“Even to your old age I am he, and to gray hairs I will carry you. I have made, and I will bear; I will carry and will save.” – Isaiah 46:4
My live-in in-laws occasionally comment on being past their prime. At nearly 90 and 84 years of age, respectively, Raymond and Shirley lament having outlived their usefulness, especially as it relates to ministry. They can no longer do the things they once did. Of course, we remind them that although the way God is using them may have changed, He’s still using them. They continue to make a difference in the lives of the people around them.
Their concern is common; some seniors have it even worse. Walking down the halls of a nursing home, I glance inside rooms full of people in the homestretch of life. Some have no family or friends. Others spend their days staring at a television screen or a wall. I struggle to find meaning in these infirmed seniors’ bleak existence. Why is God keeping them around?
Brother Lawrence, a medieval monk, offers a more enlightened perspective. In The Practice of the Presence of God, he sees all of humanity as trees in winter. Though having little to offer, stripped of leaves and color and growth, each soul is loved by God unconditionally anyway.
How are we to treat aged family members who are no longer useful in the traditional meaning of the word? How should nursing home workers approach yet another wrinkled resident staring off into space? The note from my Bible’s margin reads: We are to love seniors unconditionally; the way God loves them—like trees in winter.
In Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott writes, “Dying people can teach us this most directly. Often the attributes that define them drop away—the hair, the shape, the skills, the cleverness. And then it turns out that the packaging is not who that person has really been all along. Without the package, another sort of beauty shines through.”
I have learned more from my in-laws in their physical decline than I ever learned from them at the top of their game. I’ve gained more from hearing Raymond speak a few kind words to a struggling former prisoner than from any of his longer, more robust sermons. I’ve been blessed by watching Shirley’s cane-assisted hobble to the back porch, easing herself into a sunlit chair, and pouring over God’s Word like a treasure map.
Like trees in winter, my in-laws have lost some vitality—they’ve shed some leaves. But I love them unconditionally anyway. I also watch them carefully because they are teaching me how to live.
Nahum 1:7 – “The Lord is good, a stronghold in the day of trouble; he knows those who take refuge in him.”
As I turned northward onto Peterson Road on Wynne, Arkansas’ eastside, I encountered a scene out of an apocalyptic war film. To the right, three homes had been completely wiped off a ridge by an EF-3 tornado that ripped through the town on March 31st. All that remained were driveways rising to concrete foundations. The still visible homes to the left were in shambles—barely standing among massive piles of debris. Windows were blown out. Construction material was strewn about and lodged in tree limbs as high as 40 feet. In every direction, there were gnarled tree limbs, crushed belongings, and shattered lives.
My mission that morning was to find someone to help. The organization I work with—the Churches of Christ Disaster Response Team—has volunteers from across the country, a semi-truck full of every tool imaginable, along with household supplies, construction material, and food. In a town so devastated by a natural disaster, finding someone to help would seem to be an easy task. The reality is that uninhabitable homes are vacant, and the owners of many salvageable homes are waiting on insurance claims to process before rebuilding can begin.
As I was about to give up on finding a customer along this desolate, marred landscape, I spotted an older woman pushing a wheelbarrow full of debris across her front yard. The roof of her house was blown off and a large pile of debris rested in her front yard. Where there is manual labor underway, there is opportunity. I pulled into her driveway, approached her, and explained my purpose. The woman, Miss Kay, didn’t hesitate to respond.
“I appreciate your offer, but surely there are people in worse shape than us. We have been blessed.”
If that was her attempt to get me to leave, it didn’t work. People who think they are unworthy draw me in like a magnet. All the better that she was pushing a wheelbarrow to try to improve her situation. The Bible verse on the front of her t-shirt wasn’t required for her to receive help but added another dimension.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry this happened to you. We’re going to have some people here tomorrow morning to help you move that pile, cut down those tree limbs, and help you with anything else you need. May I ask if you were at home when the tornado hit?”
“We were. This was our new home—we’d only been in it a few months. My husband and I were inside along with one of our grandsons and his precious girlfriend. We huddled in a small coat closet and prayed out loud.”
“The tornado hit in the afternoon?”
“Yes, around 4 p.m. It came right over that ridge. Some of our neighbors lost everything. They always say a tornado sounds like a freight train and that’s what we heard. We thought this was the end for us—that it was time to join our girls.”
Miss Kay elaborated on her feelings in a Facebook post: “In the middle of all the horrible destruction we had peace. We all knew our Redeemer lives! We feel so blessed. Yes, we lost a lot but what we lost is all earthly and as we call it ‘just stuff’ and sometimes that’s what weighs us down, so we aren’t grieving the loss of our home. We are praising the Lord who sheltered us in that horrible storm. So now we should be homeless, but we have had so many people offer us shelter that our words of gratitude can’t cover what we feel for them… Yes, we are blessed much more than we deserve… There aren’t enough words to express what we feel in our hearts. Thank you is too small.”
Miss Kay
I asked Miss Kay about joining her girls—what she meant by that. She removed her gloves and wiped sweat from her brow.
“We lived in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, back in 1991. Emily, our youngest, was 16 at the time and our oldest, Amy, was 18. I heard a sermon one Sunday in which our preacher encouraged us to talk to our kids about faith. He said not to assume that faith is real or personal to our kids just because they go to church and are ‘good kids.’ You’ve got to talk to them.”
“So, you talked to your girls?”
“Yes, I called for a little mother-daughter conference. We climbed up on my bed for a heart to heart. Emily did most of the talking. She assured me, as did her sister, that her faith was real and genuine. She wasn’t pretending.”
Miss Kay took a deep breath and sat her work gloves down on the pile of debris in the wheelbarrow.
“The next day, Emily died in a car accident.”
“I’m so sorry, Miss Kay.”
“She was a Junior at Riverdale High School. The person she normally drove home with wasn’t available that day, so she got a ride with someone else. The driver went just a little on the shoulder of the road and then over-corrected. The driver survived but Emily did not. It was a tragedy, but I’m so thankful to God for that conversation we had the night before. Those were the last meaningful words we shared together. That was a blessing. That brought me peace.”
“I’m sure it did.”
“Steve, do you have a moment? I want to show you something out on the back porch.”
“Sure.”
We walked through her front door and past broken glass, exposed ceiling, and the closet where the family had hunkered down when the tornado came through. On the back porch, she called my attention to her grill.
“Are you familiar with the Big Green Egg?”
“Yes, ma’am, my dad used to have one of those.”
“Well, when the storm hit, Phil and I had three things on this back porch: the Big Green Egg, some wicker furniture, and my daughter Amy’s swing.”
Miss Kay took another deep breath and continued.
“This is where God was at work again. Amy had some heart problems—something that runs in our family. Several years ago, prior to moving with her family, she asked if I could hold on to her swing for her. This was our family swing—a place where we would gather to talk about life and faith and watch fireflies at night. Her new home didn’t have a place for it, so I agreed to take it and put it on our back porch here in Wynne. Well, back in December of 2020, in the middle of Covid, my sweet Amy got really sick and died suddenly of a heart attack. She was 47 and left behind a beautiful family.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. Your family has been through so much.”
“We have, but God has carried us through all of it.”
“So, where does the Big Green Egg fit into all of this?”
“Good question. So, we had the Egg, Amy’s swing, and some wicker furniture on the porch. After the tornado, we found the Egg a quarter mile away in a neighbor’s yard. We still haven’t found the wicker furniture. But Amy’s swing was left unharmed, right where it sat.”
“That’s amazing!”
“Yes, and it wasn’t bolted down or anything. Aside from memories and her family, it’s really the only thing I have left from Amy. I think God spared it for us—to remind us of her.”
Amy’s Swing
“So, with the tornado barreling down on you guys, you thought you’d be joining Amy and Emily that afternoon.”
“We did, and that would have been okay—a blessing, really. We miss them so much. And someday we’ll join them. But God must still have plans for us.”
“Some more family time on Amy’s swing.”
“Yes, I think so. Our God is bigger than any storm. We’re just going to put our trust in Him and keep on keeping on.”
Sometimes disaster relief is about more than just handing out food and cutting up trees. Sometimes the conversations run deep.
So, as you talk to your kids about faith… on a pew, atop a bed, or perhaps on the family porch swing, remind them of this: The tornado that hit Wynne, Arkansas, on March 31st, 2023, was big and was devastating.
But also remind them of this: “The Lord is good, a stronghold in the day of trouble; he knows those who take refuge in him.”
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18
I’m around a lot of broken people. In the past two years, my in-laws who live with us have endured a combined three hip replacements, an eye surgery, a broken foot, Covid-19, shingles, pneumonia, diabetes, tremors, stage 3 kidney disease, and six falls. With all the medicines, medical equipment, and physical brokenness around us, our home feels like a hospital ward. My 89-year-old father-in-law often reminds us, “Getting old isn’t for sissies.”
I work with people going through emotional and financial brokenness. In myriad disaster zones, I’ve encountered people in shock from having lost almost everything. Many are too overwhelmed to know where to begin the recovery. They’re faced with burying loved ones, completing mounds of relief paperwork, and adjusting to life on a cot in a gymnasium full of other devastated souls. Some see their brokenness not as a temporary phenomenon but their new normal.
The prisoners and former prisoners I work with face multiple forms of brokenness. Some are in seemingly hopeless, lifelong battles with addiction. Many have destroyed relationships and lost contact with their closest friends and family. Most are in a crisis of faith, searching for a God who at times feels distant and uninvolved. Sitting across from my ministry partners and me in a cinder-block room in their gray pin-striped prison attire, they wonder how they ended up here. What will become of my broken family and my broken life? Does God have a plan for me? Is there any hope?
I feel inadequate in these situations. I don’t have the resources or training to make destitute people financially whole. I’m not qualified to offer medical advice on overcoming addiction or other physical ailments. I’m not a licensed psychologist, counselor, or attorney. My degrees in computer science and national defense aren’t all that useful when sitting next to a broken-hearted friend who, 48 hours earlier, was being administered Narcan from EMTs to save his life from another drug overdose.
Though unqualified to treat brokenness, I know a guy. I’m not referring to my doctor and dentist friends, Eddie and Jake, although they’re qualified to address many physical ailments. I’m not talking about my financial planner friend, Brook, although he’s helped various broken people get their finances back on track.
No, the guy I know—the guy who can do the most good—is Jesus. As the Hebrews writer puts it, “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need” (Hebrews 4:5-6).
Jesus is always on call. He understands our struggles and knows the grief of losing a loved one. He suffered unimaginable physical and emotional pain and agony on the cross. He gets us. When offering advice or encouragement to broken people, I begin with Jesus. God’s Son and God’s Word provide comfort and guidance for people going through physical, emotional, or spiritual difficulty. Our Savior provides strength for enduring the challenges of this life and, more importantly, offers hope for an eternal life. He specializes in making broken people whole.
When I think of Jesus’ approach to broken people, I think of the Japanese’ attitude toward broken pottery. They view the scattered broken pieces not as a shame but an opportunity. When there is no way to put the pieces back together without the cracks showing, the Japanese turn to Kintsugi. This centuries-old artform uses glittering liquid gold or powdered gold-dusted lacquer to repair broken cracks.
Kintsugi
Rather than hide the broken places, the Japanese embrace the imperfections. They leverage the scars. Using gold—one of the world’s most precious metals—they carefully join the broken pieces together to create something stronger and even more beautiful than the original. The visible flaws become an accepted part of the pottery’s history. What once was broken has been made whole again!
Are you, as the psalmist put it, brokenhearted and crushed in spirit? Has the devastating loss of a loved one, a life-altering addiction, or some other tragedy shattered your life into a thousand pieces? Are you concerned that you may never be whole again? If so, are you open to meeting a restorer who can apply pure gold to your broken pieces and create in you a new creation—a masterpiece?
“Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” – 1 Thessalonians 5:18
In the fall of 2002, I approached the front gate at Spangdahlem Air Base, Germany, one morning and found myself in a queue of about 20 vehicles waiting to enter the base. We had an exercise going on and our security forces personnel had their drug dogs out to randomly sniff the trunks of various cars. I was going to be there a while.
I tuned the radio to Spangdahlem’s own radio channel and heard the DJ announce that John Costello, the base’s financial counselor, was up next. John worked in our Family Support Center which was part of my squadron. In that sense, John worked for me.
For the next 10 minutes, while stuck in line at the front gate, I listened to John give outstanding financial advice and answer questions from a few callers. He was informative, witty, and passionate. Throughout his career, he had spent considerable office time with Airmen struggling to make ends meet. This radio program was one of the ways he did preventive maintenance on our troops’ spending and savings habits. I appreciated the things John shared and was proud that he was a member of the 52nd Mission Support Squadron.
When I finally made it to the office, I decided to call John to let him know I had heard his program and appreciated his efforts. He wasn’t there, so I left a message for him with Erm Rodriguez-Heffner, the head of the Family Support Center. She assured me she would pass along my message.
That afternoon, Erm called me back. She said something along the lines of, “Sir, I gave John your message and he’s like a kid in a candy store over here. I mean, his face is beaming. He told me he’s been doing that radio program for many years, and this is the first time someone in his chain of command told him he did a good job.”
I share this story not to pat myself on the back. My phone call that morning took all of two minutes and my words were not eloquent. If anything, I should have given him that feedback earlier in my assignment.
No, I share the experience because it taught me an important life lesson: words matter. Taking the time to show appreciation—to say, “You done good!” or “I’m proud of you!”—can make all the difference in the world to the person who hears it. It may cause their face to shine brightly as they experience the joy of “returning to the candy store” of their youth. Never underestimate the power of a simple gesture—a simple thanks. Your feedback, however simple or ineloquent, may help someone get through the day, or may sustain them through the next year or longer.
Have you thanked your spouse lately?
How about your children or parents?
How long has it been since your letter carrier, barista, preacher, waiter, checkout clerk, employee, or child’s teacher were told their efforts matter?
“You will seek me and find me, when you seek me with all your heart.” – Jeremiah 29:13
“If you seek him, he will be found by you…” – 1 Chronicles 28:9b
I’m not a gifted seeker. Search and recovery don’t come naturally to me. When my childhood shoes went missing, my mom would implore me to look for them. After 5 seconds, I would return empty-handed.
“Did you look under the laundry pile in the closet?”
“No.”
“Did you look under your bed?”
“No.”
“How about on the porch?”
“Not exactly.”
I didn’t find my shoes because I wasn’t sincere in my search. I wanted them to magically appear without any effort on my part. I’m afraid I’m the same way today with keys and other missing things, only now it is my wife who must ask, “Did you look in your pants’ pockets?” When the keys are eventually found, she reminds me, “You’re a mess.”
Are we the same way with Jesus? In Matthew 7:7, He tells us, “Seek, and you will find.” I’m all about the finding part. I long for the relationship, the connection, the hidden treasure. But I’d like it delivered on a silver platter. No assembly, or seeking, required.
Seeking Jesus involves more than just loving Him or even following His commandments. It’s a lifelong, all-encompassing, intense pursuit. It’s more than just a priority—it’s THE priority. It’s searching the closet for your shoes as if your life depends on them because with Jesus, your spiritual life does depend on Him. To find Him, other things in the closet will get turned over and tossed out.
During my teen years, my frustrated father once called a family meeting in response to his missing car keys. Determined to find them, he had us walk across each floor of our home, following a grid pattern. We were to flip over every cushion and open every drawer. We were to leave no stone, pillow, or magazine unturned. “We’re going to find them,” he declared, “if it’s the last thing we do!”
What does an intense search for Jesus look like? This morning, did you begin or continue your intense search for the Savior? As you reviewed your daily “to do” list, was Jesus even on it?
Seeking Jesus involves:
Talking to Him (See 1 Thessalonians 5:17). I can’t imagine a morning where my wife and I say nothing to each other. No “Good morning” or “I love you” or “Go make coffee!” The silence would be weird and awkward. It wouldn’t reflect two people who care about each other and are seeking connection. Likewise, I can’t say I’m sincerely seeking Jesus when I rarely if ever touch base with Him in prayer.
Spending time in God’s Word (See 2 Timothy 3:16-17). My sons and their wives are voracious readers. During a recent family holiday, I noticed one of my daughters-in-law reading a book in the car, on the back porch, while playing cards, and even during a movie. The book was always with her, like an appendage. I didn’t have to ask if she was into the book—her actions spoke volumes. Are we that way with the Bible? Would someone examining our daily routine describe us as really into God’s book? We can’t describe ourselves as truly seeking Jesus if we have little to no interest in reading about Him.
Connecting with other Seekers (See Matthew 18:20). It isn’t enough for my daughter-in-law to read books. She is compelled to be a part of a book club—a group of likeminded friends who come together regularly to discuss a chosen book. If we’re truly seeking Jesus, one would expect us to spend time with others in the same pursuit. That includes corporate worship to God, which we’re commanded to do (See Hebrews 10:25). But it also includes caring for, fellowshipping with, and bearing the burdens of other seekers—our church family. We’re more likely to “find Dad’s keys” if we work together.
Being still(See Psalm 46:10). We ultimately found my dad’s keys by stopping what we were doing and helping him think about where he last had them. Sometimes we find Jesus not in activity but in quiet and stillness—on a mountaintop, in a hospital bed, or at a graveside. Maybe the problem isn’t that Jesus hasn’t tried to communicate with us, but that we haven’t been listening.
As I write these words, I realize I have work to do! I’m praying that God will help me to become a better seeker of Jesus. And that by diligently searching, I’ll find Him.
While walking down the hall from a Radiology appointment last week, my mother-in-law, Shirley, aka Mamaw, fell and broke her hip. Two days later, she was having hip surgery. A few days after that, she was moved to Morningview Village for a couple of weeks of rehab and a diet of beef chunks marinated in gravy.
This afternoon, my assigned task was to take my 89-year-old father-in-law, Raymond, aka Papa, to visit his wife. Simple enough. This would allow my wife, Janet, aka Lil Jan, to get a much-needed break from her duties of caregiving and holding nurses accountable.
We arrived at Morningview, signed in, and said hello to the colorful birds in an enclosure in the lobby. I then led Papa down the hallway, to the left, and into his wife’s room—#214. Unfortunately, she wasn’t there.
“She must be at Physical Therapy,” Papa said.
“No, they took her for dialysis. She’ll be gone for 4 hours.”
I glanced behind the curtain and said hello to Mamaw’s new roommate, Ethel. Or maybe it was Martha. Nice lady.
“Hi, I’m Steve, her son-in-law, and this is her husband, Raymond.”
“Nice to meet you all.”
Papa sat down in the guest chair, and I created another sitting spot by removing some of Mamaw’s belongings from the wheelchair and placing them above the TV.
Papa leaned over and whispered to me, “Dialysis?”
“Never mind her,” I whispered back. “She isn’t all there. I’m no doctor, but you don’t do dialysis for a broken hip.”
We retrieved our reading material and settled in for what we thought would be 15 minutes until Mamaw returned.
After 45 minutes, a concerned Papa said, “It sure is taking a long time. I hope she’s okay.”
I got up and decided to look for her. I asked a nurse, who told me she could be doing PT in the gym on this floor or perhaps in the gym downstairs. After not finding her upstairs, I took the elevator downstairs and looked in the gym there. Nothing. Puzzled, I glanced up and noticed her in a wheelchair entering room #114… her room… a room approximately 14 feet directly below Papa’s location.
I retrieved Papa Raymond from upstairs and got him settled in the correct room next to his wife. Holding her hand, he then asked her the question that had been on both our minds.
A couple years ago, my wife and I received the call you never want to receive from a child.
“Mom and Dad, I haven’t been to the dentist in 6 years.”
Not wanting to discourage our youngest son, Kyle, a full-blooded millennial, we remained silent. Stunned, I closed my eyes and imagined the teeth of a meth addict. My junior progeny pooping on a wilderness trail during his middle school years was one thing, but this was next-level foulness. Janet, tapping into a reservoir of motherly instinct, finally broke the silence and asked, “How are you feeling, son?”
Of course, I wanted to say more. Growing up in a military family and then serving in the military myself, dental appointments were mandatory formations—as regular as my mother-in-law after her morning dose of Fiber One. Every six months, a dental exam appointment notice arrived in the mail. The question was not whether I’d go, but whether I’d choose mint or the slightly naughtier bubble gum as my preferred fluoride flavor. By my teen years, I’d learned to express moderate anxiety as they reclined me in the chair, in hopes of being taken to a faraway place by a snort of nitrous oxide. Good times.
During our Air Force assignment to Germany, our wing commander decided that we should have as many medical-related appointments as possible scheduled on the same day, to reduce time away from the workplace. On my designated day, I sat in the dental chair, as a checklist-toting young dental technician stuck 7 fingers in my mouth.
“Major Johnson, has anyone ever taught you how to brush properly?”
Loaded question. I thought for a moment, then decided to play along.
“No, I don’t believe so.”
The Airman retrieved a mirror from a drawer and handed it to me. With me looking on, she proceeded to brush my teeth, demonstrating the proper circular motion, angle, and pressure. She was so thoughtful and professional, I considered stopping by the clinic after every meal for servicing.
Moments later, she looked down at her checklist, then asked, “Major Johnson, have you been taught how to floss regularly?”
I realized she had a checklist to follow, and that regardless of my answer, I would be spending all day at the dental and medical clinics.
“I don’t believe I have.”
She retrieved the mirror from the drawer again and handed it to me. For the next few minutes, I watched as she sliced through my gums, retrieving a variety of saliva-soaked Doritos fragments.
“Do you floss regularly, sir?”
Hmm. Gut check moment.
“I try to,” I lied. (In my defense, “regularly” is a vague term. One could argue that flossing semiannually, just prior to dental exams, for 50 years, is a regular event.)
An hour later, I found myself sitting across from another young, checklist-toting Airman in a small room at the medical clinic. It was time for her to update my medical history, a series of 300 or so invasive questions covering exercise, nutrition, medications, allergies, past surgeries, my parents’ health, and boxers vs. briefs.
A third of the way through the interview, she asked, “Major Johnson, has anyone ever taught you how to do a testicular self-exam?”
“Yes!” I declared.
Fool me twice.
That brings us back to Kyle. For reasons of poverty, cost-savings, and benign neglect, the adult manifestation of our youngest son had decided dental care wasn’t a priority. For six long years, he valued high end coffee, dense religious tomes, and a Spotify subscription over preventing tooth decay. Apparently more than a few of his peers have made similar choices.
Thus, when he called us recently for a dental update, I tensed up. What had become of his neglected teeth? When he takes the podium each week and smiles before his congregation, do the people on the first few rows shield their eyes? What would young snaggle-tooth tell us?
“I just got back from the dentist,” he proudly declared. “The dentist said I have perfect teeth—in fact, he used the word beautiful.”
“That’s my boy!” I responded, winking at Janet. “Never had a doubt!”
Sometimes fatherly pride runs deeper than a recessed tooth.
Sometimes your worst fears about a child are totally unfounded.
Sometimes parenting is like a hit of nitrous oxide.
“… so that we may no longer be children, tossed to and fro by the waves and carried about by every wind of doctrine… Rather, speaking the truth in love, we are to grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ.” – Ephesians 4:14-15
Young children live in the moment—they focus on “being.” A toddler concerns herself with splashing in the tub, not being able to swim laps. A preschooler is preoccupied with ramming his tricycle into a chair, not winning the Tour de France. For young children, existing in the moment—being—is enough.
As children mature, they transition from the simplicity of “being” to the promise of “becoming.” No longer content to just splash water in the tub, a young girl may notice an Olympic swimmer on television. She wonders what it would be like to swim like that. She may even ask for swimming lessons. A young boy transitions from tricycle to bicycle and then watches his teenage brother ride a dirt bike on a mountain trail. “I want to do that!” he declares. Being—the status quo—is no longer enough. The focus shifts to becoming something more.
While there are childlike traits that Jesus admires (See Matthew 18:3), we can’t afford to remain spiritual infants. Christians are called to grow in our faith—to become more like Jesus every day. The note from the margin reads: Spiritual growth is a sign—evidence of our faith.
We find concerns over spiritual stagnancy throughout the Bible. We’re told to “move beyond the elementary teachings about Christ and be taken forward to maturity” (Hebrews 6:1). We’re encouraged to “grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ” (2 Peter 3:18; See also Colossians 1:10). The writer of Hebrews also calls us to transition from elementary truths— “milk”—to solid food (See Hebrews 5:12-14).
Our young swimmer and bicyclist will not become something grand overnight. They’ll need sustained determination, training, proper nutrition, and a few encouraging mentors along the way. We need the same on our spiritual journeys. Our attitude should be like that of the apostles who said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” (Luke 17:5).
An adult playfully splashing in a child’s swimming pool is a humorous sight. An adult Christian who never leaves the spiritual shallow end to become something more isn’t funny at all.
Instead, let’s strive to become something more this year. Let’s grow, a little more each day, into the image of Christ. With 2023, we have a new year, a fresh start, full of new opportunities.
Merry Christmas from Da Johnsons and welcome to our 35th consecutive holiday update!
I finally felt like my life was back on track this year, post-Covid, and then Janet convinced me to take a home sleep apnea test. Why? Because, according to her, “Every night a freight train parks in our bed and revs its engine for several hours.” Although I suspected these were menopause-induced hallucinations, I agreed to take the test. Big mistake. The results confirmed “mild sleep apnea” and the VA recommended a “Certain People Are Chubby” (CPAP) machine—thus ending any chance of me living a normal life.
He was never the same…
So now, every night, I get to clamp a plastic facepiece to my mouth and nose, supported by a head strap and four elastic, facial abrasion-inducing Velcro bands. Visually, I fall somewhere between “8th grade dork” and Darth Vader. On the first night of usage, Janet, who brought this on, had the nerve to ask, “Is it comfortable?”
“Sure, hon,” I replied. “I love having a polycarbonate octopus sucking my face throughout the night, forcing compressed air into my mouth and nose, with a tube tethering me to a mother ship, and some pimply-faced VA lab technician downloading my results in order to give me a “Sleep Score” and condemnation for not sleeping well enough! It’s the best! And as a guy who has to pee twice/night and has neuropathy in both feet, it’s so much easier traversing our bedroom in the dark and kicking furniture with a facemask strapped on. Then I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror with a horror not felt since Sigourney first locked eyes with the Alien back in ’79. Thanks, hon! Maybe next year I can get cactus needle-lined boxer shorts to wear to bed!”
Recently, Janet suggested I “remove the mask”—code for some unspecified romantic purpose. Determined to get my revenge, I shook my head and, in my deepest voice, responded, “Luke, I am your father.”
Despite this troubling development in the bedroom, Janet continues to be a caregiver extraordinaire to her parents, managing meds and appointments and keeping everyone fed and sane. She always has some church outreach project going on, sharing Christ’s love with the community. In her spare time, you’ll find her crocheting gnomes, hats, pumpkins, and anything she puts her mind to or gets a request for. She also agreed to help me sub in the 18–24-month class at Knoxville Christian School one day and ended up changing 13 diapers while I did puzzles! (That’s my girl!) She’s looking forward to speaking at another Ladies Day in Texas in February.
Our live-in blessings
I continue to write, speak, sub, and do disaster relief and mission work. My 6th book, Journey Through Genesis, is a devotional commentary on the book of Genesis and available on Amazon. Disaster relief took me to Kentucky twice this year and then to Fort Myers with Janet. Lots of hurting people out there. Mission work took me to Honduras, the local prison on Thursday nights, and another month of preaching in Maui—tough gig but someone has to do it! We were thankful that our kiddos were able to join us in Hawaii this year for some swimming with turtles, volcano hiking, and Loco Moco.
D.R. Kentucky… Who Ya Gonna Call?
In February, I was invited to speak on “love and romance” at a church’s Valentine’s Banquet in Knoxville. After hearing my talk, Janet checked my I.D., certain I was an imposter. In April, we traveled to Tampa so I could officiate the wedding of Caleb & Kylie, 2 of my former students. Seven years earlier, before they were dating, I had a hunch and told them they would one day get married. They laughed. Well, who’s laughing now? I also got to speak on being a Christian dad at a men’s retreat in Florida and about my AT thru-hike at the Old Courthouse in Blairsville, Georgia (with friend, fellow AT thru-hiker & Lipscomb grad, Ralston Drake).
In May, Jason, whose health and career were turned upside down by Lyme Disease, and wife Rachel, sold their home and moved in with us for 5 months during his recovery. Despite the circumstances, it was a blessing having 3 generations under one roof and an occasional golfing buddy. Jason is now doing much better (praise God!), and they have returned to North Carolina, where he is day trading, and they are “test driving” Elkin as a landing spot. Meanwhile, Kyle and Laci continue to enjoy preaching and occupational therapy, respectively, near St Louis. We took a road trip with Jason & Rachel to see them over the summer. While there, we hit a few of our “old haunts” from our Air Force assignment across the river.
Eckerts Fix
Grandpa didn’t get the memo!
In July we headed to Cape Cod for a wedding celebration and a week of camping with our long-time friends, the Diamond family! Sitting on the front row with the energetic Diamonds for a local theater company’s presentation of Mama Mia would have been worth the trip by itself, but we also got to hike, beach, shop, and eat fresh seafood. (For your own taste of Diamond family joy, check out the link at the bottom of this blog.) Later that month, we headed to Cincinnati to see Steve’s dad and his bride and take in a Reds v. Cardinals game with several extended family members. We returned in November to take him and Gail to his old alma mater, Kenyon College, the details of which are in an earlier blog.
Love us some Diamonds!
We were grateful for a full table at Thanksgiving filled with our kids and Janet’s sister and her husband, Carol and Scott. We ate tons of food, played games, and laughed till our bellies hurt.
Thanksgiving with Santa!
In other news, we discovered this year that Janet’s father, Papa Raymond, who lives with us, eats his Cheetos with a fork! I mean, who does that? As troubling as that discovery was, he’ll be 90 in July and it’s not like we can just put him out on the street. That would be wrong. However, if we ever decide to put him out on the street, I’ll be sure to send him with two days’ provisions and a used CPAP machine.
Come see us in Mur-vul!
On a sadder note, we said farewell this year to Rachel’s father, Ron Swift, who went to be with his Lord sooner than anyone expected. His memorial—his life—is a reminder of the importance of treating everyone you meet with respect and dignity—making each person you encounter feel valued. Ron did that better than anyone. His passing also reminded us that life is short, to make each day count, to be in Christ, and to never miss an opportunity to express love to others. So, with Ron’s legacy in mind, we’ll close this annual update by reminding you that God loves you and we do too! Merry Christmas!
As we approached the hill on which the village of Gambier, Ohio sits, my father, who had been quiet for most of the 3-hour journey, suddenly sat up and began to sing.
He climbed the Hill and said a prayer, And founded Kenyon College there. He climbed the Hill and said a prayer, And founded Kenyon College there!
Dad was pumped! This was his first visit back to his alma mater, Kenyon College, since 1959, the year he graduated. His first time visiting the campus where he came of age, starred on the football team, and earned an Economics degree. His first opportunity to finally show his second wife, eldest daughter, son-in-law, and me the place from which all his crazy college stories originated.
A lot has changed since ’59, of course, most notably for my 85-year-old dad. Over the past 7 years, he has overcome the death of his beloved spouse, bouts with lung, brain, and skin cancer, and memory loss brought on by early dementia. He is as kind and funny as ever, but his mind is an etch-a-sketch. While he can recall details from various Vietnam flying missions with ease, he can’t always remember what he had for breakfast, what’s on the agenda for the day, or the answer to a question asked moments earlier. That’s all a part of the wonderful man he is, and those around him are patient and roll with it. We all have issues, right?
As we reached the top of the hill, the stunning Kenyon campus came into view, and something ignited in Dad’s hippocampus.
“That’s Middle Path!” he declared. “It’s the main artery on campus. Everything happens along Middle Path. See that concrete post over there on the path? We used to jump over it on our way down Middle Path. It’s all coming back!”
The Post on Middle Path
After lunch on campus at the Village Inn, we walked back down the hill to see the Kenyon football team take on DePauw University. With Kenyon down by 38 points at the end of the third quarter, Dad offered to suit up and go in at right halfback, his old position. Had that been allowed, it would have provided the most fascinating and terrifying moments of 2022.
Instead, we climbed back up the hill, with my winded father providing the soundtrack.
He climbed the Hill and said a prayer, (gasping) And founded Kenyon College there. He climbed the Hill and said a prayer, (more gasping) And founded Kenyon College there!
At the coffee shop, we met up with a representative from the Development Office. Unsure how much Dad would remember, I had arranged a special campus tour for him. Kate, our tour guide, was energetic and knowledgeable. She also had no idea what she was getting into with my dad! As she highlighted features of the campus, Dad offered side commentary.
“See that rock over there by the bike rack? We used to pee on that rock. I’m not sure why.”
“Is that Rosse Hall, over there? My my! My buddy tried to cheat on an exam there one time. There were a few questions to answer on a clipboard. He sat by the window and managed to drop the clipboard out the window to a friend, who took the questions back to the dorm to answer, then passed them back up to him through the window. He thought he had gotten away with it, until the professor called him to the front the next day and asked him how he had managed to type his answers!”
Dad was dumbfounded when learning that Kenyon’s annual cost, including tuition, room, and board, is over $80,000, making it one of the most expensive private schools in the country.
“It was expensive back then, too. My good friends, the Beese brothers, were from a wealthy family and were going to Kenyon, so I wanted to go too. It was an all-boys school at the time. My parents wanted me to get a college education, so my mom went to work for Monarch Chemical, and her salary, along with my football scholarship, made it possible for me to attend.”
“Unfortunately, I wasn’t doing well my first semester. The rigorous academics here were nothing like what I had been through at Green High School. My academic advisor told me I had to get my GPA up in order to keep my scholarship and stay in school. He said I needed “an easy A” and offered a few options, including ROTC. So, I took ROTC solely for the A, which I got, but that led to a 30-year Air Force career. Funny how life works.”
We continued strolling along Middle Path, with our guide providing campus updates and Dad offering more commentary.
“Over there is where I took my Economics classes, and that building up ahead, Old Kenyon, was my dorm the last couple of years here. Kenyon was all-male then, but Peggy would come for dances and other visits. She was the Homecoming Queen, in fact, and her picture was up at Peirce Dining Hall.”
Moments later, inside the dining hall, the memories came flooding back to him. The grand hall looked like something out of Hogwarts.
Same table, 63 years later
“That’s the table I sat at every day, me and my friends, four on each side. To offset my tuition, they had me bring out trays of orange juice and food to serve the students. Parents would come and stand up on the balcony watching us. On Sundays, we would sing the alma mater for them. Have I sung it for you?”
“Yes, Dad, you have.”
As we neared the end of our tour, someone asked about Kenyon’s most famous graduates and Dad was quick to respond. With a smile and a wink, he said, “There are three: Paul Newman, the actor and salad dressing guy… Rutherford B. Hayes, the President… and Brad Johnson.”
That night, Dad reflected on our special day and told my sister, “This trip has breathed new life into me.” After returning to his home in Cincinnati the next morning, I asked him if he wanted to play some golf before I returned home.
“Wow, I haven’t played golf in years. I’m willing to try but can’t promise anything. I’m not even sure I can still hit the ball.”
“Well, I brought your old clubs with me,” I said. “Let’s hit a bucket of balls and go from there.”
The next morning at the driving range, we learned Dad can still hit a golf ball. 95% of his drives went perfectly straight and about 100 yards. In the golfing circles I run in, that’s elite.
“It’s coming back to me. Let’s play a few holes.”
“Best ball?” I asked.
“No, I think I’ll hit my own shots. You’re not that good.”
So, Dad hit his own shots and hit them well. Straight down the middle, about a hundred yards. He smiled after each shot and had the stamina to complete nine holes and give me a run for my money.
Who’s Your Caddy?
Of course, it wasn’t about scoring. No, this was about spending time with my old man. This was about reliving glory on a college campus and driving the green on a couple of par threes. This was about staring down dementia and saying, “You haven’t won yet.”
Let me encourage you to take the trip. Go see your aging parents while you still have them. Make it a priority. Someday, memories will be all you have, so make them now. Store them up—as many as you can. And pray that when you’re at that ripe old age, your kids will do the same for you.
As Dad and I finished the 9th hole and drove the cart up the hill to the clubhouse, he looked over at me, pumped his fist, and had one final thing to say…
He climbed the Hill and said a prayer, And founded Kenyon College there. He climbed the Hill and said a prayer, And founded Kenyon College there!
