Dr. James Dobson's December 2016 Newsletter

Dear Friends,

It’s Christmastime again, and to help us get into the spirit of the season, I want to share something that will warm your heart. It has been my tradition for many years to send a carefully chosen story to all our friends and supporters, and this year’s selection is one of the best. It can be found in Joe Wheeler’s superb anthology, Christmas in My Heart: Volume 2. It is titled “Delayed Delivery,” and was written by Cathy Miller. They have given us permission to share their wonderful story, for which we are grateful.

There had never been a winter like this. Stella watched from the haven of her armchair as gusts of snow whipped themselves into a frenzy. She feared to stand close to the window, unreasonably afraid that somehow the blizzard might be able to reach her there, sucking her, breathless, out into the chaos. The houses across the street were all but obliterated by the fury of wind-borne flakes. Absently, the elderly woman straightened the slipcovers on the arms of her chair, her eyes glued to the spectacle beyond the glass.

Dragging her gaze away from the window, she forced herself up out of her chair and waited a moment for balance to reassert itself. Straightening her back against the pain that threatened to keep her stooped, she set out determinedly for the kitchen.

In the doorway to the next room she paused, her mind blank, wondering what purpose had propelled her there. From the vent above the stove, the scream of the wind threatened to funnel the afternoon storm directly down into the tiny house. Stella focused brown eyes on the stovetop clock. The three-fifteen time reminded her that she had headed in there to take something out of the freezer for her supper. Another lonely meal that she didn't feel like preparing, much less eating.

Suddenly, she grabbed the handle of the refrigerator and leaned her forehead against the cold, white surface of the door as a wave of self-pity threatened to drown her. It was too much to bear, losing her beloved Dave this summer! How was she to endure the pain, the daily nothingness? She felt the familiar ache in her throat and squeezed her eyes tightly shut to hold the tears at bay.

Stella drew herself upright and shook her head in silent chastisement. She reiterated her litany of thanks. She had her health, her tiny home, an income that should suffice for the remainder of her days. She had her books, her television programs, her needlework. There were the pleasures of her garden in the spring and summer, walks through the wilderness park at the end of her street, and the winter birds that brightened the feeders outside her kitchen picture window. Not today though, she thought ruefully, as the blizzard hurled itself against the eastern wall of the kitchen.

"Ah, Dave, I miss you so! I never minded storms when you were here." The sound of her own voice echoed hollowly in the room. She turned on the radio that stood on the counter next to a neatly descending row of wooden canisters. A sudden joyful chorus of Christmas music filled the room, but it only served to deepen her loneliness.

Stella had been prepared for her husband's death. Since the doctor's pronouncement of terminal cancer, they had both faced the inevitable, striving to make the most of their remaining time together. Dave's financial affairs had always been in order. There were no new burdens in her widowed state. It was just the awful aloneness...the lack of purpose to her days.

They had been a childless couple. It had been their choice. Their lives had been full and rich. They had been content with busy careers, and with each other.

They had many friends. Had. That was the operative word these days. It was bad enough losing the one person you loved with all your heart. But over the past few years, she and Dave repeatedly had to cope with the deaths of their friends and relations. They were all of an age – the age when human bodies began giving up. Dying. Face it – they were old!

And now, on this first Christmas without Dave, Stella would be on her own. Mable and Jim had invited her to spend the holiday with them in Florida, but somehow that had seemed worse than staying home alone. Not only would she miss her husband, but she would miss the snow, and the winter, and the familiarity of her home.

With shaky fingers, she lowered the volume of the radio so that the music became a muted background. She glanced toward the fridge briefly, then decided that a hot bowl of soup would be more comforting fare this evening.

To her surprise, she saw that the mail had come. She hadn't even heard the creak of the levered mail slot in the front door. Poor mailman, out in this weather! "Neither hail, nor sleet...." With the inevitable wince of pain, she bent to retrieve the damp, white envelopes from the floor. Moving into the living room, she sat on the piano bench to open them. They were mostly Christmas cards, and her sad eyes smiled at the familiarity of the traditional scenes and at the loving messages inside. Carefully, her arthritic fingers arranged them among the others clustered on the piano top. In her entire house, they were the only seasonal decoration. The holiday was less than a week away, but she just did not have the heart to put up a silly tree, or even set up the stable that Dave had built with his own hands.

Suddenly engulfed by the loneliness of it all, Stella buried her lined face in her hands, lowering her elbows to the piano keys in a harsh, abrasive discord, and let the tears come. How would she possibly get through Christmas and the winter beyond it? She longed to climb into bed and bury herself in a cocoon of blankets, not emerging until her friends and spring returned.

The ring of the doorbell echoed the high-pitched, discordant piano notes and was so unexpected that Stella had to stifle a small scream of surprise. Now who could possibly be calling on her on a day like today? Wiping her eyes, she noticed for the first time how dark the room had become. The doorbell sounded a second time.

Using the piano for leverage, she raised herself upright and headed for the front hall, switching on the living room light as she passed. She opened the wooden door and stared through the screened window of the storm door in consternation. On her front porch, buffeted by waves of wind and snow, stood a strange young man, whose hatless head was barely visible above the large carton in his arms. She peered beyond him to the driveway, but there was nothing about the small car to give clue to his identity.

Returning her gaze to him, she saw that his hands were bare and his eyebrows had lifted in an expression of hopeful appeal that was fast disappearing behind the frost forming on the glass. Summoning courage, the elderly lady opened the door slightly and he stepped sideways to speak into the space.

"Mrs. Thornhope?

She nodded affirmation, her extended arm beginning to tremble with cold and the strain of holding the door against the wind. He continued, predictably, "I have a package for you."

Curiosity drove warning thoughts from her mind. She pushed the door far enough to enable the stranger to shoulder it and stepped back into the foyer to make room for him. He entered, bringing with him the frozen breath of the storm. Smiling, he placed his burden carefully on the floor and stood to retrieve an envelope that protruded from his pocket. As he handed it to her, a sound came from the box. Stella actually jumped. The man laughed in apology and bent to straighten up the cardboard flaps, holding them open in an invitation for her to peek inside. She advanced cautiously, then turned her gaze downward.

It was a dog! To be more exact, a golden Labrador retriever puppy. As the gentleman lifted its squirming body up into his arms, he explained, "This is for you, ma'am. He's 6 weeks old and completely housebroken." The young pup wiggled in happiness at being released from captivity and thrust ecstatic, wet kisses in the direction of his benefactor's chin. "We were supposed to deliver him on Christmas Eve," he continued with some difficulty, as he strove to rescue his chin from the wet little tongue, "but the staff at the kennels start their holidays tomorrow. Hope you don't mind an early present."

Shock had stolen her ability to think clearly. Unable to form coherent sentences, she stammered, "But...I don't...I mean...who...?"

The young fellow set the animal down on the doormat between them and then reached out a finger to tap the envelope she was still holding.

"There's a letter in there that explains everything, pretty much. The dog was bought last July while her mother was still pregnant. It was meant to be a Christmas gift. If you'll just wait a moment, there are some things in the car I'll get for you."

Before she could protest, he was gone, returning a moment later with a huge box of dog food, a leash, and a book titled Caring for a Labrador Retriever. All this time the puppy had sat quietly at her feet, panting happily as his brown eyes watched her.

Unbelievably, the stranger was turning to go. Desperation forced the words from her lips. "But who...who bought it?" Pausing in the open doorway, his words almost snatched away by the wind that tousled his hair, he replied, "Your husband, ma'am." And then he was gone.

It was all in the letter. Forgetting the puppy entirely at this sight of the familiar handwriting, Stella had walked like a somnambulist to her chair by the window. Unaware that the little dog had followed her, she forced tear-filled eyes to read her husband's words. He had written it three weeks before his death and had left it with the kennel owners to be delivered along with the puppy as his last Christmas gift to her. It was full of love and encouragement and admonishments to be strong. He vowed that he was waiting for the day when she would join him. And he had sent her this young animal to keep her company until then.

Remembering the little creature for the first time, she was surprised to find him quietly looking up at her, his small panting mouth resembling a comic smile. Stella put the pages aside and reached down for the bundle of golden fur. She thought that he would be heavier, but he was only the size and weight of a sofa pillow. And so soft and warm. She cradled him in her arms and he licked her jawbone, then cuddled up into the hollow of her neck. The tears began anew at this exchange of affection and the dog endured her crying without moving.

Finally, Stella lowered him to her lap, where he regarded her solemnly. She wiped vaguely at her wet cheeks, then somehow mustered a smile.

"Well, little guy, I guess it's you and me." His pink tongue panted in agreement. Stella's smile strengthened and her gaze shifted sideways to the window. Dusk had fallen, and the storm seemed to have spent the worst of its fury. Through fluffy flakes that were now drifting down at a gentler pace, she saw the cheery Christmas lights that edged the roof lines of her neighbors' homes. The strains of "Joy to the World" wafted in from the kitchen.

Suddenly Stella felt the most amazing sensation of peace and benediction washing over her. It was like being enfolded in a loving embrace. Her heart beat painfully, but it was with joy and wonder, not grief or loneliness. She need never feel alone again. Returning her attention to the dog, she spoke to him, "You know, fella, I have a box in the basement that I think you'd like. There's a tree in it and some decorations and lights that will impress you like crazy! And I think I can find that old stable down there, too. What d'ya say we go hunt it up?" The puppy barked happily in agreement, as if he understood every word.

This story reminds me vividly of my mother who lost her beloved husband, and I lost my father, on December 4th, 1977. On that Sunday afternoon, my mom and dad attended a birthday party for his sister. He held a baby briefly and then was asked to pray for the meal. Those were his last words, as he leaned gently into my mother’s arms and onto the floor. Though this godly man never breathed again, my cousin said that after about five minutes of CPR, my dad smiled a broad grin and was gone. What did he see on that afternoon? Who was there to meet him? I’m confident that he was greeted by the Lord Jesus Christ, whose birthday we are celebrating during this Christmas season. My dad had served Him with a willing heart since yielding to a call to preach 42 years earlier. It was a lifelong commitment.

As for my mother, she suffered the same loneliness that we read about in the story I have shared. She came to see us in California that Christmas, and we all grieved together. The empty chair at the dinner table was almost unbearable, especially for the lady whose love for her husband was profound.

But in keeping with our story, my father left a gift for my mother. It was given not after his death, but before. He had left a little toy terrier named Benji, who became her companion and source of comfort during the stark winter months in Olathe, Kansas. This little dog worshipped his master. On that fateful morning, he saw my mom and dad leave in the car, but only one of them came back. He was perplexed by my dad’s sudden disappearance. For months, he stood at the top of the stairs with his ears erect as the sun was going down each afternoon. He was looking down at the garage door, hoping it would open and his master would return. Benji and my mother grieved together and found solace in each other’s company.

Several months later, I went to Olathe to help pack my dad’s clothes and dispose of his belongings. Some of them brought tears to my eyes, including a shotgun he used when we hunted quail together. I put a suitcase on the bed and began arranging folded coats and sweaters in it. Then I realized I was being watched intently by a concerned little dog. Benji then jumped up on the bed and walked slowly over to the case. He stepped into it and sniffed each item of clothing, and then he curled down on top of them and lay down his head.

I said, “I know, Benji, I miss him too.”

Eleven years later, my mother slipped out of this life and into the next, where she was also met by her Savior. I believe she is with my dad now, and they will celebrate together for eternity.

I thank God again at this Christmastime for the tiny Baby who was born in Bethlehem more than 2000 years ago. Because of Jesus’ birth, death and resurrection, those of us who have given our hearts to Him and received His forgiveness for sins will never be separated from godly loved ones again. There will be no more tears, sadness, sickness, sorrow or death. This promise is what we are celebrating this Yuletide season.

“For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace...” (Isaiah 9:6 NIV)

It is my prayer that you and your family know this Prince of Peace and anticipate His return. We also hope you are having a warm and meaningful holiday season together. So from all of us at Family Talk, we say in one voice, “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you.”


P.S. To those who are able, please remember to help this ministry financially here at the end of the year. We have struggled somewhat this year but many of you have been generous to us. We thank you so much. You can reach us by logging onto our website at drjamesdobson.org, or by calling us at 877.732.6825. Our mailing address is: Family Talk, 540 Elkton Drive, Colorado Springs, CO 80907.

This letter may be reproduced without change and in its entirety for non-commercial and non-political purposes without prior permission from Family Talk. Copyright, 2016 Family Talk. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured. Printed in the U.S.A.

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