Too Many Puppies in the Box

I have often told my bride that there are simply too many puppies in the box here at Holtville Middle School. By that, I mean to say that there are so many children that I encounter on a daily basis that need nothing more than a change of environment. If somehow I could take them home and remove them from their circumstances, I could change their lives forever.

The seventh grader living in generational poverty waiting to drop out. The eighth grader who gets tossed from one family member to another. The seventh grader being forced to live with his father's new family because of the tragedy his mother has experienced. The sisters who live with an aunt and uncle because mom is serving time.

All of them... puppies in a box wanting nothing more than a home where they can be loved. The problem is, I can't take them home. I can love them while they're here, I can encourage them when I see them. I can smile and let them know that I believe in them...

But I can't take them home.

Family Memories

My mother's only sister, the only surviving member of their little family of four, passed away yesterday afternoon. Her death was not a surprise as she had been bedridden, her body and mind having been slowly deteriorating over the past several years. While I mourn her loss and am sad for my mother, my uncle, and my cousins, I find great comfort in knowing that she is now whole and was welcomed to heaven by her mother, her father, and a great number of aunts, uncles, grandparents, and loved ones who went on before her. Her faith in her Savior is now more real than ever before.

I am sharing below something I wrote and posted on another blog when my grandfather shortly before my grandfather passed away several years ago.


My grandfather has never been an affectionate man. I suppose this may be typical for men of his generation, but nevertheless, he has always been more of a handshaker than a hugger. I have typically shaken that hand and pulled him into a hug since I am just the opposite… more of a hugger than a handshaker.

Back in the summer of 1994, I worked for the Alabama Baptist State Convention. I traveled around the state with a guy named Mike; he was a worship leader, and I was the speaker for a series of revivals all over the state. We worked with several small and medium sized churches from one end of Alabama to another. One of those churches was Little River Baptist Church in Chrysler, Alabama. Chrysler is located due south of Uriah, Alabama, which means it is smack dab in the middle of nowhere. However, it is within driving distance of Atmore, where my grandfather lives.

That summer, my grandmother was still alive, though just barely. She was completely bedridden with Parkinson’s and dementia. Parkinson’s was destroying her body, and dementia was ravaging her mind. Frankly, I am not sure she even knew who she was during those eight years she spent in the back bedroom, much less who we were. God used that eight years to transform my grandfather. He went from being a particularly gruff man to an incredibly tender caregiver who refused to even consider a nursing home as long as he was able to care for her at home. He didn’t get out much during that time.

But he did make plans to come to Little River Baptist Church to hear me speak. In fact, he even drove over during the day before coming over that night: he wanted to make sure that he knew how to find the church. He came in right after the service began, so I didn’t get a chance to speak to him. I did acknowledge him before I spoke by introducing him to those in attendance that night.

After the service, the members of the church were very friendly as they welcomed my grandfather and told him how they had enjoyed having me there that week. In fact, I had to wait my turn to get to speak to him. As I approached him, I was mindful of his less than affectionate nature, and I just stuck out my hand to shake his.

He took my hand in his, and for the first time, he pulled me into a hug. He told me how much he had enjoyed the service and how proud he was of me. His face was beaming that night, and I will never forget the pride in his eyes or the way he hugged me.

Grandaddy is not doing well. We have been noticing his mental decline over the past months, and we know that he is now experiencing Alzheimer’s firsthand. Two weeks ago, he had surgery on his feet and was kept in the hospital in Atmore for observation and antibiotics by IV. While there, his lungs began to fill with fluid, and he experienced congestive heart failure. A doctor there was able to revive him, and he was airlifted down to Mobile. He was in ICU for a week and half, and only two days ago was placed into a regular room. He has been stabilized, and his lungs and heart seem to be functioning better. In fact, they are now looking at transferring him back to Atmore.

Unfortunately, many times when an Alzheimer’s patient experiences a physical problem like this, it speeds up the mental decline. Thus far, it seems like that might be the case. We are hoping that part of the confusion might be from the drug-induced coma he was in for over a week, but we just don’t know. Only time will tell.

If you pray, keep him in your prayers.