Days of My Life

Jul

2017

What is man that You are mindful of him?

When she picked up my grandson from our house, my daughter-in-law asked how Xander had been. I explained that, of course, he had been a doll. He is almost always a good boy when he stays with us.

As an afterthought I said, “A couple of times he forgot that I was the boss, so he had to be reminded, but other than that, he was precious.”

Carrie said, “Well, aren’t we all like that? Sometimes I lose sight of Who is boss, too.”

I’ve thought about that conversation several times since then. And I couldn’t agree more.

It’s easy to lose our perspective, isn’t it? It’s easy to begin to see ourselves as the center of our universe. Our world revolves around us so much of the time.

I heard an excellent sermon Sunday on Psalm 8. The pastor pointed out the vastness of our solar system, then zooming outward at our galaxy and then outward at the whole expanse of galaxies in the highest heavens. The earth is so tiny, it’s not even a dot in that expanse. Our sun is a teeny, tiny dot.

“When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him?” Psalm 8:3-4.

Now, that’s perspective. We are incredibly insignificant, yet He still loved His people enough to secure our salvation through the death of His beloved Son. We are incredibly insignificant, yet He still listens to our prayers, our whining, our supplications—and yes, even our feeble attempts to praise such a great and Almighty God.

Sometimes I lose sight of the fact that life is not all about me. It is HIS will that is supremely important, and not my own. Yet, He is loving enough to care for me, to provide for me and to bless me.

Do we complain and grumble at what God has wrought in our lives? Perhaps we need a little lesson in perspective—about who we are and Who HE is!

And yes, at times He needs to remind me of Who is boss.

“O LORD, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!” Psalm 8:9.

Jun

2017

Father’s Day

Daddy is already dressed when I get to the nursing home. He wakes easily when I say, “Hi, Daddy.” He grabs my hand and holds it to his cheek and says, “Oh, my sweet daughter. I love you!”

I say, “I love you, too. Wanna get up and go have a snack?”

“Do I want to have a snack,” he repeats (because he repeats just about everything I say to him). “Yes, let’s go have a snack.”

I take him to the bathroom first, because he always has to pee. It’s amazing to me that this man, who has forgotten just about everything in his life, is still continent. He may not remember much, but he knows when he needs to go.

I show him where the sink is so he can wash his hands and hand him a paper towel to dry them. He tosses it in the corner wastebasket—also an amazing feat for someone who is legally blind.

I put him in his wheelchair and say, “Here, I’ll give you a free ride.”

“You’re going to give me a free ride? Aren’t you something! You’re so special.”

“You’re special, too, Daddy,” I say.

I wheel him to the day room and park him at a table. I know where the stash of fig bars is kept, so I get him one and a glass of apple juice.

“Oh, good old cold apple juice,” he says. “Hits the spot.”

He gobbles up his fig bar and drinks two more glasses (which I don’t mind since he struggles with constipation and apple juice just might help him go).

His gaze turns to the window and he looks at the world outside the nursing home, which he rarely sees anymore. His expression is pensive as he stares out the window.

“What’s on your mind, Daddy?”

“Gosh at the traffic,” he says.

“Daddy, are you healthy and happy?” This is the question I ask on every visit.

“Healthy and happy,” he repeats. “Yes, I’m healthy and happy.”

He continues to look outside, humming his happy tune.

“Gosh at the traffic.”

I realize, once again, that my dad lives only in the present. He doesn’t worry about the future. He knows he’ll be fed. He knows someone will take him to the bathroom. He knows he has a “good ole bed” to sleep in (and puts it to good use, since sleeping is his favorite activity). He doesn’t know where it is or how to get there, but he knows someone will get him there eventually.

He sits there, humming a happy tune (the same one he’s been humming for almost two years), and looking outside at the traffic.

I wonder if he’s not more fortunate than we realize. He’s healthy and happy, kind to his visitors, enjoys the simple pleasures of the sunlight on the passing traffic outside, and sings his happy tune. Doesn’t worry about a thing.

I think we could take a lesson from my sweet father, so afflicted with dementia that he’s able to recognize hardly anyone these days, couldn’t troubleshoot anything to save his life, can’t dress himself without help, remembers almost nothing about his past, and most of the time admits that his mind is a complete blank. He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know how old he is. He doesn’t know how pitiful his once brilliant mind is now. But he knows he’s going to be taken care of and he’s happy just knowing that.

Why can’t I be more like my father? I know I’ll be taken care of, too. My heavenly Father will provide for all my needs. Daddy wants for nothing. That’s how I should be. Satisfied with what the Father gives to me so graciously.

My father has been my hero for all my life. And now, as I become a member of the senior set myself, I recognize that he’s still teaching me important stuff about life.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.

Mar

2017

Of Moose and Men

Do you love to laugh? Do you enjoy stories that take you on an adventure you can actually see while you’re reading? Do you relish those moments when God touches your heart with emotion?

My answer is a resounding, “Of course I do!”

If your answer is the same, then order a copy of Torry Martin’s new book, “Of Moose and Men.” Not only is it spewing-coffee-out-of-your-nose hilarious, but he finds a compelling (but subtle) way of turning that funny moment into a poignant one that surprises your heart (and tears) with the joy of the Lord. It takes powerful writing to do that.

And this book has some powerful writing!

I met Torry Martin at the South Carolina Christian Writer’s Conference recently. Since he was the keynote speaker I had the privilege of hearing him on two occasions, the blessing of sitting with him during a “lightning learning” session, and the joy of trading business cards with him during an impromptu chat. What he does with his writing, he does with his speaking. He can have you rolling with laughter one second and within a few well-placed sentences, there’s not a dry eye in the place. That’s talent.

He’s a Christian comedian, actor, playwright, producer, author and speaker. His theme is that if God can use him to reach people for Christ, He can use anyone. Torry doesn’t see himself as “one of the beautiful people.” He’s wrong, of course. His beauty comes from the joy and sweetness that emanates from within—from His devotion to the Lord and his . . . unusual way of looking at things.

You may not get to meet this man in person, but you can get to know him anyway by reading this book. I dare you to read even the first chapter without cracking up! This is a book you’ll enjoy reading. I know I did.

Jan

2017

Draw Me Nearer

When I pray for those I love, I usually pray some version of, “Lord, draw them nearer to You.” That was all I prayed for my children. I didn’t care what they did for a living, or how successful they were in school or sports. I knew that whatever they did, they would be successful if they lived nestled in the bosom of our Father. Thus, my prayer, “Draw them near.” And He has answered my prayers abundantly. They both are men of God, devoted to Christ.

Yesterday I prayed for others about whom I’m concerned right now. “Draw them close to You, Lord,” I prayed. For the first time it dawned on me that, though I pray that for others, I never remember praying that for myself!

Why not? Am I already so close to the Lord that I don’t need to be drawn closer? Have I reached some level of spiritual maturity that does not require closeness to the Lord? Am I really that arrogant about my spiritual position before Almighty God?

I realized that no one is so close to Christ that they don’t need to be drawn closer. Even the men and women I respect most for their Christian walk and biblical comprehension need to be drawn nearer.

So yesterday, I prayed that prayer for me. And it felt good. I found myself wanting to close the gap, to love Him more, to rest nearer to His bosom myself.

If you find yourself giving me a thought today, please pray the Lord draws me nearer.

“Draw me nearer, nearer, blessed Lord,

To the cross where Thou hast died;

Draw me nearer, nearer, nearer, blessed Lord,

To Thy precious, bleeding side.”

“I Am Thine, O Lord” Fanny Crosby

Dec

2016

Christ, Our Firm Foundation

This is not actually a commercial for Faith Talk 99.5 on your radio dial. But I will say that I thank God for it. I was listening yesterday as Andy Stanley preached about the foundation of our faith.

The significance of it to me was to remind me of where I was 30 years ago. Meeting the friend God put in my life in 1986 proved to be the watershed moment of my life. It was moving along a certain trajectory beforehand, but it changed dramatically afterwards. I went from being an undisciplined, ignorant, immature Christian to a truly committed Christian during those first three weeks of studying with him, and the journey is still ongoing.

Some would say that’s when I was truly saved. But I know my heart. And I know how much I loved the Lord—even while I engaged in sinful activities, trying to convince myself that surely God didn’t intend for us, in this day and age, to keep the biblical commands He set forth so long ago. Like I said, I was ignorant.

Yesterday, Andy Stanley reminded me of that place of ignorance. Back then I thought that if you do A, B, and C, that God would do E, F, and G. And when I did A, B, and C to the absolute best of my ability and He didn’t do E, F, and G, I felt betrayed and crushed. I thought, “He answers prayers for others, but not for me.” I couldn’t even read Romans 8:28 without crying from a genuinely broken heart. Surely God was not working “all things” to my good!

Oh, thank You, Lord Jesus, that You didn’t leave me there.

You see, my faith was wrapped up in circumstances, and I let those circumstances define God’s faithfulness to me. And I saw Him crushing me time after time, though I was doing everything I knew how to do. Bless my poor, uninformed heart.

It was like my pastor said. It’s like being on a treadmill and no matter how fast you go or at what incline you run, you’re still going nowhere—regardless of the effort you put into it. That was me.

But, praise God, our confidence is not based on circumstances. It is based upon Jesus Christ and His power and glory. Jesus Christ, the Rock of our salvation. When we measure His love for us by the circumstances He sends our way, we will always be crushed by the weight of sorrow. When we’re tempted to doubt God’s love for us, we should stop and remember what He did on a little hill outside Jerusalem. That’s how we measure His love—what HE did, who HE is, and how HE remains faithful in His promises to us, even when we’re faithless, doubting, weak little sheep.

No. Our faith is not based on circumstance. It’s based on Jesus Christ—on His birth, life, ministry, death, resurrection and ascension. It’s based on the one who reigns at the right hand of the Father in heaven, who intercedes for us, who hears our prayers, and who brought us from darkness into His marvelous light. It’s based on the one who said, “I have said these things to you, that in me, you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world,” John 16:33.

Jun

2016

God, Our Comfort in Times of Trouble

I took my 4-year old grandson to the Splash Pad the other day. Located at one of our local parks, the Splash Pad is an area with loads of colorful things to play around—all of which squirt water out at various speeds and degrees. The other day there were probably thirty children under the age of ten out there and Xander had such a great time that the smile rarely left my face.

I noticed one little boy out there running merrily from one plaything to another to another. His mom, seated (like me) at one of the shaded picnic tables around the facility, called to him several times warning him not to run on the slippery pavement. He was having such fun, he really didn’t pay her any attention.

Suddenly, as he ran to another one of the watery attractions, he slipped and fell backwards, hitting his head on the concrete. My nurse antennae sprang to attention, but the little boy (probably three or four years old) got up, crying that way that moms recognize. This was not fake crying. This kid was hurting.

Holding the back of his head with one hand, he ran to his mom immediately. She examined his head and then held him close, soothing him with her calm voice, cradling him in her embrace. In no time, he was out there laughing and playing again—but walking instead of running.

I’ve thought about that experience several times since, and realized that it reminds me of us—a great illustration of our relationship with the Lord. Patiently, He warns us, instructs us, watches over us and so many times we’re oblivious to His words. We get so involved with our own lives and activities that we lose sight of Him in many ways.

Then comes the inevitable slip and fall (usually from not heeding His warnings) and we immediately know where to find Him. Only then do we run into His waiting arms and allow His comfort to wash over us. When we experience His love, care and tender mercies in our own times of trial we vow never to lose sight of Him again.

But we do. And still, He’s there—never leaving us, watching over us, guiding us. Just as that little boy found comfort in his mother’s arms, we learn to find comfort in our Savior, as well. Each time we find the courage to step out again to try to live our lives in a pleasing way to the Lord, we find that our suffering has brought us comfort, joy and love from Christ. And then, the bonus—we enter our life’s activities again a little stronger, a little wiser, and more in step with Him.

Dear ones, please remember this in your own times of trial. They will happen. But when they happen, remember that our pain is not meaningless. It has purpose. And the ultimate purpose is to mold us into who He wants us to be. Our suffering may have many long-term benefits, but there will always be two we should meditate upon—our pain will ultimately result in good for us, and glory to Him. Keep your eyes on Him and listen to His voice. To Him be all praise and honor and glory.

“’In the world you will have tribulation.

But take heart; I have overcome the world,’” (John 16:33).

Apr

2016

Home Sweet Home!

The consequences to and for the children of divorce have been well-documented. I don’t believe I’ve ever read a study saying that divorce is an advantage to children in any way—scholastically, sociologically, spiritually or emotionally. The prayer of divorced parents in raising their children becomes, “Please, Lord, don’t let this mess them up too much! Please help us to raise these children, even though we’re apart, in such a way as would be edifying to them. Bring them through this with minimal damage and allow them to be well-adjusted, happy, and God-honoring adults.”

My boys were two and five when their father and I divorced. The reason for our divorce does not matter here—only to say that, in my case, I felt there was no other option. If I knew then what I know now, perhaps things could have been different. The past belongs to the past and it would be foolish to dwell there.

I think the boys’ dad and I did the best we could by our children. We wanted what was best for them. We prayed for their safety, their health, their spiritual well-being. We loved them, cared for them, and tried, in our separate ways, to give them what they needed in growing up to be men who love the Lord.

Looking at them now, my heart is overwhelmed with pride and gratitude at the men they’ve become. They both had to deal with our divorce in their own ways, but the Lord saw them through those years and has blessed them both with salvation in Him. My only prayer as they left the nest and entered into lives of their own was that He would draw them close to Him. He has answered that prayer more abundantly than I would ever have dreamed.

Even though I recognize it was GOD who brought them through their childhoods, I still have a little tendency to want to pat myself on the back and say, “You did good, Deborah. They’re great men with strong personalities and an even stronger devotion to the Lord.”

My mother, in only the way she can do, just poked another little hole in that idea. While lunching the other day, she mentioned the fact that when my boys were young they always referred to “my mom’s house,” or “my dad’s house.” It was never “our house” or “my house.” She said she always felt so sorry for them about that. Instantly I recalled all the times I’d heard them say that. But until she mentioned it, I had never thought of that.

My son married a woman with two children. They are children of divorce. And I’ve heard them speak in those same terms, of “my mom’s” or “my dad’s.” I had the privilege of spending Sunday afternoon and evening with my grandson—the youngest of my son’s step-children, aged 12. So I casually interviewed him on this subject.

I asked him if there was one or the other home he called, “his house.” Or does he always thinks in terms of mom’s house or dad’s house? If he was studying in Europe for a year, let’s say, and he came “home,” where would that be? His answer melded right into my mother’s astute observation. He said he’d have to go to both of them. No, there wasn’t one he thought of as his home. Yes, he thought in terms of “my mom’s house” and “my dad’s house.”

I feel sorry for them. And I feel even worse about my boys growing up like that and I wasn’t even aware of it at the time. When I look back on my childhood, I know I had a home. My house. I could drive right to my childhood home right now! My children can’t do that. My son’s step-children can’t do that. Without this important sense of home, does that put them at an even greater disadvantage as they grow up? Do my own sons bear scars from it?

Why am I writing this blog? If you are part of a couple who may be contemplating a divorce, I want you to add this to your list of pros and cons—definitely under the cons. I pray that God will use this concern to encourage you to make another attempt at making your marriage work. Do everything you can do before you leap into all the ramifications of divorce.

I know I haven’t gone into the subject of God’s view of divorce and the spiritual disobedience in taking such a step. I trust you’ve heard and understand those concepts. But this new realization was one I’ve never heard discussed before, and just wanted to share it with you. My mother, at age 83, is still teaching me. Now I’m passing this along to you.

Please remember: There’s No Place Like Home. Give that to your children.

Feb

2016

For John

My brother, John David Koon, died ten years ago on February 27. Ten long years. Ten short years. It depends on how I look at it. In one way, it seems like yesterday.

Telling him goodbye for the last time on this earth, we held each other and all that would come out of my mouth was, “Oh, my dear!” That being spoken with such emotion. I’ve never called him “my dear” before. Don’t know why it came out like that. But clinging to him, tears flowing, I didn’t want to let go. I suspected I’d never see him again. Yet, I did see him again. He was in a coma that time. I snuggled next to him and cried, patting his frail hand, and telling him that if he needed to go on, it was okay. Yes, as tears flow now with the memory it seems like ten short years ago.

My little brother, John, was not perfect. But he was exceptional. Even as a little kid, his sweetness was evident. From early on he seemed to have a devotion to Christ that I didn’t share back then. No, he was touched by God in a way I wasn’t. One of my sweetest memories of him was playing Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. I’ve always been the loud one, the bossy one, the assertive one. So I insisted on being Roy and made him be Dale. Hahaha. Oh, what a sweet boy he was.

We didn’t become absolute best friends until I was around fifteen years old. I don’t know if that was because that’s when he was suddenly bigger than me, or because that’s when I was saved. But I became a nicer, more loving person then and John and I were joined at the hip. We went to the same school. We had some of the same teachers. We both played trumpet in the band. We had the same friends. We truly enjoyed each other’s company more than other people.

One summer, while we were at band camp, we were both going steady and our “steadies” weren’t there. So John and I hung out a lot that year. We entered a twist contest and if memory serves me right, I think we won. Also, we were write-ins for cutest couple. Haha. That was fun.

Our adult years were often marked by separation. I left home when I went away to college. Then got married. Then he left to move to Texas, then California and back to Texas. Then he moved back home to the Little Rock area. Later, he got married and moved to Cabot, Arkansas—about an hour away.

Through it all, we maintained our relationship. When we were together it was as if no time had passed. We didn’t do “shallow” very well, so our conversations were always at a heart level. But he was also one of the funniest people I ever knew. So we were either laughing or deeply involved in conversation—or sometimes both.

When he was diagnosed with cancer, our relationship was kicked to the next level. We were all heart-broken. His wife and little girls tried to care for him to the best of their ability. My mother was devastated. And me? Well, it was the saddest thing I’ve ever experienced, so far in my life, to watch my dear, smart, funny, adorable brother suffer the indignities of cancer. We all felt so sorry for the toll it took on him.

But he didn’t. No, he rose to the occasion. Always content to be in the shadows, he suddenly thrust himself into the spotlight with a message that inspired and touched everyone he shared it with. The message was about how gracious and good God is—even in adversity, or especially in adversity, perhaps. He spoke before churches, schools, civic groups, in waiting rooms, in restaurants. Whenever the opportunity opened up for him to speak, he was there to joyfully proclaim God’s goodness. He said he’d never known such peace and internal joy as he had through those last years of his life. It certainly showed. Every conversation centered on spiritual things. It was like he existed on a higher spiritual plane; he understood things that had eluded him before; he saw God’s hand in everything. He faced death with courage and anticipation for a better world where he would be united with his Lord and Savior, Who had just become his new best Friend. And then he died. Ten years ago.

When I think of all that has transpired in our lives since then, ten years seems like a long time ago. Since then, I’ve had six books published; we’ve added a new daughter-in-law and four grandchildren. My boys have achieved so much; and John’s daughters have grown into beautiful young women—one in nursing school, and another with two babies of her own. John’s grandchildren. Oh, what joys we’ve had over ten long years without him. And then there have been the sorrows—but the joys have been much more abundant by the grace of God.

Ten long, short years ago my brother died. I promised him once that I’d always love him and never stop missing him. I’m keeping my promise. My dear. This is for you.

Feb

2016

Double Grief

People talk to me about grief. I spent over 20 years in hospice, so they know I’ve seen my share of pain and sorrow. I’ve always tried to be approachable whenever someone needs to talk about their loved one.

Recently, a sweet young woman approached me with a question regarding her mother, who has been told there is nothing else they can do for her. First, let me reiterate what I’ve written in a couple of my books—there may be nothing more that can be done medically for a patient, but there’s never a time when nothing more can be done to improve their comfort and quality of life. That’s one reason I love hospice as much as I do.

Losing a mother is hard. As my mom is fond of saying, “No one loves you like your mama.” I think that’s true. A mother’s love for her child is special, and unique. And no one else could love you that way. But the same is true of you. Who you are when you’re with your mom is probably different from who you are with other people—even your spouse or other family.

My mom and I share so much. We have our own language—one made from all our little private jokes and shared experiences. And I know I relate differently to her than to anyone else. Thankfully, I still have my mom. We still talk and laugh and have fun together. But if/when I lose her, I will also lose that part of me I am with only her.

That’s not true just with mothers. I think we adjust to the various close people in our lives—incorporating little differences that only the two of us share. That’s why anytime we grieve the loss of someone we love, we lose a little of ourselves. In this way, our grief is doubled. That’s why we can be grateful when we know our loved ones are in Heaven, but still so sad at their loss—because when they died, they took that part of us that belonged only to them. We miss them. And we miss who we are with them.

Fortunately, that’s not the end of the story. We will not grieve for eternity. Yes, time erases some of the intensity of our grief, but it never stops us from loving and missing that person. Yet, the Bible speaks of death as a temporary parting. One day there will be a reunion for believers in Jesus Christ—a glorious day surrounded by more love than our keenest imagination can invent. Oh, what a day that will be!

Dec

2015

Aging Jars of Clay

Some people are uncomfortable around old folks. I have rather an affinity for them. My work in hospice placed me in close, intimate proximity to the elderly—as the majority of my patients were older.

Even before that, I remember observing old people I encountered through my life. I’d especially study their eyes—trying to see the intelligence, humor, personality, and experience reflected there. For some reason, I’ve always been able to see them as older versions of myself—with skills, energy, physical stamina, their own kind of beauty, passion, and interesting experiences. My imagination allows me the freedom to recreate them into the way they must have looked in their youth. The common tendency in our society is just to see them as old, and all that comes with that–including their disposability.

Standing recently on the beach, I looked across the water, which has always been a spiritual experience for me. The beauty, the power of the water, the gentle breeze blowing softly through my hair, the sounds of the gulls overhead, the feel of the sun upon my skin, the smell of the salt in the air—all of it welling up within me, filling me up to overflowing with awe for a God so great that He could hold that immensity as but a drop in His hand.

It paints a pretty picture to imagine a beautiful 20-something flat-belly with cornflower eyes and long flaxen hair staring out across the ocean, her smooth, soft skin shimmering in the sunlight, her long, lithe, strong legs supporting her with the water lapping around her exquisite ankles.

Haha. I was kind of that girl once, about a million years ago. I may be forty years older and 100# heavier, but I’m the same person, and on the inside I still feel like I did when I was in my 20’s. When people see me now, do they see that girl of long ago? Or do they only see a fat, old lady with thinning hair taking up space on the beach? Perhaps they don’t even realize I’m looking out through the same eyes, feeling the same passion for life and waves and God as I did when I was young and fine. It’s not as pretty a picture, but it’s just as poignant to me.

Let me encourage you young people to try an experiment next time you find yourself sitting next to an elderly person. Instead of looking upon them as just taking up space in a world meant for the young, try to see them as a repository of rich stories, of relationships gone wrong—or right. These people were young once, too. They had dreams and hopes and aspirations. Some realized those dreams—others didn’t. But try to open the lid to see what’s inside. Remember, when they look into your face, they’re looking through the same eyes they had when they were young and fine. You just might be surprised what you find in their depths.

Days of My Life

What is man that You are mindful of him?

Father’s Day

Of Moose and Men

Draw Me Nearer

Christ, Our Firm Foundation

God, Our Comfort in Times of Trouble

Home Sweet Home!

For John

Double Grief

Aging Jars of Clay

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