I remember when they told us Brett would probably not respond to us in anyway. I wanted to ask (but mercifully didn't), you mean he'll be a vegetable? As a child, I thought the designation came purely from its shared properties with an inanimate object. Like a giant carrot, a carrot that needed to be fed and changed. I can remember stories of horrific accidents and hearing conversations,  "...and now the poor thing is nothing but a vegetable. I bet his parents never thought they'd be changing diapers the rest of their lives." Yes, I'm sure that was a safe bet.

Today is Brett's eleventh birthday. I hate to admit it, but his birthdays always overwhelm me with sadness. I mourn for a normal little boy's birthday celebration. I mourn the fact that another year has not brought any change, other than that he's bigger.

This past week I attended a funeral of a boy that was the same age as Dane. It was heart-wrenching, unbearable. I wouldn't want to compare their mourning with what I feel for Brett, but some of the same truths I use to encourage myself are true for them as well.

Their son is no longer tormented; Brett is content and he'll never be affected by the evilness of this world. Their son's feelings will never be hurt again; Brett's feelings will never be hurt. Their son will never make another bad decision; Brett isn't capable of making a bad decision. They no longer have to worry about their son's safety or wonder where he is; we always know where Brett is.

 I know God is good. I know He assured us that "all things will work together for good for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose."  I believe that God is bringing about more good through Brett being the way he is than if he were perfect.

And their son? What if just one person joined the ranks of Heaven because of the words that were shared at his funeral?  This life is, after all, just a blip compared to eternity. Their lives will never be the same, a day won't go by that they won't miss their sweet baby boy (my mom can attest to that).

His father shared words I will never forget; his son had spent the last few years of his life doubting God's goodness...but that he sure wasn't doubting it now. I love that, because ultimately, that's the most comforting truth of all: God IS good, even when we can't see the good, He IS good, and without a doubt, their beloved son is now basking in God's goodness.

We'd been saying for years that we wanted to downsize to a ranch house, that Brett was getting too heavy to carry up and down the stairs, that we didn't need all that house, all that upkeep.

We were forever looking, but never finding. Our friend was showing a home in our subdivision and told his clients that, eventually (when said ranch was found), our house would be on the market.  

Turns out, our house was exactly what they were looking for, in fact, they felt that our house was meant to be their house. We had nowhere to go, but they made us a really good offer...surely we could trust God to find us a home? 

As the closing date neared, I became more and more discouraged. Houses were selling before we even got a chance to look at them. Bob and I weren't agreeing on things and my biggest prayer had been that we'd be on the same page, that we'd both know it when we found the right place. Now I wanted to take it all back. I started asking what would happen if we decided not to sell after all. Could they sue us, would they sue us? 

 A few days before the closing, Bob was doing his usual crawl through neighborhoods looking for "for sale" signs. He pulled up next to a yard filled with furniture. He learned from a neighbor that the house had been sold, but the sale had fallen through and they were planning on listing it with a realtor in the next few days.  

Through pure determination, Bob was able to track down the attorney in charge of the estate and asked if we could come see it before they listed it. I wasn't enthused, but I was trying to be open minded. 

As soon as we walked through the door, I could envision us living there. I raced ahead of Bob, practically running from room to room. I was coming up from the basement when Bob stopped me and said that I wouldn't believe my eyes when I looked in the garage, there were tears in his eyes.  I seriously doubted anything about a garage could wow me that much, but whatever. I opened the door and there it was--a beautiful wheelchair ramp!  

I whispered to Bob that we needed to make an offer. I had little doubt in my mind that the previous owner had spent the last years of his life doing little more than smoking, urinating and installing shelves in the basement. 

The "finished" basement was divided into nine rooms, most of them large closets with wall to wall shelving. And what was up with all the electrical outlets? Oh. My. Word. There are 121 outlets in the basement alone. Seriously. I counted them just for this blog. We made a low ball offer; I tried to justify the offer by driving home the stench, the filth, the beyond weird basement. She thought it was ridiculously low, but agreed to present it and get back with us the following week.

We had a wish list of all the things we wanted. This house had all of them, even the piddly things way, way down on our list. I was afraid to get too excited about how insanely perfect it all was, how in awe I felt at God's perfect timing, because what if it wasn't meant to be? We didn't have to wait long, she called Bob first thing Monday morning to let us know they accepted our offer, they didn't even counter it. 

We never want to get over the miracle of finding this house, it truly is more than we could have asked for or imagined and we are very, very thankful.

I experienced a minor miracle on my way to work the other day. As I was driving, my van suddenly became obnoxiously noisy. I called Bob. With Bob's new job, he can be anywhere in the metropolitan Detroit area at any given time.

When I called, he was having lunch 30 seconds from where I was (30 seconds!!!). I needed help right that minute and God provided Bob right that minute.

He strolled out of the restaurant and saw that my muffler dragging behind me (hence the obnoxiously loud noise). He went back into the restaurant, grabbed a knife, cut the muffler off and tossed it in the back of the van.  As I roared off (dragster style), my eyes filled with tears of awed gratitude. The whole "fix" had delayed me less than five minutes.

A little side story. When I asked Bob where he was, he answered he was right across from The Wart knowing I would know exactly where that was.

When we were little, my older brother Jeff grew a giant wart on his finger. No amount of Compound W appeared to diminish the size or staunch the growth. He had me and my little brother Craig convinced it was contagious and would torment us by pressing that gruesome thing against our exposed skin in unsuspecting moments. I was terrified it was only a matter of days before I sprouted my own nasty wart.

One day on our way home from church, Craig pointed to this domed white structure (I have no idea what it is or what purpose it serves), and claimed it was Jeff's big wart on display. From that day forward, we never drove by it without acknowledging it as Jeff's wart on display.

Decades later, I still can't resist pointing out Uncle Jeff's Big Wart on Display to my own family. Who knew God would use The Wart landmark to show me exactly where Bob was at exactly the time I needed him? And even gave me one more reason to be thankful: I never did sprout my own nasty wart.

I've never cared about cars--other than preferring not to drive a nice one. I have a knack for getting them scraped up and dented up in no time, or rather (as I have to constantly remind Bob), I have a knack for parking next to people that scrape and dent up my car in no time. It's so much less stressful to buy one already dented up.

Even though Bob has sold cars for 30 plus years, I've never picked out a car for myself. Before Bob bought my last car, I asked him what color it was (not that it mattered). He said it wasn't a color, per se, just brownish/grayish/greenish. After driving it for a few months, I could name the color: road dust. It was brilliant. It didn't matter if it was filthy or freshly washed, it looked the same.

I have a freakish fear of going through car washes. I slowly lurch up there, not quite trusting that the guy impatiently beckoning me in has my wheels lined up properly. I'm squirrelly about putting it in neutral at exactly the right time (I've been screamed at several times). I'm petrified I'll touch the steering wheel and get off the tracks and get stuck in there and then I get all worked up about the precise point I need to put it back in drive and squeal out of there in time to not get hit by the car behind me. All that anguish is not worth a clean car, so "road dust" is now my number one color choice.

Unfortunately, we reached a point with Brett that I could no longer lift him to put him in the car. We needed a van that could accomodate his wheelchair. Bob spent hours, upon hours looking for one. I was horrified by the prices and I hated the thought of giving up my beloved road dust colored car. Bob was willing to drive hundreds of miles to find an affordable van that would suit our needs but ended up not having to go anywhere at all. I could fill a page with the miraculous details of how God brought us the perfect van practically to our doorstep.

The first time I drove my God given van to work, it was cold and windy.  After hauling out my luggage and heading to the bus stop, I heard the ominous click that signaled the door was opening and the ramp was being deployed. There is no stopping the process once it starts, so I had to stand there and watch the door slowly open, the ramp slowly spring out and then slowly lower itself to the ground. Bob told me the ramp would only work when the van was running and the button was pushed from the inside, so I got back in, started it up and hit the button to reverse the process. After I impatiently waited for it to sloooowwwly tuck itself back in and the door to click shut, I gathered my bags and headed back to the stop.

When I reached the stop, I (thankfully) looked back at the van and saw (to my horror) that the process had started again, the ramp was already springing out. Now I was running late and numb from the cold and I wanted to kick the sides in of this despicable, crazy, not road dust colored van.

When I finally made my check in, I was frustrated and freezing. I could hardly wait to tell Bob how little he knew about how the ramp worked and to hear how very, very sorry he felt for me.

I was a little ashamed at my level of animosity towards the van. What had happened to my gratitude? It was then that I realized what an absolute gift it was that I hadn't parked next to someone. In all my years of trying to find the closest spot in the employee lot, I'm pretty sure I have never parked next to an empty spot.

How much worse it would have been had that ramp popped out and bashed in the windows of the car next to me (twice!). The rest of the day I whispered prayers of gratitude for that empty spot, definitely a God thing. And, I'm happy to say, my gratitude for the van has returned as well. It has been a wonderful thing not to be marooned at home with Brett--and I am very, very grateful.

I remember thinking that having a child with severe disabilities would be one of the worst things that could ever happen to a person. I remember sitting in the cry room at church watching a couple that sat back there with their grown son.

The son was very animated and loudly asked the same questions over and over. When the singing began he would leap up, joyously clapping and belting out any word he might recognize, usually just "Jesus."  I felt sick for them.

Today, as I sit back in that same cry room with Brett, I think what I wouldn't give to see that joy on Brett's face, to see him leap up and loudly sing out Jesus' name.

Recently we had about a dozen special needs passengers on board. One fifty-ish man was particularly thrilled to be on an airplane. He excitedly grasped my hand and asked me how I was. Pre-Brett I would have been uncomfortable, not wanting him to touch me and doing my best not to make eye contact. That day I was filled with genuine affection for him. His uninhibited joy and friendliness was contagious. I didn't even mind that he asked me 20 times if we were almost to Detroit. When one of the women asked me for a seat belt extension for her friend, she made it seem like a good thing. She was proud of her friend for managing to grow big enough to need an extension. Good job!

Having Brett has had the same effect on Bob. One day one of his customers mentioned that his wife was waiting in the the car with their mentally impaired grown daughter. Bob encouraged him to bring them in. The daughter was non-verbal, just sat there letting out a few whoops now and then. Bob said when he looked at her he was overwhelmed with love for her and impulsively told her parents that he loved them. They sat in stunned silence...who expects their car salesman to tell them he loves them?

After they had signed all the paperwork and left, the man returned to the showroom, hugged Bob and told him he loved him too. I love that story. I love that through loving and caring for Brett, God has changed us...our perspective and our hearts. I love seeing that what these special people may lack in ability, God has compensated for with an abundance of joy.

I can't remember a time when I haven't wanted to lose ten pounds. Looking back, I've only been ten pounds lighter during times of intense grief, extreme anxiety or have had teeth pulled. Evidently, that's when I've shopped the most too, as my closet is full of clothes I could only fit into if I lost ten pounds.

When I meet people who have successfully lost weight, I am always eager to know how they did it. Eat less and exercise more? Oh well, never mind.

But do I really think I would be happier if I weighed less?  The question made me think about what really makes one happy. I listened to a Tim Keller sermon about it and he said happiness is never, ever found by directly seeking it; it is always a by-product of seeking something more than happiness.

The word "blessed" in the Bible is generally defined as happy. The Bible doesn't say "blessed are those who seek after blessedness."  It says, "blessed [happy] are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness... for they will be filled."  Other verses tell us "not to worry about tomorrow, but to seek after His kingdom and His righteousness and all will be added."

Being filled, lacking nothing and being worry-free sounds like the picture of contentment to me. Yet how difficult it is to stay focused on doing the right thing, when there are so many wrong things everywhere we look.

Ironically enough, the times I've been most focused on (or seeking after) thinness, I've gained weight. As soon as I resolve to eat less, food is all I can think about. If I decide to follow particular food "rules," I become so obsessed with the rules that it robs me of the God-given enjoyment of eating.

As shallow as it is, I can see the parallels. It's all about what we set our minds on.  Happiness is a by-product of making right choices, God's kingdom choices...like honesty, selflessness and gratitude.
We're always better served when we focus on loving more rather than sinning less. 

"Focus on heaven and get earth thrown in. Focus on earth and get neither."
                                                                                                               C.S. Lewis

As a Christian, I don't believe in chance. Not chance meetings, chance friendships, chance tragedies. I don't believe anything happens just "by chance." If it's not divinely orchestrated by God it is at the very least allowed by Him.

Midway through December I felt myself falling into my usual Christmas funk. I'm not sure what brings it on, but I think it's seeing all the children, their very palpable excitement--about Santa coming, the Christmas presents, the days off from school.  I miss the bribing for good behavior, "You don't want a lump of coal in your stocking, do you?"

I see and watch all this, and I can't help but miss that magical time when the kids were little, and I can't help but contrast it to Brett's total obliviousness. I think of how incredibly fun it would be to experience all that Christmas wonder again with Brett, not just as parents but with his two grown siblings as well. And I think if only Brett was a perfect, healthy little boy, the Season would once again be joyous for me.

I flew with Tammy about that time and, as God would have it, I shared a jumpseat with a flight attendant I'd never met before. We clicked. I shared more with her than I've felt comfortable sharing with friends I've known for years.

At the end of our three days together, with her eyes full of tears, she exclaimed how good God was! She said that He had known that I was exactly what she needed. She had been down too, and my vulnerability and willingness to share my stories had lifted her out of her funk. And miraculously, I realized she had done the same for me! God gave us those precious moments on the jumpseat to share our personal stories of pain, grace, mercy and forgiveness and we both were lifted up. It wasn't a "chance" encounter. Just as she acknowledged, God orchestrated that time together.

God is good. Always. Even when He allowed a gene to mutate in my unborn child, causing severe disabilities. Not that I don't ever question the reason for Brett's existence. Not that I can always see the goodness his life brings to this world. Not that I don't long for some responsiveness from him. But I choose to believe that God is good, "that in all things He works for the GOOD of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose." (Romans 8:28)

There are times when I really worry that I might be suffering from early onset of Alzheimer's.

The other day I showed up for work with my boots on the wrong feet. Of course I didn't have an easy time getting them on that morning, but I attributed it to abnormally swollen feet. I eat loads of popcorn most nights and I'm used to my feet being swollen in the morning.

As I walked through the concourse, I wondered how I had ever believed that they were comfortable boots. They were downright cruel! I was flying with Tammy and asked her if she thought my feet looked funny.

"Have you ever noticed how much my feet point out like that?" She surmised that maybe it was just the style of the boots.

The day was half over before I realized they were on the wrong feet, mostly because I started thinking how silly it was that they zipped up on the outside.

The other day I was frantically digging through my purse for my phone...while I talked on it! I think the best reason to keep a land line is the ability to call my cell phone when I can't find it. If I would have been home, I would undoubtedly have done this, only figuring out that I was on it when I saw "home" calling in. Scary.

I know the mere size of my purse has caused many unnecessary minor panic attacks. My constant, angst-filled digging through my cavernous purse drives Bob crazy. But I need that big purse. For one, I don't go anywhere without my "bag of tricks" (my make up bag), because you never know when I might "get in a fix."  Remember Felix the Cat? "Whenever he gets in a fix, he reaches into his bag of tricks?"

And heaven forbid I get stuck somewhere with nothing to do...consequently I always have reading material, paper to write on, pens, coupons to sort, my phone, gum, Advil, wallet, hair clips, hair spray, a comb and sometimes my iPad. It takes a mighty big purse to hold all that stuff.

It's been said that two of the most comforting words in the English language are "me too."  That's why it's important to share our stories. I love it when people can relate to what I'm saying, often because they have similar stories. I'm really hoping there are at least a few people out there that can give me a "me too," because it sure would do a lot to alleviate my fears.