Category Archives: A Mama’s Heart

Let Nothing Be Wasted

12 Wednesday Aug 2015

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A few days ago, we packed up our last little chickadee and moved her to college. We’re now officially Empty Nesters, and I am not digging it. Somebody send a teenager or two to my house!!

Last night, I stood in her room and just looked around. There were no clothes on the floor, no homework spread out on the bed, or empty glass of water on the nightstand. Next week when classes start, I won’t walk up the steps and into this room to say, “Wake up, sweetheart. Time to get ready for school.” No, she will now get up on her own.

One minute they were babies, starting kindergarten. Now suddenly they’re all either in college or already graduated. I remember when Lindsey was born and we brought her home from the hospital, my Daddy said, “Hold her close. This time next week she’ll be graduating from high school.” Oh how right you were, Daddy. How can this have happened so very quickly?

I struggle with fear that I may not have done enough, or did the wrong things in the time I had with them. I only had them for a short window to care for them, nurture them, give them what they need to face this cruel world. Was it enough? Did I waste what little time I had?

There is only one miracle Jesus performed that is told in all four Gospels — the feeding of the 5000.  The crowds had come to hear Jesus teach, and He was in tune with their needs. The people were hungry, so He told His disciples to feed them.

But Lord, where will we get food to feed that many? All we have is one little boy’s lunch of five loaves and two small fish.

In the little boy’s hands, five loaves and two fish could feed him and maybe his small family one meal. But five loaves and two fish are enough to feed 5000 when they’re in the hands of Jesus. More than enough, actually. There were twelve baskets left over.

What does this miracle have to do with fear of wasting what precious time I had with my children? One small little phrase. It jumped off the page at me as I was reading the passage, and it gave me great comfort. John records in Chapter 6, verse 12:

 . . . He said to His disciples, “Gather the pieces that are left over. Let nothing be wasted.”

Why save those baskets? I mean, everyone had a belly full. It wasn’t like they could vacuum seal the fish and put them in the freezer. Were they taking it to the local homeless shelter? Why would Jesus tell them to gather all the pieces up instead of just leaving it all?

Because nothing is wasted when you give it to Jesus. 

Tears blurred my vision as I stared at that verse in my Bible. God continues to comfort me that my time with my children wasn’t wasted.  As I’ve shared in earlier blogs, I dedicated them to the Lord before they were born, and through all my mistakes and shortcomings as their mother, I have done the best I could.

Like the little boy with five loaves and two fish, I handed the Lord my babies, and said, “Here they are. They’re all I’ve got. Do with them what only You can do.” See, in my hands, I couldn’t do much more for my children than feed and clothe them, teach them the basics of survival. But in God’s hands, they can make a life, an abundant life, exceedingly abundantly more than I can ask or imagine.

Although I didn’t get my step-children until they were young teens, they’ve been placed in the same capable hands of a loving Father as I placed the three born to me. It’s never too late to hand your children to Jesus. He will do much more with them than we ever could, so much that there will be overflowing life to spare.

Yes, the house is deafeningly quiet. But I’ve either talked on the phone or texted with all five of them today. Thank God for technology. Here they are the day our family was beautifully blended into one. Be still my heart!

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A Mama’s prayer is on my heart tonight. You can pray this prayer for your children along with me if you’d like. If you don’t have children, will you agree with me about our children as we pray? Jesus said if two or more agree according to His will, He would grant their request. I’ll agree with you about your children, too, no matter if they’re babies or all grown up.

Precious Lord Jesus, You have fearfully and wonderfully made each one of our children. You entrusted them into our hands for a precious little while, and now too quickly, they’re grown. We aren’t there to make sure they’re home safely, or that they get off to school and work on time. We can’t be there with them, but You O Lord, You are always there. May Your strong arms hold them as they sleep, and may they feel confidently loved beyond measure.

We thank You that You love them even more than we do. As hard as we try, we know we have failed them in so many ways. We are grateful that our efforts, as feeble and inadequate as they may be, are never wasted in Your economy. Multiply all our love, all Your love, all the prayers for their success, until there are baskets and baskets leftover!

We ask You to send Your Holy Spirit to guide each one of them in their choices and let Your love fill their hearts with joy and peace. Give them the strength they need to go about their work, whether it’s with their jobs or with their studies, and grant them success. Put those in their paths to guide them in paths of righteousness, and use them to bless others. Protect them from the evil one, and may their destinies be fulfilled for Your glory.

Thank you, Lord Jesus, that You will let nothing be wasted.

In the precious Name of Jesus, we pray. Amen and amen.

For all the days of his life

29 Monday Jun 2015

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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.

My Darling Daddy

21 Sunday Jun 2015

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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

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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.