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Monthly Archives: June 2015

For all the days of his life

29 Monday Jun 2015

Posted by in A Mama's Heart

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I prayed for twins when I was pregnant with my son. I’m sure I would have been given the strength to handle two busy boys, but let’s be real — Thank You, Jesus, for letting that one slide . .

We had two girls, and I thought surely we needed a boy. I believe in praying Scripture, so I prayed Hannah’s prayer in I Samuel 1:11:

O Lord Almighty, if you won’t forget me, but give me a son, I will give him back to You for all the days of his life.

The Lord answered that prayer, and I kept my end of the bargain — I dedicated my son to Him for all of his life, as I had done both of my girls.

When Daniel was 8 months old, I noticed a little knot on the back of his head. I wasn’t overly concerned, but I wanted my pediatrician to take a look. He wasn’t overly concerned either. He said it was just a cyst and it would go away. Within a couple of months, it had grown to 3x it’s size. I took him back to the doctor. He again calmed my fears and said not to worry — cysts grow.

By the time a few more weeks had passed, it had begun to cluster off like a bunch of grapes. I no longer believed this was a cyst, and wanted a second opinion. So did the doctor. He sent me to a pediatric surgeon, who also assured me there was nothing to worry about, but he said it needed to be removed since it was growing quickly. We scheduled our 13 month old son to have surgery the next week.

I was beside myself, to put it mildly. Not only was my baby about to be put to sleep and have his head opened up, but I was in the frozen tundra with not one family member. I felt very alone and afraid.

We put him on every prayer chain we could, all over the world. But I couldn’t get peace. Standing over his crib the night before his surgery, watching him sleep, I wept. I reminded the Lord of the prayer I had prayed, and how I had given Daniel to Him.

Lord, I said I would give him to you all the days of his life. Please don’t let his days be this short.

It was all I knew to pray. I never slept a wink that night.

His dad and I waited in the family room at Providence Hospital in Anchorage during his surgery. A friend watched our girls. Our pastor came, and another friend from church. Minutes turned to hours, and I was keenly aware that it was taking much longer than the surgeon anticipated. Hours longer.

After what seemed surely an eternity, Dr. Bleicher walked into the waiting room. He looked at us with tears in his eyes. If I’d ever known true fear in my life, it was watching that doctor try to compose himself enough to speak. I’ll never forget his words as long as I live:

It’s never easy to tell someone their child has cancer.

The next week was a blur as we waited for the pathology report so we would know how best to treat our baby. I sat at Dr. Bleicher’s desk, a hot mess I’m sure (I’m not an attractive crier). He said he had good news and bad news. The good news was the initial pathology report showed it probably was not cancer! But the bad news was, they hadn’t gotten it all. They needed to do another, more extensive surgery, in case it WAS cancer so they could remove the rest of this aggressive tumor.

Again we alerted every prayer chain. Although I felt MUCH relief that the doctor didn’t believe Daniel was going to die, or even need treatment past the second surgery, I was still all to pieces at him having to go through that again.

The next time I sat in Dr. Bleicher’s office, he said he hoped I wouldn’t be mad, but the pathology report from the second surgery showed no tumor cells at all. They had removed only healthy flesh from his skull. He apologized and said he didn’t know how that could have happened, because he had seen for himself that the tumor cells had gone all the way past the edges of what he had removed the first time. He waited for my reaction, figuring this Mama Bear was going to be livid that her son had to undergo another surgery, leaving him with a scar all the way down the back of his head.

“I have no explanation,” he said.

I smiled and said, “Oh I do. We would never have known God healed him if you hadn’t done the second surgery. I’m not mad, Dr. Bleicher. I’m thankful God used you to show off!”

After that, my little butterball baby boy was the picture of health, and those two surgeries were the beginning of many stitches his head would incur at the hands of fireplace hearths, playgrounds, baseball bats, and tile floors.


With the spiritual high of the healing of my son, I guess I thought healing came if you prayed hard, and got enough other people praying. (As you probably already know, I only had a short ride on that high horse!).

A year or two later, we had moved back to NC, and a dear pastor friend asked me to share that story at his church in Virginia. I’m sure I was careful to give God all the glory for healing our son, and I’m sure I talked about prayer, and faith — I really don’t remember exactly what I said. What I do remember is a lady standing up and walking out in tears. I had no idea what I’d said, but whatever it was sure upset her.

Afterwards, I asked Jimmy what was wrong with that woman. He said her son was about the same age as Daniel, and he had a tumor too. They had prayed and prayed, but her little boy died.

Her little boy died . . . . 

Confusion swirled in my brain . . . . Why would my son be spared, and not hers? I didn’t know the answer to that question, and honestly, I don’t think I wanted to. I felt terribly guilty.

Fast forward 12 or 13 years. My life was in shambles, an utter failure. I was barely hanging on to the cliff, and my hands were slipping. I’d gone to a prayer meeting at my church, but truth be told, I was prayed out. I was too empty to keep trying.

The pastor asked for praise reports, and a lady I didn’t know stood up and shared the story of her niece who had been on the verge of divorce. Her family and Sunday School class had prayed, and God restored their marriage.  She exclaimed (in the best Southern drawl you can imagine),

“Y’all, if you know somebody who’s about to get divorced, ALL YOU GOTTA DO is watch ‘Fireproof’ and pray! You watch and see if God don’t put it back together, better’n ever!”

Really? That’s it? That’s all ya gotta do? Watch ‘Fireproof’ and pray? Why didn’t I think of that?!?!

Now it was MY turn to get up and walk out — and that’s just what I did.

Oh I don’t think that lady meant to hurt me, any more than I meant to hurt the lady who’s son had died. On the contrary, I’m sure she was doing her best to encourage those with troubled marriages not to give up. I think “Fireproof” is a good movie, and I believe in the power of prayer. It hadn’t worked out for me like it had for that family. It hadn’t been that simple.

I had good intentions in sharing my story about Daniel’s tumor as well. After seeing the pain on that young mother’s face in that little country church in rural Virginia, I’ve been careful not to over simplify God’s healing power. I don’t know why God healed Daniel, yet seemingly didn’t answer my other prayers. There is no secret formula to get God to perform like you want Him to. Matter of fact, if someone else tries to tell you there is, be very careful. Ain’t no such thing.

I’m thankful I’ve seen the miraculous hand of God in my son in this life, and even though I couldn’t see it then, I’m thankful I’ve been on the other side as well, when my most earnest prayers weren’t answered like I wanted them to be. I’m stronger today than I was then because of it.

I still pray Hannah’s prayer for all my children. They’re Yours, Lord, for all the days of their lives. I can’t be with them all the time, but God can. They belong to Him.

If you’re praying, waiting for healing, whether physically or in your heart, for yourself or someone else, be encouraged, my friend. Healing is coming, in one form or another, sooner or later. You might not feel it or see it, but you’re stronger. Great strength can only be earned by great pain.

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Love Wins

23 Tuesday Jun 2015

Posted by in Love Your World

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This past weekend, we got to reminscing about dc Talk’s “Jesus Freak,” and we YouTube’ed some of their old songs. I could still sing along with every line! Immediately, I was taken back to a time and place where I spent my days surrounded by teenagers who were themselves a bunch of Jesus Freaks. Those days will always be some of the best memories of my life. Lord only knows where that CD is now, so I’ve already ordered me another one (free shipping, of course — Amazon Prime ROCKS).

“Colored People” was one of my favorite songs on “Jesus Freak”. In case you weren’t one of the cool kids listening to hip contemporary Christian music in the ’90’s, here’s some lyrics:

Pardon me, your epidermis is showing, Mister
I couldn’t help but note your shade of melanin
I tip my hat to the colorful arrangement
Cause I see the beauty in the tones of our skin

We’ve gotta come together,
Aren’t we all human after all?

We’re colored people, and we live in a tainted place
We’re colored people, and they call us the human race
We’ve got a history so full of mistakes
And we are colored people who depend on a Holy Grace

If you need some fresh songs on your iPod, throwback to some old school dc Talk. You’ll be glad you did.

Also last weekend, we were in Charleston — just days after the senseless slaying of nine of our brothers and sisters in Christ at Emanuel AME Church. Incredibly, the shooter said he almost didn’t do it because “they were so nice” to him. It’s simply impossible for me to fathom how a human being could be so full of hate that he would kill innocent people — people who had not only never done a single thing to him, but also who had welcomed him with open arms into their Bible study. I’m certain those nine people were in turn welcomed with open arms by Jesus, who said, “Well done, My good and faithful servants.”

I felt compelled to go to the church, to pay our respects, and to pray for this family of God as they deal with this tragedy. News crews were all over, but they didn’t disrupt the reverence. The heat index was over 100, and someone was handing out bottles of water. Todd asked her how much, and she said, “They’re free”. Love was as tangible as the humidity.

Person after person walked up and placed flowers, many shedding tears and holding hands. The prayer on my heart was, “God please let Your love cover hate.” I took these pictures, and I’m sure many more flowers have been placed by now.

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It reminded me of Joseph in the Old Testament. His brothers hated him and sold him into slavery, but God used the situation to promote Joseph, provide for the Isaelites, and even to restore their family relationship through love and forgiveness. Joseph said in Genesis 50:20,

“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.”

Although the shooter meant to start a race war, he failed miserably. Quite the opposite happened. Charleston is a town unified. And the unity is spreading. He took the lives of nine people, who gained eternal life on the spot. Sudden death meant sudden glory for the martyrs of Emanuel AME Church. If we look at it from the spiritual realm, it was a great victory! But alas, we are left here to deal with the fallout in the physical world.

Let me share a couple of stories with you — you’ll find a lot of those in this blog.

Story #1: My grandpa raised tobacco (that’s pronouced “tuh-BAK-uh” for you non-Southerners). When my daddy was about 5 years old, a new family moved into the farm next to theirs. His only playmates were his siblings, and he was thrilled to have some new kids to play with. Only these children were different. They were black. Daddy was afraid they wouldn’t want to play with him because his skin was a different color.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, his older brother, Jim, had a black Model-T Ford in the barn that he was painting. Daddy’s little five year old brain began to devise a plan . . .

He had finished painting his 3 year old sister, Mary, head to toe with black car paint, and she was in the process of painting him when my Grandma Bunton went to find out why her two toddlers were missing. I can only imagine her reaction! “What in tarnation!?!” Daddy explained how he wanted to go play with those new kids, and he was afraid they wouldn’t play with him if he didn’t look like them. Grandma told me she took half their skin off scrubbing them with turpentine! A word to the wise: car paint doesn’t just come off with a bar of soap.

Story #2: When Lindsey was still an only child, our next door neighbors were black. They had a little boy the same age as Lindsey, and we would frequently watch each other’s kids so we could run errands or have a date night. One day when Cameron was at our house, Lindsey said, “Mommy, why is Cameron’s skin brown?” I told her that was the way God made him. Simple answer for a simple question. That was good enough for her, and she ran off to her room to play Sesame Street with Cameron.

And if it’s good enough for a two year old, it’s good enough for all of us.

We aren’t blind. We all look different and we know it even at the earliest of ages. But what we DON’T know, is hate, judgment, prejudice, and superiority. Those things are not just taught, they’re CAUGHT.

Somewhere along the way, the Charleston shooter caught the idea that it was okay to hate people, to judge them based on the color of their skin, rather than the content of their character. Be careful what people catch from you, folks. Spread love over hate. Love is the only thing that overcomes hate, and it ain’t gonna spread itself. It’s our responsibility to do the spreadin’.

We live in an evil world, and sadly, more horrific acts like the Charleston shootings will mostly likely go down in the books. But there is good news! I’ve read the end already, and love wins.

My Darling Daddy

21 Sunday Jun 2015

Posted by in A Mama's Heart

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Father’s Day is, of course, different for me now, as it has been for all the Father’s Day’s since he died. I can’t go see him, give him a card or a present, call him, or even send him an email. All I can really do is write about him, about what he meant to me. That’s the best way I can think of to soothe my aching heart.

When he was sick, he told us he didn’t want us to go to his grave because he wouldn’t be there. I get that. But I still go. Mama always keeps flowers on it, and I’ve put some on there once or twice myself. If she didn’t do it, I would. It seems like it’s what I’m supposed to do. So I do.

I don’t miss him the most when I look at old pictures, or even old home videos. Or when when people tell me funny Richard Bunton stories. That’s what he’d want us to do. He was the life of the party, and he’d be thrilled to know he still is after he’s gone. I don’t miss him the most when I read the letters he wrote me. I have every letter and card he sent when I lived all over the country. He signed them, “So sad, Your Dad.” I also have every email he sent me. He always started them with “Deether” — his nickname for me. Those are all precious to me.  But it’s not where I feel him the most.

I feel that familiar ache the deepest when I dream about him. I suppose as the years go by, they may get fewer and far between. In my dreams, I can hear his voice so clearly. I can touch him and feel his skin, feel his arms around me. They aren’t just any arms. They’re distinctly his, and they’re strong and healthy. And most importantly, what makes me recall him the most vividly, is I can smell him in my dreams. It’s a mixture of the sweat of a hard working man, sawdust, and Old Spice. It may not sound very appealing, but if I could bottle it up, I would open it every day and immediately steal away to a world where my Daddy is still with me.

I’m not one of those people who romanticize someone when they die. It always cracks me up how people act like the dearly departed never did anything wrong all of the sudden. I always wonder, “Who in the heck are you kidding?” when they start describing Mother Teresa when their lost loved one was a regular Joe like this rest of us. So let me just say my Daddy wasn’t a perfect man. I’m sure people could tell stories that I wouldn’t want to hear. I’m thankful people only tell me the good things they remember about him. Those things don’t matter to me now. They didn’t matter to me then. He may have had many character flaws, especially as a younger man, but that isn’t the man I remember. That isn’t who he was to me.

This is who he was to me. He was opinionated and stubborn. For many years, he smoked like a freight train, cussed like a sailor, and sometimes drank like a fish — or so I’m told. He didn’t really do that at home. He stopped smoking AND switched from whole to skim milk cold turkey when he had his first heart attack at 52. He could still cuss if anyone mentioned Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinski. After supper and after I’d finished my homework, we’d play Yatzee or Monopoly, or rummy or 5 Card Stud. He wouldn’t let me win. I had to earn it, and although it made me mad as a wet hen then, I’m glad now that I learned how to lose.

He was the alpha male. Everything had to be his way. He was dramatic and passionate and got slap tore up if anyone moved his stuff on his table beside his beloved recliner — which I frequently did just to watch him fuss. He didn’t know what to do with me when I was a mouthy teenager. I can hear him now yelling, “MARTHA!  Bring me my blood pressure pills!  This youn’un is gonna be the death of me!”

Oh but from my earliest memories, I loved the ground he walked on. I called him my Darling Daddy, a name I’m told I gave him when I was just learning to talk. I was grown up before I figured out why. You see, it didn’t really matter to me if he wasn’t perfect. He was just a simple telephone man. He loved airplanes, and fishing, and playing Rook and his guitar, and camping with his nephews and brothers, and his woodworking shop, and his beat up old van, and animals. He loved making people laugh — his stories may or may not have been embellished to add effect. He loved Jesus, his church, his preacher, and “Amazing Grace.” He loved my Mama, my brothers and my sister, his siblings, and my Grandpa and Grandma Bunton. He loved his grandchildren beyond reason. And he loved me.


That’s why I didn’t care about his imperfections. He loved me. I knew it. I felt it deep in my soul. And love covers a multitude of sins.

In our family, we didn’t go to bed without saying, “I love you.”  We didn’t hang up the phone and we didn’t leave the house without saying it. It was his rule, and we lived by it. Let me tell you, that wasn’t always fun. When I was mad at him because he wouldn’t let me do something I wanted to do, which was VERY often — he was extremely overprotective — I didn’t always want to say, “I love you, too.” But he wouldn’t let me go until I said it too. He’d say, “You never know what could happen to either of us today, and we always want ‘I love you’ to be the last thing we say, don’t we?” Yes, we did. We still do. We’ve all carried that tradition on with our families.

He had Agnogenic Myeloid Metaplasia. It’s so rare, you probably have never known anyone with it, and you probably never will. They gave him a year to live shortly before his 64th birthday, but he lived 3 1/2.  He never got to enjoy retirement. He was very sick and in a lot of pain for most all of that time. It was hard to see the man who had muscles of steel, who could do and fix anything, who always had a joke, who was always laughing, waste away before our very eyes. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

When my sister called in the wee hours of the morning to tell me he was gone, I was expecting it. I had been for a long while. I’d lost the one man who loved me unconditionally. Instinctively I knew, nothing would ever be the same. No one would ever love me the way he did.

So often I think of things I wish I could tell him, and just talk to him, get his opinion — He ALWAYS had an opinion. Yeah, I know, I know. He’s happy now. He’s not sick anymore. He’s with the Lord, and his parents, and 8 siblings who have also gone on. It’s selfish to wish him back here when Heaven is so much better. But oh how I wish I’d had him longer. I’m always a bit jealous of people who still have their daddies. I wish he’d met Todd. He would have loved him. I wish he could see how happy I am now, how I’ve gained 25 much needed pounds — I was in sad shape the last time he saw me. I wish he could see how my face hurts from smiling so much, what good nurses the girls are, what wonderful men they have married, and what a handsome, hard working young man Daniel is and how well he’s doing in school. He’d be so proud of them.

Who really knows? Maybe he knows all of those things. Maybe God lets him see.  I like to think so anyway.

Fittingly, the last thing he said to me was, “I love you.” I always knew it would be.

I love you, too, my Darling Daddy.  And until we meet again, I’ll be seeing you, hearing you, touching you and smelling you in my dreams. Happy Father’s Day in Heaven. I’m sure missing you down here.

Get some rest, sweet Mama. God is awake.

17 Wednesday Jun 2015

Posted by in A Mama's Heart

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I’m writing to encourage myself today. When I’m feeling heavyhearted, writing is therapeutic for me. I need the reminder that God loves my children more than I do, that He’s watching over them, much better than I ever could. Mama’s don’t stop worrying about their babies, even when they’re all grown up, do they?

Walk with me back to the summer of 2007. It was time for my oldest to leave the nest. I knew it, and I also knew it would be very difficult for me. This mama hen was happiest when all her little chickadees were home. But I knew in my heart it was best for Lindsey to go away to school, and her needs come before mine. She needed a fresh, healthy place to grow, a place where no one knew our business. I was in the process of healing, and she needed somewhere to do the same thing.

Liberty had a good nursing program, and that’s all she wanted to be. It was close enough that she could come home on weekends, but far enough away for her to be on her own. I felt she’d be safe there — something of utmost importance to me. I talked her into at least going for a visit, checking out the campus, and talking to an admissions counselor. She was NOT thrilled, but she reluctantly agreed to try to be open minded.

On our way up, we saw the sign to Hurt, VA, and she insisted we stop so she could take her picture with it. Poor thing was hurt that I’d want her to go away to school, she said. Bless her heart, little did she know, it would hurt me more than it would hurt her.

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I read one time that mama bears will do everything for their cubs, feeding them, caring for them, playing with them, and teaching them to hunt. But one day, when they’re ready, she will turn on them. She will walk away, and when they follow her, she will ignore them, even bite and claw them in order to get them to go out on their own. They are confused. How could their own mother not want them anymore? Finally, they let her go, dejected. Sounds harsh! Even cruel! But this is how they learn to live on their own. She knows it’s best for them not to depend on her any longer. When it’s time for independence, staying too long isn’t healthy, no matter what the species.

During the tour of the campus, we watched a video of how the school was started. In the middle of it, she looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “This is it, Mom. This is my place, where God wants me, where I’m supposed to be.”  The truth is, if she had hated it, I wouldn’t have made her go (don’t tell her that!). I knew in my heart it was the right thing, and I was thrilled she knew it too.

We met with an admissions counselor, and as we told him our story, I was afraid he would think we were making it up. It is quite a story to believe! But he cried with us — yes, actual tears.  He said he would do everything he could to help get her accepted and all the paperwork done in the short amount of time we had to get it all in, and he kept his word. It couldn’t have gone better that day.

She looked like a different kid on the way back home, didn’t she?

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With only a few weeks to get her ready to go, the whirlwind took my mind off of the fact that my baby would be alone for the first time in her life.  Too quickly it seemed, the day came to move her into her dorm. Take a deep breath, Dee. This is best for her.  It ain’t like you’re biting and clawing her like REAL mama bears!

Leaving her there felt like I was abandoning her. She’s an extrovert, and I knew she’d make friends quickly, but for now I was leaving her with complete strangers. I cried a river leaving campus. I wasn’t the first mom to go through this, and I knew I’d survive, but it sure felt like I was dying that day.

All I could do was whisper the prayer I had prayed so many times for my children:

Lord, watch over her. Keep her safe. Be there when I can’t. When she stands at the crossroads and is faced with choosing between right and wrong, help her pick the right path. Strengthen her to do her best.

I’m a visual person, so when I pray for my children, I picture myself picking them up (yes, they are all bigger than I am, but in my mind’s eye, I’m strong enough!), laying them at the foot of the Cross, and saying,

Here they are, Lord. They belong to You. I gave them to you when they were in the womb. You love them even more than I do. Heal all their hurts, and let them feel Your unfailing love. Hold them tight in Your strong and mighty arms.

I believe in praying Scripture, and this is one of my favorites to pray over my kids, and I now pray it over my step children as well. Lamentations 2:19,

Arise, cry out in the night,
    as the watches of the night begin;
pour out your heart like water
    in the presence of the Lord.
Lift up your hands to him
    for the lives of your children.

If your heart is carrying a heavy burden for your children, I hope you and I both will be comforted that God is at work in their lives. He has a plan for them. He’s watching. He’s making everything work out for their good. Pick them up, lay them at the Cross and leave them there. He’s not necessarily making their road easy, but He promises never to leave them, never forsake them.

Rest your mind, sweet mama. Get some sleep. God is awake.

The Healing Place, 2.0

12 Friday Jun 2015

Posted by in Strength for the Journey

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I’m big on keeping your word.  Don’t say it if you ain’t gonna do it.  I promised Lib I that I would use our home in Gladys as the Healing Place it had been to both of us to bless the next woman, and I intended to keep that promise.

You see, Lib hadn’t been the only woman to do something like that for me.  And to whom much is given, much is required.  I had more than one reason to pay it forward and help someone in need.  That’s another story of God’s grace and provision, but I’ll save it for another post.

Healing was slow as molasses in winter for me, so I figured I had a long time before the next “someone in need” would come along.  Little did I know, the opportunity was going to present itself just a few months later.

Sitting in my cubicle one snowy day early in 2010, reconciling accounts and singing to my country music Pandora station with my earbuds, (and probably driving the other accountants crazy), I got a Facebook message from my friend Tracy in Washington, DC. A dear friend of hers had a daughter who was a freshman at Liberty, and they just found out she was pregnant. This girl had to get out of the dorm, and she didn’t want to go to the Godparent’s Home, where girls who are pregnant can go to finish school and get maternity classes and childcare.  Tracy wondered if I knew anyone who could help. They didn’t want her to lose the semester she had just started.

As soon as I read the message, I knew I had to help her. I’d spent years ministering to teenagers, and they will always have a special place in my heart.  Even though my little house only had 3 bedrooms, and ONE bath, technically I had the room. Kaitlyn had continued to live with her roommates in an apartment (my independent, “I can do it myself!” daughter), and Lindsey preferred to sleep with her Mama every night. (Even after she got married, I had to tell Lindsey NO she wasn’t sleeping with me, and to go sleep with her husband — if I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’. After I was the one who got married, I STILL had to tell her she couldn’t sleep with me! Some things never change!).  I went back to Greensboro on weekends to stay with Daniel more than he came to Gladys, so we had space for her.  It wasn’t the Waldorf, but it was clean, safe and warm.  My mind was made up.  This girl was coming to live with us.

One of the greatest joys I had while working at Liberty was having my girls come have lunch with me, or just swing by to say hello in between classes.  I had big news this time!

Guess what?  A pregnant freshman is moving in with us!  No, I don’t know her, didn’t know she existed until while ago. I have no idea what she’s like, don’t know anyone in her family, or how she even looks. Won’t this be fun? 

My kids know their Mama.  I doubt they were the least bit surprised.  Thankfully, my children all three have hearts to care for others.  They were ready to do what they needed to do to help as well.

The next day, I met Leah, this scared 18 year old girl from a big city, and her very concerned mom, Kim. My mother’s heart broke for Kim.  She was a strong woman, and she bravely trusted the Lord to take care of her little girl, even when she couldn’t be there. And the day after that, Leah and her precious unborn child moved in with us.

I can’t imagine how she felt, moving way out in the country (and I mean WAAAAYYY out) with someone she’d just met the day before. If you know me, you know I’m a hugger (and a kisser!). But I knew Leah needed her space.  Morning sickness will kick your butt, and it’s even worse when you’re young and alone.  I tried to cook her things she might could eat, and it seemed I was always boiling a ginger root to help with her nausea.  I’m a born nurturer, but she also had two nursing students, and my future son in law, Dan, a premed student, ready to look after her if she would let us.

One night as I was reading in bed, Leah came in, fear in her eyes, and softly said, “I’m spotting.”  We lived next to the Gladys Fire Department and Rescue Squad (which I think consists of 5 volunteers), and in no time, I was following her in the ambulance to Lynchburg General Hospital.  All night long, I kept vigil by her bed.  As the sun was coming up, we headed back home, tired and worn out, but with the tiny baby still safe in her mother’s womb. I had been praying for a way to show Leah I loved her and would take care of her, and I thanked God for giving it to me.

After that, she started to warm up to us.  She would ride to school with Lindsey, who would pull over to let her throw up, and would even let her drive so she wouldn’t feel so carsick.  Leah started coming out of her room, eating with us, and joining us to watch all the seasons of Friends on DVD since we didn’t have cable.  That little city girl was learning how to live in the country.  Before long, we were no longer strangers, we were family.

leahleah girlsleah2me and leah

We all look back on that ordeal as precious time where God’s grace, providence, provision and direction were so clear.  Leah became, and continues to be, my other daughter, and sister to my girls. We laughed and loved, played games and watched Friends. After the semester was over, Leah went back to DC to be cared for by her parents, and they welcomed the most beautiful baby girl in the world, sweet little Emma. Leah is now happily married, and has two more precious daughters. She is such a good mother, following in Kim’s footsteps — Leah learned from the best.

I remain grateful that Kim shared Leah with us for that semester. Leah gave me more than I gave her. She gave me the chance to pay it forward, to continue making a Healing Place, to add someone else to our family.  Most importantly, I was afraid God was finished with me, that He wouldn’t use me anymore, that I was damaged goods, and useless to the Kingdom.  Leah proved me wrong.

Let me encourage you — if you feel sad and alone, give to someone who is sad and alone. Take your eyes off of your hardship and pour into another who needs love. Don’t close yourself off.  Be open to opportunities to bless someone. Mark my words, you’ll find you are the blessed one in the end.  God promises it to us in Luke 6:38,

Give, and it will be given to you.  A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap.

emma5  emma dan emma4 emma2 emma1 kaitlyn emma

The Healing Place

10 Wednesday Jun 2015

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My life stories won’t necessarily be in chronological order. I may go back and forth as the inspiration strikes me, but I’ll try not to be confusing! For today, I’ll pick up where I left off at getting my job at Liberty University.

Commuting two hours each way to Lynchburg got old right quick like. I did it every day for months, sometimes staying with fellow accountant and new friend Nora a few nights a week.  Eventually, I started to think it would be best to get a house in Lynchburg for the girls to live with me if they wanted, and I could go home to Greensboro on weekends until my son graduated. I truly struggled with finding the balance of where I was supposed to be when, and how to do what was best for all of them. It was simply impossible to be two places at one time.

One of my coworkers recommended a good real estate agent named Karl, and I arranged to go with him to look at some cute little houses I found on the internet. I could buy a house for a cheaper payment than I could rent one, so off to look at properties we went.

As soon as the first house came into view, it was glaringly apparent the pictures they had posted were taken a while ago — a LONG while ago. Evidently Fred Sanford lived there now! It looked like a salvage yard, and since I smelled the refrigerator before I walked in the kitchen, ain’t no way this clean freak was living there. NEXT!!

Standing outside this colossally disappointing landfill, Karl said there had been a property just posted that day. It might be another waste of time, but the pictures showed a clean, well maintained house. It was a ways out of town, but that was fine by this country girl. City living makes me nervous. And actually a bit nauseous.

When I pulled into the gravel driveway of that little farmhouse in Gladys, VA, I melted. I loved it before I walked inside. The yard. The trees. It was built in 1910 and had 9 1/2 ft ceilings, original heart pine floors and three porches. I wanted this house. Shoot fire, y’all, I COVETED this house.

As we sat down on the couch to discuss the offer, it seemed like the appropriate time for me to explain that I had no money. I mean none. Nada. Zilch. I said, “Do you think we can ask her to pay all of the closing costs, and actually give me some money back to move with if I offer her more than she’s asking? Assuming it would appraise for enough?” He stared at me, just blinking his eyes. I could almost hear his thoughts, Fannnnntastic.  I’ve showed this lady two houses only to find out she’s nuts?

“You want me to ask her to give YOU money back?”

“Yes, you see, because I don’t have any.” Didn’t I already say I didn’t have any!? 

I waited while he let that sink in a bit. Finally he said, “Well alrighty then! You have not because you ask not! We really can’t make an offer exactly like that, but maybe she will be willing to do something for you as a side agreement between the two of you. (In other words, I don’t want to know about it!) Let’s make an offer on the house, and I’ll ask her agent to get her to talk to you about any other arrangements.” Bless poor Karl’s heart. I could tell he’d never met someone like me.

Before the night was out, the owner of my dream house accepted my real estate offer, and she wanted to meet me to discuss the personal side of my request. Maybe she just wanted to meet anyone bold enough to ask for money to move with! Why not, I thought? I had nothing to lose. If the answer was no, nothing lost. I’d come up with it somehow.

Meeting Lib was like meeting an old friend. The house had been in her family since it was built. She said God told her immediately to accept my offer and that she was to help me move. I wasn’t sure I heard her right, so I asked her to repeat what she’d said. God had told her to accept my offer, and that she was to help me?  Help me?  Oh yes, I needed help.

I’ll never forget her words, standing under the 200 year old oak tree that day:

“This house was my place of healing. I’ve met and married the love of my life. Now it is to be your place of healing as well. Your incubator. God will do for you what He did for me. And when you find your healing, use it to help another woman who needs it, too.”  

I gave her my word I would. And I kept it, as you’ll find out in my next post.

Lib not only let me buy her beautiful home, her healing place, her incubator, but she gave me both a riding mower and push mower, and every other tool I’d need to keep up two acres of land. She gave me furniture for the screened in porch, and extra furniture for the house. She showed me how to fill up the outside Taylor water stove with wood that would heat the house when winter came.

But most of all she showed me that God still loved me, that He hadn’t forgotten me, that He hadn’t moved to Kansas and left no forwarding address, that He was continuing to answer that prayer I had prayed every day for so long, asking Him to take care of me and my children . . .

Although there were many, many, dark days, even dark years, my healing was happening. It was real, unfolding before my eyes.  It wasn’t instantaneous like some people’s seemed to be.  Slow and still painful at times, but it was happening.

I don’t know what your healing place looks like, but you have one. There is a place where God wants to take you. I can’t promise He will bring you physical healing to your body (although I believe He can), but I can assure you that He wants to heal your heart, to soothe your soul, to restore the joy of your salvation. Like my healing, yours may be slow and painful, and it may not be a literal house, but your place is there, somewhere. Ask Him for it. Remember that James 4:2 says,

” . . . You do not have because you do not ask God.”

This was my healing place, my incubator.  My little Gladys farmhouse. The house that brought me some of the best memories of my life, as well as my children.

gladys

Lord, I’m crying now, as the memories of my sweet little Gladys house fill my mind. Thank You for taking care of me and my kids through Lib.  Bless her for blessing us. And I ask that You that You do the same for every broken soul reading this blog. Bring them healing for their broken hearts and lives, and give them joy unspeakable. Give them a Healing Place, Lord. Most of all, I thank You that there is enough room on Your lap for all of us.

In the waiting room

08 Monday Jun 2015

Posted by in Strength for the Journey

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(Disclaimer:  I’m a grammar Nazi — except when it comes to Southernisms.  You will find that proper grammar is optional when I’m speaking Southern.  Expect more than one dangling participle in this blog).

When I graduated high school, getting a college degree gave you a leg up, and I was determined to get mine.  These days, a bachelor’s degree just puts you on a level playing field.  It’s just hard to forge a living without an education anymore.  Making sure my children have a college education is of utmost importance to me.  I believe in giving them every opportunity to start out on the right foot when they leave the nest, no matter what I have to do to get it.

By early 2009, student loans for my girls were piling up neck deep, and I was wondering how in the world I was going to pay them all. They were both nursing students at Liberty University, and I had no doubt they were right where they both were supposed to be.  I constantly prayed for God to show me a way where there seemed to be no way. If they were going to stay in school, and I had one more graduating high school soon, I had to figure it out — right quick like.  I was already working one full time, and three part time jobs.  I just couldn’t add another one.

My future son in law, also a student at Liberty, was looking for a job on campus so he could get free tuition.  He noticed there was an accountant position open and asked me why didn’t I apply. Interesting idea! Free tuition sounded like the most beautiful two words in the English language to me.

So I applied.  And I waited . . .  and waited . . . . and waited.  Being the super sleuth that I am, I found out who the accounting manager was and sent him a well worded email.  Still nothing. A month or so passed, and I sent him yet another intelligent, savvy email.  Finally a response!!  He simply said he was still looking over applications, but he would let me know if I’m selected for an interview.

So I prayed.  And waited some more.

When I found out I was chosen for an interview, boy was I was nervous — to the point of sweating, and I don’t sweat.  I hadn’t sweated since 2002 when I was in Thailand for a mission trip. But now my pits were making up for lost time.

In spite of my damp and most likely smelly underarms, I thought the interview went well.  Paul, the Accounting Manager, who like me, also didn’t seem to have an accountant personality, said he would let me know something soon.  Somehow, there was an immediate bonding between us. I felt good about it but was too scared to get my hopes up.

By the second interview, I realized Paul and I were kindred spirits.  He was a lot of fun and made me feel at ease.  There was considerably less sweating this go ’round! When it was just the two of us, I leaned in and said, “So tell me.  Who’s butt do I have to kiss to get this job?”  (I do NOT recommend this as an interview tactic!!!)  To my relief, he laughed.  This was already a good sign, because there is little more I enjoy than laughing.

While I was waiting to hear from Paul, I continued to do what I was supposed to be doing.  I went to work at all my jobs.  I cooked and cleaned.  I took care of my son and the girls when they were home.  I paid the bills.  Got my oil changed.  Went to church.  When you are in the waiting room, you just keep doing the next right thing, whatever that is.  Don’t stop swimming.  Don’t stop plowing. Put one foot in front of the other.  I was doing my part.  The rest of it was up to God.  He had to do what only He could do if I was going to move forward.

Whatever is happening, finding comfort in the Word always helps me.  King David was just a shepherd boy, tending his father’s sheep, when he was chosen and anointed to lead Israel. The youngest son of Jesse.  The least likely to be king.  But chosen nonetheless.

It would stand to reason that if you’ve just been anointed king, that there might be some sort of ceremony, or a parade!  Look at all the to-do over Prince William’s beautiful babies, and they’re just in line for the throne.  What would it be like to actually be pronounced KING of the land? But that’s not what happened to David.

I Samuel 17:15 says, “but David went back and forth from Saul to tend his father’s sheep at Bethlehem.”  

David went back to tending his father’s sheep. Saul continued to be king, even though David had been anointed.  There were no coronation festivities.  No big announcement. No even a crown. Not yet anyway.  He was forced to wait, and while he waited, he was faithful with what he’d been given to do.  He fought off bears and lions with his bare hands to protect the sheep.  He slew Goliath the Giant with a sling and a stone to protect the Name of the Lord. He was doing all he could do. It was up to God to do the rest.

The day finally came for David to be crowned King.  The Bible calls him “a man after God’s own heart.”  He wasn’t without fault, that’s for sure.  But he was patient while he was waiting for the next phase.

And the day finally came that I got the offer from Liberty.  I was proud to be a part of the accounting staff, and Paul was the best boss I could ever hope for.  I got that free tuition for my girls.  It was one of the best times of my life.

If you’re in the waiting room, be encouraged, dear friend.  It’s not the end of your story. Do all you can do.  Get your education if you need one.  Work hard.  Be the best employee you can be. The best friend.  The best neighbor.  The best son or daughter, husband or wife, father or mother. God can’t do your role for you, and you can’t do His.

I’m an accountant by trade.  And an aspiring writer. I find myself in the waiting room yet again, looking forward to the day where I can just write or speak.  In the meantime, being a numbers person pays the bills. I’m going to keep being faithful with what I’ve been given until such a time I’m given more. I’m going to be the best wife, mother, friend and finance director.  The waiting room really ain’t so bad.  I think I’ll grab a Cheerwine and a pack of Nabs, and have a seat.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!

07 Sunday Jun 2015

Posted by in Strength for the Journey

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I really didn’t want to write about being in the mental hospital. Not because I’m ashamed of it. Like I said, I’m not — even a little bit. Honestly, I kind of enjoy watching the look on people’s faces when I say, “Yeah, I checked myself into the nervous hospital for three days once.” They don’t know if I’m serious, and when they realize I am, they desperately search for the correct response (if there is one!).

Oh how nice! How was your stay? Did you make any new friends? How was the food?  

I suppose the best thing to say is, I’m sorry. I hope it helped your situation. I always laugh and say, don’t worry. I’m fine now.

The reason I didn’t want to share it was because I thought it was too much information. Those of you who know me are thinking, “Since when does Dee think she’s giving too much information?!?!” My daddy used to say God made most people with a filter somewhere between their brains and their mouths, and He must have left mine out. Although I may share too much about myself at times, I do try hard not to say things that might offend or hurt people. And I didn’t want to cause any further harm to anyone who had been in a similar situation, or loved someone who had.

But . . . I kept feeling this nudging in my heart telling me to write it. After I was finished, I knew someone, maybe several people, would write me and say they had been there in some form or fashion, and they would say they needed to hear that there was no reason to be ashamed. And mostly that they needed to know that God had not abandoned them in their crisis.

So I wrote it.

And I waited.

In no time, people began to write me. Some folks I knew, some I didn’t know. They said exactly what I thought they would say — that it helped them feel like God had not left them. I suppose they don’t know many people who would so openly share what most might be embarrassed about, and it made them feel less alone, and more like God loves them.

That, my friends, is the entire reason why I’m writing this blog. 

Folks, don’t be ashamed of the path it took to get you out of the valley. You don’t have to be proud of your choices. We all have done things we wish we hadn’t. You don’t have to tell every detail of those things. I do believe some things are best left unsaid. Especially if it hurts someone else to tell it. But telling your story takes away it’s power to hurt you later, and it might help someone to hear your journey.

This is what God says He does for us in 2 Corinthians 1:4,

” . . . (God) comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves received from God.”

What good can come from hard times if they don’t help someone when they’re going through it as well? How will people know they’re not alone if no one tells them they’re been there too? And they lived to tell it? In my hardest times, it helped tremendously to hear someone’s testimony of survival and God’s faithfulness.

From Day One, I’ve known what the purpose of this blog was to be. It was to encourage people, to tell my story. Just mine. Not anyone else’s. (Aren’t you glad if I know something about you that you don’t have to worry I might hang it out here for the world to read?!) This website is to be a place where you go to be lifted up, not beat up or beat down. You won’t get the latest news or political opinions. You’ll just get me, and a kind word to help you find strength for the journey.

You have a story, too, my friend. It’s your super power! You can use it for good or for evil. The choice is yours. I hope you choose to use it for good, to tell it when it will help someone else in their hour of need, to encourage someone that you made it, and they can too. Your story has the power to heal — both your broken heart and the hearts of other hurting people as well. Watch and wait for the opportunity to share. There is a whole world of broken people out there, just waiting for a kind word. Be a part of the solution. The answer is love  — it always has been and it always will be.

Remember that one time I checked myself into the nervous hospital?

03 Wednesday Jun 2015

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Before my life fell apart — quite publicly — several people have told me they used to think my life was perfect. (Excuse me while I go grab a tissue. I just snotted on myself.) Friends, no one’s life is perfect. We are all broken and in need of healing, just some more than others. If nothing bad has happened to you yet, you’re not old enough!

In the aftermath of the Dark Night of the Soul, I was in desperate need of healing. All of us were.  There was an inescapable void in my heart that told me God didn’t love me, that He had abandoned me in my darkest hour. I felt He had moved to Kansas and left no forwarding address.

Rock bottom hit in the wee hours of the night in August 2006. Somehow I thought it all depended on me, and if everything was going to turn out right, I had to be the one to make it happen. If someone had told me, “Dee, if you eat this shoe, God will fix it,” I swear to you, I would’ve eaten that shoe, Dr. Scholl’s inserts and all. I had looked under every rock, searching for help, and there were finally no rocks left to turn over.

My daddy’s funeral had been the week before, and I was simply exhausted  — mentally, spiritually, emotionally, psychologically and physically. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I needed to rest. To this day, I’m not really sure why, but it seemed to me the best thing to do was to check myself into the mental hospital.

I don’t remember much about the assessment process except this one question:

“Do you want to kill yourself?”

“Nope. But I wouldn’t move out of the way if a truck was about to run over me.”

Ding! Ding! Ding!  We have a winner!

Apparently, that answer will get you three days in the nervous hospital!

The only other thing I recall is being told I couldn’t keep the string I was using to keep my shorts up. I weighed 90 lbs, and that string was the only thing standing in the way between me and a citation for indecent exposure. I guess they were afraid I’d hurt myself with that string.

Here’s my string. Now please just give me a place to lay down for a while.

Not one circumstance had changed when I walked back out the door. I was faced with the stark realization that instant healing of this big mess wasn’t going to happen. If things were going to get better, it was going to be a slow, and probably continued uphill journey. One day at a time was my only choice.

I now know what caused me to hit rock bottom. Turns out:

I wasn’t all powerful.

I couldn’t do everything like I thought I could.

I wasn’t the Holy Spirit.

I couldn’t fix people, or apparently even help them.

There was a God, and it wasn’t me.

And worse yet, I couldn’t force that God to do my bidding.

Hello, Rock Bottom. Nice to meet you. I’ll be hanging out here for a while.

When you’re at the bottom, you have no place to go but up. It’s the reason I’m not one bit ashamed about the path it took to get me there. It no longer mattered how or why I was broken, just that I finally got to the place where God could fix me.

I’m a huge proponent of sitting under wise teaching. I’m careful about where I choose to be fed spiritually, and I’m grateful to have had the privilege of sitting under the anointed teaching of many godly men and women. One Sunday my pastor at the time, Allen Holmes, preached a sermon about John the Baptist that proved to be yet another turning point in my road to recovery.

John the Baptist was Jesus’ cousin, the one anointed to prepare the way for the Lord, the one who actually baptized Jesus in the Jordan River. Jesus was quite complimentary of him, saying there was “none greater.” How would you like for the Lord to say that about you? Highest compliment ever!

Yet somehow, John finds himself in prison. Not for doing anything bad, mind you. He wasn’t robbing the local 7/11, beating his wife, or texting while driving. He was in jail for doing what he was called and anointed to do by God.

Wait, what? 

John was confused. How do I know that? Because he sent a message to Jesus in Luke 7:18,

“Are You the One who is to come, or should we expect someone else?”

In other words, Did I get this all wrong? If You’re the One I’ve been preaching about, asking people to repent and follow You, how come I’m sitting in this jail cell? This can’t be what You meant to happen! Maybe I got this all mixed up . . . 

Then came this sobering response:

21 At that very time Jesus cured many who had diseases, sicknesses and evil spirits, and gave sight to many who were blind. 22 So he replied to the messengers, “Go back and report to John what you have seen and heard: The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is proclaimed to the poor.23 Blessed is anyone who does not stumble on account of me.”

Jesus was doing a lot of miracles for a lot of other people. But He wasn’t coming to rescue John. Jesus’s question to his cousin John was, “Are you still going to believe if I don’t fix it the way you think I should? Will you still love Me? Will you hang on to My hand or will you fall away?”

We don’t know how John reacted to that report from his messengers. All we know is they beheaded John the Baptist. Rescue didn’t come for him this side of Heaven.

Allen asked us the same question that fateful morning, was I going to keep trusting God? I knew I had a choice to make. I could be angry and walk away from all I believed to be true, or I could hang on, knowing I may never get out of this prison cell.

So I straightened my back, pulled up my bootstraps, and said, “Lord, I still believe.“

Some people receive an immediate rescue, but none ever came for me. Maybe God knew I wouldn’t change if He fixed it like I begged Him to, and Lord knows I needed to change. I don’t know why it took years, and I no longer care. I’m just thankful He DID rescue me from that prison cell. And I’m even more thankful that if He hadn’t, if He’d left me there, I made the choice that day to hang on to His hand, come what may.

My story wasn’t finished, and neither is yours. Get up, dear friend, keep walking, throw your shoulders back and say, “Lord I still believe.” As my sister always says, put on your big girl panties. You got this.

The L Word

01 Monday Jun 2015

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My best friend growing up got married this weekend, and it was a blast.  If you’ve been to a wedding that wasn’t fun, they weren’t doing it right.  Jesus performed His first miracle at a wedding!  He turned water into wine.  If He was good with the wedding being fun, I’m good with it, too.  (Excuse the happy couple photo bombing us in the background!)

wedding

They say the L Word a lot at weddings.  LOVE is the word of the day! It’s a happy occasion.  Life is good.  People are cleaned up and on their best behavior. The future is bright, full of promise and hope. Plenty of laughter, happy tears, eating, drinking and being merry!

Using, and even feeling, the L word at a wedding is fairly effortless.  Where the rubber hits the road is trying to love people when they’re not cleaned up, when they’re miserable, crying, and full of despair, when their lives are messy.

Back during the bleakest time of my life, which I affectionately call The Dark Night of the Soul, people would see me in Walmart and react in one of four ways.  I can’t see people’s hearts, so I don’t know for sure, but I’ll describe how I perceived each scenario.

1.  Give me a hug, say, “I’m so sorry” and tell me they were praying for me. Yes, yes and yes! I had never needed a hug, never needed sympathy, never needed prayer more in my life. When faced with seeing someone hurting, you don’t need to worry if you don’t have the words to say.  Just love on them.

2.  Ask me how I was doing.  Not the sincere kind of “how are you?” asked out of true concern, but the rude, sarcastic kind we Southerners are infamous for — the “bless your heart, you got a little too big for your britches and got taken down a notch or two, didn’t you?” sort.  I didn’t want to talk about it, even if I perceived sincerity, so my standard go to line was, “I’m hanging in there, like a hair in a biscuit.”  (That, friends and neighbors, is called a Southernism.  There will henceforth be many of those in this blog.  Prepare thyself.)

3.  Act like they didn’t see me and go down a different aisle.  I could sort of understand this one.  Sometimes you just don’t know what to say to someone, and rather than say the wrong thing, avoidance seems like the easiest choice in the moment.  I felt like hollering, “I don’t blame you!  If I could avoid my life, I would, too! I’m a lost cause, but save yourselves!”

4.  Glare at me in undisguised and unashamed disgust and turn away in a huff.  Having been in church my whole life, I knew this one was going to happen. I had fallen from grace.  Sadly, somehow, somewhere along the way, someone decided people with broken lives are bad advertisements for the church.

Once, I remember shaking my head and saying out loud in the middle of the cereal aisle, “Lord, protect me from Your followers.”

Not that I’ve always been loving to everyone, mind you. However, I do try to be kind and loving, and I’ve tried to apologize to those I have hurt and asked their forgiveness. None of us are guiltless in this area. But Jesus gave us this goal in John 13:35:

“By this everyone will know that You are My disciples, if you love one another.”

He didn’t say they’ll know us by how we’re dressed.  Or where we go to church, or IF we go to church, or how we look, or how we talk, or where we’re from, or what music we listen to, or what we eat or drink.  The true mark of a Disciple of Christ is LOVE. No other litmus test. Just love.

So if you’re wondering what to do with yourself this happy Monday, try this: Love people.  We’re all fighting a battle of some form, and the world already has enough anger, hatred and judgment.  Someone in your path today feels defeated, scared, hopeless and unloved.  You know what it feels like to be torn down. So build people up. Hold the door for someone at the grocery store.  Tell the bank teller she looks pretty. Wave at your neighbor mowing his yard.  Tell the grieving widow you’ll pray for her, and actually DO IT.  Speak a kind word to the lady at work who is always nasty.

And if YOU’RE the one who’s always nasty, for Pete’s sake, stop it.  People with broken lives aren’t the ones who are bad advertisements for Jesus . . . .