Even in the cab he kept shivering. “Where are we going?” he asked, teeth chattering.

“I know you’d rather be under a warm blanket enjoying your Sunday afternoon nap, but I’m taking you for a Christmas surprise. Don’t ask questions.”

“Oh, Kat, old men are happiest at home. I don’t need anything I don’t already have there.”

“Don’t you, though?” she asked, giving him a mysterious smile.

He groaned when they pulled into the winding driveway of the Riverside Assisted Living and Memory Care.

“Kat! Just because I slipped on the ice once or twice! Have you arranged a tour here for me?”

She laughed. “It’s Christmas Day, remember? I don’t think they do tours on Christmas.”

“Then why are we here?”

“Just ride along with me.”

He gave her a sharp look.

“That couple I told you about who took me in when I was a tough street kid? Bill and Sheri? He used to say that to her when she tried to be a backseat driver. ‘Just ride along with me.’ She didn’t like it much. He knew it too. But they just looked at each other and laughed.”

Kathleen saw tears in his eyes behind his half glasses. He took off a leather glove, fished a handkerchief out of his pocket, and blew his nose.

“They were the kindest people God ever made, taking in a tough kid like me, giving me a place to live, and telling me about Jesus. I told them I’d never believe in Jesus, and I’m sure they thought I never did, after the way I left, stealing from them, and destroying Sheri’s Bible. I’d give anything to apologize and tell them they changed my life. But we don’t live looking in the rearview mirror. We aren’t going that way. Always go forward. You remember that Kat.”

“I will, Mr. Ken, but we can’t go anywhere if we don’t get out of this cab.”

The lobby was beautifully decorated, and a group of children was singing Christmas carols. Mr. Ken smiled and waved at them. Kathleen steered him down a hallway.

“Do we have to walk far?” he asked, leaning hard on her arm.

She shook her head. “Just a few doors.”

She stopped at a door decorated like a Christmas tree. It had a sign, “First prize for door decorating.” Ken looked for a name, but it was covered by the tree.

“Who are we going to see?” he asked.

She smiled and guided him inside.

“Grandma and Grandpa, I brought you a Christmas present.”

A tiny, fragile looking lady with white curls protested, “Kat, no gifts! You promised!”

A man Ken judged to be even older than himself chuckled. “You know our granddaughter, Sheri! She has a mind of her own, just like her grandma. So, what’s the present, kiddo? Let’s have it. I hope it’s chocolate!”

“Bill!” The old lady laughed. “You’re incorrigible! And you probably should let Kat introduce her guest before you start begging for candy.”

Bill? Sheri?

It couldn’t be. Ken’s mind struggled to keep up.

Kathleen led him closer to the older couple. “Grandma and Grandpa, this is my dear friend, Mr. Ken. He’s a retired pastor and an old friend of yours, but you knew him as Sam.”

She glanced at Ken’s face and lowered him into the armchair behind him just before he fell.

Sheri put one hand over her heart and struggled to catch her breath. “Bill! Honey? The scarf he’s wearing! It’s the gift I got you long ago, the one missing from under the tree when Sam left us on Christmas, the day we found my new Bible ripped apart and thrown under the tree…”

The angels congregated to hear the tears, laugher, and conversation that followed, and they whispered to each other, “Look. It’s another Christmas miracle.”

Two taps sounded on the door. Kathleen was the only one who heard it. She opened it and stared into the brilliant blue eyes of Johnny Dryden.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m the volunteer chaplain here. I come here every Sunday to get advice from Bill and Sheri, and they pray with me. What are you doing here?”

Kathleen’s grandpa hollered, “Hey, Johnny, come in! I want to introduce you to my granddaughter and tell you a story you aren’t going to believe!”

Johnny grinned. “I’ve already met your granddaughter, and I can’t wait to hear your story. He took Kathleen’s hand and guided her to a love seat under the window. They sat down, but he didn’t let go of her hand.

Kathleen’s grandma stared at her and raised an eyebrow. Kathleen shrugged.

“Young man, what are your intentions toward my granddaughter?”

Johnny looked at Kathleen and smiled. “To be determined.”

“Then perhaps you should let go of Kat’s hand while you work out the to be determined part.”

His face flushed. “Yes, ma’am.”

But he didn’t let go of her hand.

Kathleen laughed. So did her grandparents.

Mr. Ken said, “I’ve been expecting this.”

The three older people began reminiscing again.

Johnny said quietly, “I still want to get to know you, Kat Jones. What do you do in your spare time?”

“I’m writing a novel based on the years my grandparents spent at their country church.”

“I’d love to have you read it to me.”

“Maybe you could come for dinner sometimes. We could invite Mr. Ken too. He’s terribly lonely.”

He smiled. “I’d like that.”

Ken said, “My hearing’s pretty good for an old man. I better warn you, Johnny, she’s a terrible cook.”

“Yes,” Sheri said proudly, “she gets that from me.”

“I’ll bring takeout,” Johnny said.

“Wise decision,” Ken said, laughing.

“Oh, Grandpa, I almost forgot,” Kathleen said. “I want to show you how all this started.”

She tried to reach into her purse.

“Johnny, you’re going to have to let go of my hand.”

He flushed again.

Kathleen pulled out the antique red pen. “Mr. Ken fixed the pen you gave me.”

Ken nodded, pulled from his shirt pocket the pen that matched it, and showed it to Bill.

Bill’s eyes filled with tears. “You kept that pen I gave you all these years?”

Ken choked on the words. “I never forgot you. I kept the pen to remind myself of the man I was before your love and the love of Jesus changed me. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you? That happened on a long-ago Christmas afternoon when we got home from church, noticed the missing gifts, and saw the torn Bible under the tree. Sheri and I dropped to our knees and told God how much we loved you. We’ve prayed for ‘our Sam’ every day since.”

Kathleen went and hugged Ken who was crying. “It’s no wonder I loved you almost as soon as I met you. From the time I was a tiny girl, I’ve been praying for Grandma and Grandpa’s ‘Sam.’ And here we are, all together, because of the Christmas pen.”

Next, she hugged her grandpa. “Here,” she said, handing him the pen, “this belongs back with you, Grandpa. It’s a great reminder prayer can mend broken things. Even broken hearts.”

Kat sat on the loveseat and took Johnny’s hand. The sweet talk of the older ones flowed around them like a warm blanket until suddenly it became very quiet.

Johnny chuckled. “Look. They’re all sleeping. Do you think you should take Ken home so he can get a real nap?”

“I will soon,” she whispered, “but tell me. How did a Physician’s Assistant become a chaplain?”

“Well, I came here often to visit my grandpa who’s in heaven now. He was in the room next door, and one day I came into your grandparent’s room by mistake. Your grandpa was cleaning his collection of fountain pens, and I was intrigued. We got talking, and one thing led to another. He told me he’d been praying for someone to be a volunteer chaplain and. . . .”

The three old ones kept napping. The two younger ones kept talking. Outside the snow kept falling. And the angels kept listening to another Christmas miracle just beginning.

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The Christmas Pen Part Three

by Donna Poole

“Third Sunday in a row we’ve had snow,” Kathleen said to herself, as she closed her computer. She liked her job as a biomedical engineer, but her real passion was writing. She’d been working on her novel in snatched minutes of time for almost two years and sometimes got so engrossed in the story she lost track of time. Like now.

“Wow, I’m running late!”

Kathleen detested being late for anything, but the prelude was well underway when she slipped into her pew at Christ Calvary Cathedral for the Christmas service. Mr. Ken smiled at her. She felt uneasy about the elderly man; he was still wearing his overcoat and red and green plaid scarf and looked pale. It was plenty warm enough in the building.

Is he sick?

“You okay?” she whispered.

He nodded and patted her hand. His gloves were still on too.

The program started. Without words, accompanied only by the orchestra, children in tailor-made costumes acted out the manger scene.

The production was beautiful, but Kathleen had to stifle a giggle. She couldn’t help remembering the year at Grandpa’s country church when there weren’t enough boys and she’d had to play Joseph. She’d been upset; she’d wanted to be Mary or an angel. And then the bath towel someone had wrapped around her head had fallen off halfway up the aisle and everyone had laughed. She hadn’t thought it was funny then, but it was one of her favorite memories now.

The perfectly dressed children exited, and the choir sang the beautiful song by Ron Hamilton, “Born to Die.”

“On the night Christ was born, Just before break of morn,

As the stars in the sky were fading,

O’er the place where He lay, Fell a shadow cold and gray,

Of a cross that would humble a King.

Born to die upon Calv’ry

Jesus suffered my sin to forgive

Born to die upon Calv’ry

He was wounded that I might live.”

As the choir finished, a hush fell over the auditorium. Two teenage boys dressed like Roman soldiers came up the aisle carrying a big wooden cross. They took slow, deliberate steps in the silence. When they got to the large, decorated Frasier Fir in the front, they raised the cross and dropped it with a loud thud into a stand that had been set up next to the tree. The boys stood quietly, looking at the cross. Then the younger of the two fell to his knees and began crying. It obviously wasn’t part of the script. The older boy looked around awkwardly for a minute; then he knelt next to the younger boy and put an arm around his shoulder. He whispered something and the other boy nodded. They stood, both crying now. They faced the congregation, raised their right arms high, fists clenched, then tapped their hearts.

The boys shouted in unison, “Jesus is Lord!”

Kathleen reached in her purse for a few tissues. Mr. Ken needed one too. She heard sniffles all around her.

The pastor stood head bowed. Finally, he said, “My sermon today was titled, ‘The Perfect Tree,’ but I don’t need to preach about the cross. These boys have done a far better job than I could ever do.”

To the soft music of “Silent Night,” the congregation filed out quietly.

Mr. Ken sat in the pew, head bowed, praying. Kathleen waited for him.

Finally, using his gold tipped cane, he struggled to his feet, smiling at her through the tears on his face. 

How can I love this old man I’ve only known a few weeks? But I do. Even his smile reminds me of grandpa.

“Aren’t you feeling well?” she asked.

Mr. Ken chuckled. “Just an old man who can’t get warm. Am I still invited for that awful dinner? You said you’re a terrible cook.”

She laughed. “You are and I am.”

Once again Johnny Dryden was waiting to help them into a cab, and Kathleen’s eyes widened when Mr. Ken invited him to her apartment for lunch.

Johnny’s incredibly blue eyes met hers and he laughed. “You’re safe. I have to get to work.”

She nodded. “I guess physician’s assistants have to work Christmas Sunday?”

“It’s my other job. My volunteer one,” he said, as he helped Mr. Ken into the cab. “But Kat Jones, I still want to get to know you. What did you think of the sermon?”

“Best I’ve ever heard.”

“Same.” He smiled and waved as the cab pulled away.

As promised, Sunday dinner was terrible. Kathleen sighed. “This is the first time I’ve goofed up spaghetti.”

Mr. Ken laughed. He took another bite of the undercooked pasta covered with the too salty sauce. “It’s not that bad, Kat. It’s nice to eat with someone. This more than repays me for fixing your grandpa’s pen. It should work for many years now. The one I have just like it wrote love letters to Ruth and thousands of sermons, and it’s still working.”

“How did you become a pastor, Mr. Ken? I have to leave at three o’clock, but we have time for your story.”

He took a crunchy bite of the too dark garlic bread, coughed, and grabbed his water. “It’s a long story. What do you say you keep eating and I’ll tell it? I’m kind of full myself.”

He’d barely begun talking when Kathleen’s face paled and she pushed away her own plate. He’d been a runaway, hated his abusive parents, hated the church that knew what was happening but did nothing to stop it, and hated God. Then he decided there was no God. A confirmed atheist at the age of sixteen, he’d lived on the streets, a tough kid who’d do anything for food or a bed. Then he got sick.

“It was a bitter cold winter, a lot like this one. I intended to mug and rob whoever answered the door that night, but I was too weak to even knock. I guess I made a lot of noise falling into the door, because a woman opened it. She called her husband to help her, and they half-carried me inside.

“I could see right away they were poor, and I cursed my dumb luck for not stumbling into a place where I could take something worthwhile. They asked my name. I was sick and half out of my mind, but street smart enough not to give my real name. I told them my name was. . . ”

Kathleen interrupted him. “Sam.”

Her mind was racing.

How did I not see this before? The pen. The phrases he uses. The scarf!

He raised his white bushy eyebrows and stared at her. “How’d you know that? Lucky guess? Anyway, they took me to a walk-in clinic that night and got me some antibiotics. I heard Bill, that was his name, tell Shari he was sorry he’d had to use some money he’d been saving for Christmas to pay for it. She hugged him and said she didn’t care; he’d given her a gift she’d never forget by helping me.

“I thought they were a huge joke. Like people from another planet, you know? How could they be for real? They said I could stay with them as long as I wanted. They fed me. She was a terrible cook, and I didn’t let them know it, but I enjoyed every meal. They gave me a warm bed. But they kept talking to me about God, and every time they did, I got mad. I told them there was no God and no good people either. Everyone had an angle, and I’d figure out theirs sooner or later.

“Sometimes I’d hear Bill and Sheri praying for me late at night, and that made me angry too. I didn’t think I needed their prayers. They said they’d always pray for me.

“Bill was a seminary student. He was going to be a pastor somewhere when he graduated. I told him it was a fool’s job.

“I’d been with them about a month. It was Christmas Day. They begged me to go to church with them, said we’d open gifts after we got home. I refused. I’d had it with their God talk. As soon as they left, I raided the gifts under the tree. Sheri had wrapped a gift for Bill, a scarf. I took it. I wear it to this day to remind me of what I was before God saved me. Bill had wrapped a gift for me, the red fountain pen you see me write with. His gift for Sheri was a Bible. I tore pages out of it, left it under the tree, and hit the streets.

“After a few more years of alcohol, drugs, and street life, I was a mess. I ended up in the Rescue Mission. I’d never been able to forget Bill and Sheri and the love and kindness they’d shown me. They’d made God seem real to me, and I hated what I’d done to them. When I finally understood God’s love in sending His Son and asked Jesus to save me from my sin, I looked for them to thank them and ask forgiveness, but they were gone. They probably forgot all about me, but I never forgot them.”

Kathleen had to clear her throat twice before she could speak. “Mr. Ken, we’ll eat dessert later. It’s almost three o’clock. There’s somewhere I have to go, and I’d really like you to come with me.”

“Old men need afternoon naps, Kat.”

He looked at her pleading eyes.

“Okay. Let me get my coat.”

She smiled. “And your scarf, Mr. Ken. Be sure to wear your scarf.”

The End

Be sure to come back for The Christmas Pen Part Four

***

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

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It’s 9:40 in the Morning

by Donna Poole

It’s 9:40 in the morning, and I’m sad. The world seems an emptier place just now, especially at this hour. I don’t know if anyone is praying for me. Before this, I always knew.

Maynard Belt was an important and well-known man. He did major things in his lifetime of eighty-one years, pastored four churches, served as the State Representative for the Michigan Association of Regular Baptist Churches, and did many other things. His last area of service was president of The Fellowship of Missions. I think that was his secret; he didn’t care a thing about positions or titles; he just wanted to serve.

To me, Maynard was something invaluable; he was a friend who prayed. A few years ago, he messaged me, “Donna, I have my watch alarm set for 9:40 a.m. every day to pray specifically for you.”

He didn’t pray just for me at 9:40; Maynard and his wife Ann prayed for John too.

He sent encouraging words, uplifting songs, Bible verses, and funny memes. One meme showed two clothes pins, one dressed as a bride, the other as a groom. They were kissing. The caption read, “They met online.”

With so many friends and responsibilities, I don’t know how he made time for us, but somehow, he did. Maynard kept tract of us, of my cancer treatments, of John’s heart catheterization.

When Maynard was reading R.C. Sproul’s biography he messaged,” I love biographies whether I agree with everything or not. One statement has stuck with me, ‘Right now counts forever!’ Many blessings your way and please let’s keep in touch.”

Maybe that’s how he made time to pray for so many people; he made his “right nows” count forever. As soon as possible after a difficult surgery he returned to teaching his Sunday school class, something he loved. In addition to everything else he did, Maynard wrote books. I don’t know how many. I know he wrote a book on affliction and books of poetry too.

In one of our last chats on Facebook messenger I thanked him for his prayers. I told him, “I wish for just a second we could see the heavenly network of prayers. You should write a poem about that!”

He replied, “Maybe after this conference.”

He was getting ready for the Fellowship of Missions Conference. Maynard, Ann, and one of their daughters flew there. The plan was for Maynard to retire after serving as twelve years as president.

But he didn’t retire. He got promoted instead.

Maynard developed breathing problems on the flight and a few days later, on a Sunday morning, he went to see the Lord he’d loved and served so many years. He never wrote the poem I suggested. He didn’t write the books he still planned to write. He didn’t get to enjoy retirement years with Ann.

In May of 2020 we were talking about wanting to hear God say, “Well done!” not “Nine-tenths well done.”

Maynard said, “9-10’s will not be sufficient. So we will go ALL the way for the Lord for He went ALL the way for us. Blessings!”

On September 11, 2022, Maynard Belt heard God say, “Well done!” because he was a man who knew how to make right now count forever. I’m happy for him, but sad for his family.

As I’m writing this his memorial service is just an hour away. I can’t be there, but I’ll watch on live stream.

When 9:40 a.m. comes around tomorrow, I don’t want that prayer slot to be empty. So, I’m going to try to remember to fill it with the neediest person God suggests to me. And the network of prayer will continue to grow until it fills the sky with an intricate pattern too lovely for poetry to describe.  

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She’s a Goner

by Donna Poole

We were the Three Musketeers.

We three couples laughed, cried, and adventured together. We solved the world’s problems while enjoying coffee in our living rooms warmed by a wood burner or kerosene heaters. We sat in camp chairs pulled close to crackling campfires and watched the stars appear. We enjoyed countless meals together. John dearly loved our friends, La-Follettes, and Potters, and never got upset with them.

Except for that one time.

The phone rang. “John,” Audrey Potter said, “Marvin and I are at a garage sale. There’s a dryer here for $75.00. Either you’re buying it for Donna, or we are, but one way or another, she’s getting this dryer!”

A clothes dryer wasn’t on our list of must haves, and the must haves far outweighed the income. It’s probably a good thing Audrey couldn’t see John’s face.

“Where is it?” he asked. “I’ll come get it.”

I have no idea where John got the money, because back then we were lucky to have an extra five dollars!

I’d never had a dryer. We lived in the country, and clothes lines strung between trees worked just fine. Unless it rained, or snowed, or a bird pooped on the sheets, or everything got fly spots, or the laundry smelled like manure from the neighbor’s cows.

Did you ever get out of a hot shower, bury your face in a towel that smelled like manure, and come up gasping for fresh air? No? You should try it sometime!

Home came the dryer. John was even less thrilled when he found out the dryer was set up for natural gas and he had to buy a converter so it could attach to our LP gas. But finally, we got the old girl up and running.

Like our other old appliances, the dryer worked great, most of the time. When she didn’t, John learned a lot about repairs. And when the work needed was beyond him, he called Brad, our appliance guy.

Brad is a genius at finding old parts and fixing ancient appliances. We got to know him well, just as we did our furnace repair man. When people replaced old furnaces, he saved parts off them because he knew we’d be needing them. We have good people in our lives.

About a month ago the old girl started warning us. Towels that usually dried in one hour took two. Finally, she said, “Enough is enough; I need a rest.”

We weren’t worried. John tore her apart and thought he knew what the trouble was. He called Brad. Brad confirmed John’s diagnosis of the patient’s illness and added another John had missed; she was terminal.  

“I’ll try, but I really don’t think I can get parts for this anymore, John. This dryer was made in the late 60s or early 70s.”

“Do you have anything second hand available?”

Brad nodded. “I do, but it’s electric. I’ve gone over it, and it works well. I’ll tell you what though, with the price of LP gas as high as it is, you’re going to spend as much to run a gas dryer as you will an electric one.”

Audrey, you’ll be happy to know John is buying Brad’s dryer. You don’t have to threaten to come back to Michigan from Tennessee where you live now and buy it for me if he doesn’t. It costs a little more than $75.00, but it’s very reasonable.

I’ll miss the old girl. I wish I could remember how long we’ve had her, maybe twenty-five years? She gave us a good run for the money, and I’m sorry she’s a goner.

You know what I miss more? I miss the days when three young, then three middle aged, then three older couples cried, laughed, and adventured together. I miss solving the world’s problems while enjoying coffee in our living rooms warmed by a wood burner or kerosene heaters. I miss sitting in camp chairs pulled close to crackling campfires and watching the stars appear. Gone are the days of sharing countless meals together.

Those days will never really be a goner because they’ll live forever in our hearts. We’ll fellowship again someday around the Big Table when we all get Home to heaven. Pastor Potter is there already; we don’t know which of us will go next. There will be no problems to solve there, no tears to dry, but the love and laughter will last for eternity. And I can only hope for a crackling campfire, cups of coffee, and the sweet voices of my beloved friends.

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Snow Stories

by Donna Poole

I have a fireplace, cozy throws, warm drinks, and some snow stories to tell if you’re interested. We were snowbound this morning. This is the first storm when I haven’t bundled up and walked out through deep drifts. I’m not strong enough yet for that, but I did go from window to window, as excited as a child. I love freshly fallen snow undisturbed by footprints, shovels, or plows.

Even John, home from the hospital after knee replacement surgery, used his walker to hobble to the window and exclaim over how much snow fell overnight. If our neighbor hadn’t plowed us out, we’d still be snowed in.

Spring energizes the poets, but so does snow. Think of some of the songs, idioms, and hymns inspired by snow:

  • “Let it Snow”
  • Where are the snows of yesteryear? –a nostalgic sadness for time past
  • Snow on the roof—white hair
  • Snowball into something—growing quickly larger like a snowball being rolled
  • Snowed under—overwhelmed with work
  • Pure as the driven snow—a person of high integrity
  • Get snowed—to be deceived
  • Snowbird—someone who heads south in winter months
  • “Whiter than Snow”

Here are a few idioms I didn’t understand until I looked them up. To “roast snow in a furnace” means to attempt something impossible. “Snow stuff” and “Lady Snow” mean cocaine.

John is allergic to codeine and before knee surgery he laughingly told the nurse anesthesiologist about the time he’d confused his words and had told a doctor he was allergic to cocaine.

“Some people are, you know,” the nurse replied, “and we need to know that, because we sometimes use it as an anesthetic.”

I thought he might be giving me a snow job, but he was serious, and a Mayo Clinic web search confirmed the truth of what he’d said.

We were so glad to get John home from the hospital before the snowstorm hit. When it started, I wanted to post Dean Martin’s version of “Let It Snow” on my Facebook page but I didn’t have time; I was too snowed under taking care of John. If you’re still reading this you’re either chuckling or groaning at the way these idioms are snowballing.

This storm’s snow piled up quickly and reminded me of the blizzard of 1978, but we didn’t have the winds we did then, and when you live in open farm country, it’s the winds that close roads. In 1978 the winds wouldn’t quit; they howled over the open fields, scooped up the snow, and dumped it on the roads. We were snowbound for three weeks. At first it was fun and cozy; we’d been way too busy, and it was wonderful reconnecting as a family. But, eventually we got cabin fever; we missed the outside world, church, and friends. We missed people!

We felt almost delighted when a snowmobile sunk in a huge drift in front of our house. On it was a person, a real live person! John helped him dig out his machine and invited him in for hot chocolate. We asked him what was open in the rest of the county. His reply was brief.

“Nothin.”

Another day a loud knock on the door startled us. We opened it to see a smiling, snow covered, half-frozen George Fee. He pulled off his gloves, shoved a hand in his pocket, and pulled out a wad of bills.

“Here you go, Pastor. I figured you might be needing some money. We haven’t had church in weeks, so I know you haven’t been paid.”

“But George,” John asked, “where did you get the money? And how did you get here?”

“Well, I just drove to the homes of church folks who lived on main roads and asked them, ‘You got any money for the preacher?’ And I got all this!” George grinned, proud of himself. “And how I got here was I left my car parked out on Squawfield Road and hiked in through the fields. There’s more snow on the roads than in the fields!”

We loved George, his wife Florence, Bud and Izzie, and all our wonderful early congregation. Most of them are in heaven now, having adventures we can’t imagine.

A few days after George came, we got more company. Like George, they left their car on Squawfield and walked to our house through the fields. Our good friends, Pastor Potter and Audrey, and their son came to visit. Pastor unzipped his coat and we all laughed. Their tiny poodle, Buttons, poked out his little nose.

The four of them, three humans and a dog, stayed for supper and spent the night. We stayed up late, laughing, talking, and playing games. Someone had the idea of rewriting the Luke 15:11-32 story of the Prodigal Son. We wrote it in the key of D. I can’t remember all of it, but we thought we were hysterical as we wrote, “The despicable dude departed his dad’s domain….” The later it got, the funnier we thought we were.

Where are the snows of yesteryear? Yes, I feel a nostalgic sadness as I tell you the story of the night we spent with our friends. We were young then and getting old seemed so far away. Now, those of us still alive have snow on the roof. Buttons crossed the rainbow bridge long ago, and Pastor Potter is in heaven.

That man could preach, and that man could sing! I’m sure he sang “Whiter Than Snow” many times, and preached Isaiah 1:18: “Come now, and let us reason together, saith the LORD: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.”

I miss the snows of yesteryear; so many people I love are already in heaven. The best really is yet to be, and I’m looking forward to it!

But before we go to heaven, anyone want to write the Prodigal Son in the key of C? I have a fireplace, cozy throws, and warm drinks if you want to get the party started.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
Our neighbor, Chris, plowing us out. Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
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Ya Know? Ya Never Really Know

by Donna Poole

Back in 1966, those three young divinity students looked more like they belonged in junior high than in college. Good friends, they sang in a music group and did almost everything together. They said things they thought were hilarious like, “Ya know? Ya never really know.”

I’d never tell about the time one of them was on a date and the other two pushed his car half a block away so he couldn’t find it. I’d never write about the double date we went on with one of them when. . . .

They were great guys though. One became a missionary to Italy, one the head of the music department at a college, and the third the pastor of a country church. I married the third one.

They were right though. Ya know? Ya never really know.

Who would have thought that the first day of spring 2020 would arrive to find the world in chaos? A friend asked, “Am I the only one who feels like I went to sleep and woke up in an episode of the Twilight Zone?” 

Well, hello coronavirus, COVID-19!

What positive things do I have to say from up here in my Pollyanna tree? Please, don’t shoot me out of my tree just yet; I don’t really like this any better than you do. Positive things. Hmmm. Well, we’re learning new vocabulary words! Until recently, I thought “flatten the curve” was wishful thinking when you flunked a high school chem test. And I thought “social distancing” was something only hermits practiced.

Long ago, I wanted to be a semi-hermit. I wistfully imagined living in an isolated cabin with just my family and a very few hand-picked close friends nearby. I supposed that with just those few people, and my books, I’d be perfectly content. But are selfish people ever really content?

I just didn’t know myself. I care too much about people to be a happy hermit. How could a hermit love this saying, “They might not need me; but they might. I’ll let my head be just in sight; a smile as small as mine might be precisely their necessity.”

But wait. Wasn’t Emily Dickinson, who wrote those words, a model for social distancing? Never mind. I’m distracting myself.

I’d ask you to link arms with me, walk my country road, and talk about the crisis of coronavirus, but just for now, you stay over there on your side of the road, six feet away, but let’s talk. What’s that you say? My road isn’t six feet wide? Okay, I’ll walk off the road in the grass.

Community, friendship, love, these are beautiful words, richer than we realized. No perhaps about it, we’ve taken so many precious gifts for granted. And now we’re missing our normal lives.

Last week our little country church announced a potluck. We love our potlucks. A friend posted on my Facebook wall that to be Baptist you had to believe in Jesus and own a casserole dish. I told her that was theologically incorrect. You also had to own a crockpot.

For almost forty-six years we’ve been crowding into our fellowship hall, an old, one-room country schoolhouse for potlucks. You should see our long table, groaning under its beautiful load of crockpots.

The schoolhouse has no running water, no indoor bathroom, and it’s not big enough for all of us. But, oh the love and laughter we’ve shared there. We’ve shared sobs and hugs too, at funeral dinners. I fiercely love that old building, but I’m as anxious as anyone to see our new addition completed. We’re going to have a fellowship hall with running water and bathrooms, but we’ll still be the country church on the corner of two dirt roads because that’s who we are.

We won’t be having a potluck this week. There’s no way to practice social distancing in that old schoolhouse; it wasn’t built for that. And you know what? Neither were we. None of us were built for social distancing. We need each other. We need to give and receive love, friendship, help, hugs, and comfort.

We won’t even be meeting for church; we’re doing our part to flatten the curve. Sure, I’ll miss the big reason meet, to worship God together and to learn from His Word, but I’ll miss the little things too. The coffee and donuts on the back table. The smiles, handshakes, love. The shared sorrows. The sound of the bell ringing out over the fields. The little kids running out of children’s church anxious to show their handwork to anyone who will look, and we’ll all look. The jokes. The laughter. The young people helping the older ones to their cars. The contented silence of the church after the last person has left, waiting for John while he locks the door, and walking arm in arm with him to our car.

Soon, this social isolation end. Let’s not take each other for granted ever again. Because, how long will we have each other? Ya know? Ya never really know.

People, we need people!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tF6CFQ06w-g