For me, there's nothing quite as satisfying as a fountain Diet Coke from McDonalds. And who can pass up one dollar for any size drink? I feel like I'm getting it for free if I manage to cobble together enough loose change from the floor, ash tray and cup holder to pay for it.

The other day I went to a McDonalds that had two ordering lanes that merge together. I'm always amazed they don't get the orders confused. That day, a guy insisted on merging in front of me even though I knew I was ahead of him.  You Bozo! You're going to mess up their system! Sure enough, they didn't have my order right.

"I only ordered a large Diet Coke," I patiently corrected.

"Hmmm. I don't see it on the screen. Did you order it at the speaker?"

"Uh..." I had to think about it. "No. I'm sorry! I forgot that part." How embarrassing! I was the one messing up their system.

"Not a problem," the girl smiled. But it was a wee bit of a problem because she had to walk away from the pay window to explain it to the delivery window.

Now I was doubly embarrassed to dump my warm, sticky handful of pennies, nickels and dimes into her hand.

Still, she was gracious. Never stopped smiling. The delivery girl was just as pleasant. Even my, "It is diet, right??" didn't faze her. Nothing aggravates me more than taking that first sip and discovering it's regular. Ugh! I never have time to whirl back around. What I'm tempted to do is spike it into the ground.

Their kindness and patience touched me. It was only later that I thought they probably felt sorry for me.

It made me feel guilty about my own lack of patience. I can barely be civil to passengers who ask what we have.

I answer with a big sigh, "SodasJuicesCoffeeTeaBeerWine and Cocktails." Without a smile. To be honest, I often leave off the "tea" option because it requires retrieving from the galley.

Heaven forbid they ask what kind of soda/juice/cocktails.

I resolved to start answering that question graciously, with a big smile. I think I can do it--as long as it's only one passenger a day--after all, I'm pretty sure I was the ONLY customer that day who zoomed up to the pay window without ordering first.

I've always treasured my mom's laughter. My dad especially appreciated her bolstering ability to find humor in the most dire of circumstances. No matter the crisis, my mom would remind him of all the things they had to be grateful for...their health, their passionate love for each other, their children, and their Lord who promised to meet every need. Why, it would be positively un-Christian to let the calamities of this world steal their joy!

After my dad died suddenly of a massive heart attack, I feared I'd never hear her laugh again, convinced a "calamity" had been able to steal her joy after all. My mother was just shy of her 58th birthday, too young to be widowed.

After the funeral, I accompanied her back to Florida and stayed with her for eight days. The rawness and intensity of her grief alarmed me. I helplessly ached with her, incapable of consoling her.

I'd always spent hours on the phone with my mom, never running out of things to say. I couldn't wait to regale her with the latest stories, eager to hear her predictable laughter. Now it didn't feel appropriate to relay a funny story--would it ever? Everything I thought to say seemed trivial, meaningless, or worse, make it glaringly obvious that my life would be mostly returning to normal, while hers never would--just one lonely, sad day after another. For the first time in my life, I didn't know what to say to her. If I had that time back, I would allow her to grieve. I would encourage her to relive every memory she had of my dad, and I would have done the same. My dad was a very funny man, there would have been laughter in the midst of our tears.

My mom always made an effort to look nice for my dad. A half hour or so before he'd be expected home from work, she'd fix her hair, put on a little make-up and change into something pretty. My handsome dad would stroll in from work and say she sure was "a sight for sore eyes."

When Mom and I returned to the empty condo after the funeral, we didn't bathe, wash our hair or get out of our pajamas for days. It seemed pointless and somehow irreverent to get gussied up without Dad there to tell us that we were a "sight for sore eyes."

One day, in an attempt to distract her from the horror of my dad's absence, I suggested we play a game of Scrabble. It was a mistake. A few moves into it, she shoved herself away from the table, ran into the kitchen and leaned over the sink, sobbing.

"I can't stand it! I can't stand it! I CAN'T STAND IT!"  she wailed, louder and more desperate each time.

As I put my arms around her, trying to hold her shaking, sobbing body, something in me snapped. I was terrified. I had lost my dad, and now I feared I was losing my mom too. I started shaking and crying right along with her.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I don't know what to do," I sobbed, frantic. "I. Don't. Know. What.To. Do."

At that moment, her pain became secondary to mine. She had always been the comforter, it had been her role. I never had to play it, and it was obvious I didn't know how to play it. She turned to comfort me.

"Oh, Honey," she said softly. "I'm sorry. I'm going be alright, it's just going to take time."

We continued to cry and hold each other and the frantic fear that felt like a vice around my heart loosened a little. I was still desperate to relieve her pain, but at least I wasn't fearing for her sanity.

The next few years brought more loss. Unimaginable heartache. My brother, Craig, was the only reason my mom stayed in Florida. After he died tragically in an airplane crash, she came to Michigan to live with me. All the heartache God had allowed, had brought my mom to me just when I needed her most.

Long after we decided we were done having children, I inconceivably became pregnant with our son Brett. From the beginning we were told there were problems. We were advised to terminate the pregnancy. Of course, I wanted to believer God would make our baby perfect and prove the doctors wrong, but deep down I never believed that was His plan, so I thought I was prepared for the bad news. And yet, after Brett's birth, the reality of just how severe his disabilities were was staggering. We were told he would probably never respond to us in any way, that he he would never walk or talk, and would more than likely be blind. He wouldn't be able to do anything on his own and we would be caring for him the rest of our lives.

Those first few weeks after we brought Brett home from the hospital are a blur. Those days of carefully measuring and re-measuring his ever growing head, not wanting to believe the horrifying numbers. The days and nights of trying to get him to drink one ounce of formula from a syringe on the hour, every hour. The seemingly impossible, frustrating job of trying to keep the oxygen tubes in his tiny nostrils.

When we brought him home they provided us with a "mother tank" of oxygen that had a 50 foot cord attached to it so we could walk around the house with him. Anytime we'd pick him up we'd pull the cord several times, ensuring we had enough slack to keep the cord from pulling against his face.

Several days after he was no longer on the oxygen, I watched my mom pick him up and "pull" on an imaginary oxygen cord. I burst out laughing. What made it especially funny was that I had caught myself doing the same thing. We had both gotten so used to that cord that long after it was gone we were still "pulling" the air of an imaginary cord. It was ridiculous and we laughed until we cried.

The aspect of my mom I feared losing the most hadn't been lost after all. In spite of all the horrific heartache, her endearing capacity to find joy in the midst of heartache remained. Her ability to appreciate funny stories and laugh heartily returned. Her unrelenting gratitude and her certainty of a Heavenly reunion gave her the strength and joy to persevere, and it provided me a much needed example of what deep faith in our sovereign Lord can accomplish.

"Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope." Romans 5:3-4

Five Things I Learned at My First Writer's Conference

1.) I need to get over myself. I had hoped by the time I reached my 50's I would have developed a little more personality--capable of engaging strangers and honestly sharing my struggles and dreams. Didn't happen.

2.) I needed my friend with me. She is engaging and willing to be vulnerable. She likes to sit in the front row, while I feel a small knot of anxiety when there aren't any seats left in the back row. (We compromised and sat in the middle.)  At dinner, one of the featured writers (gulp!) sat at our table. Unintimidated, my friend got everyone at the table to share their writing dream. Even I shyly admitted I wanted to finish writing my hokey romance novel. As soon as we finished eating, my friend excused herself to connect with another writer. She left me on my own! There are two subjects I try to avoid: church and my job. Church, because I don't go to church. My job, because the same two questions are invariably asked: "what is your normal route?" and "what is your favorite layover city?" Las Vegas comes to mind as my favorite city, because I love the hotel and they pick us up and drop us off at the airplane. No going through security or waiting at the curb. If Bismarck offered the same service, Bismarck would be my favorite city. In Christian circles, not going to church and citing Las Vegas as your favorite layover are not endearing admissions.

3.) There are literally thousands of talented writers, filled to the brim with personality, wit and connections. Everyone has a story, and most can not only write it well, but they can tell it well too. At times, I felt woefully inadequate and was tempted to "throw in the towel."

4.) Not new, but repeated by every single speaker, "Show, don't tell."  Example of telling: "She was nervous." Showing: "She sweated profusely and sat there like a mute stooge." (Obviously, I didn't have to dig very deep for that one.)

5.) To expect failure. The most successful people have also failed the most. Nothing worth attaining comes easy; writing is hard work. "The difference between a successful person and others is not a lack of strength, not a lack of knowledge, but rather in a lack of will." --Vincent T. Lombardi

In the last few years I've spent way too much time and money in my least favorite place in the world: the dentist's chair.

When we were little, I swear the only time my brothers ever picked up a toothbrush was the day of our dentist appointments. Yet, they never had cavities. I was religious about brushing my teeth, and had a cavity every visit.

The dentist's office my mom took us to had a big pirate's treasure chest full of toys. You would have thought they would have taken pity on me and let me pick out two toys. For crying out loud, I was the one keeping them in business. More often than not, the toys from the treasure chest didn't last through the day. Jeff and Craig usually chose wooden paddles with bouncy balls on strings stapled to them. Which meant I spent the ride home dodging and flinching from the balls whizzing around the car.

One of the worst spankings I ever got was courtesy of one of those paddles. I had witnessed one of my brothers get hit by a ball right where it hurts the most. The theatrics that followed were impressive, the drop to the knees, the moaning and howling. I thought it was ridiculously over the top, but worth remembering...maybe the next time I got in a fight with one of them, a well placed kick would ensure an easy, quick victory. I employed this tactic exactly once, hence the paddling. I remember my mom asking me if I knew how bad that hurt them? Yes, I knew. I wanted to answer, "Well, duh!!! Do you think they know much a punch in the stomach hurts me?" But I knew better.

Of course, it wasn't enough that my teeth were riddled with cavities. They had to grow in all snaggletoothed, too. Nowadays, when kids have too many teeth to line up nicely, they wear expanders. Back when I had to have braces, they just pulled four perfectly good teeth to make room. They were probably the only cavity-free teeth I had. I could really use those teeth now.

Years later, it turns out all that vociferous (but useless) brushing caused gum recession. Now, if I smile big, air is painful. And, as if they didn't have enough torturous little tools, now they have one that blasts concentrated puffs of air on the sensitive areas.

Things haven't changed, I still can't go to the dentist without receiving bad news. Only now it's more expensive. I'd like to think it's all a scam, but no, they have the evidence on film. Films that require placing razor edged pieces of cardboard in my mouth to bite down on.

Root canals are the latest money suckers. Since I'm not feeling any pain, I'm skeptical that they're really necessary. At which point a little fear mongering is in order: "The last thing you want to experience while you're flying is an abscessed tooth." After the root canal is done, a crown is needed.  I remember the sticker shock of that--does the "crown" have real diamonds and rubies in it or what? Maybe I would forgo it. That's when they bring the mirror out and show you what the root canal has left: a little, gray, pointed fang. No one would opt out of covering that baby up.

Okay. Enough whining. No one likes a whiner. I just needed to vent a little. I'll just try and be thankful that I'm not a toothless whiner--yet.

As long as I can remember, I've wanted to be just like my mom. I've been inspired by her selfless love, how she has risen above her own considerable grief to offer comfort and encouragement.

Her hard earned wisdom has guided me through many difficult days. When I'm experiencing especially down days, I tend to avoid people (except poor Bob, of course). Because really, who wants to be around a downer? But my mom is always able to get to the nitty-gritty of my sadness and literally set me back on track to right thinking. Thinking that takes the focus off of myself and on to all I have to be grateful for and the importance of living in the present. Life is short, carpe diem!

Sadly, not only am I not as selfless as she is, I don't laugh as easily either. But she thinks I'm funny and her laugh is contagious, so consequently, we've spent my entire life laughing together. I talk to her pretty much every day and every day we find something to laugh about.

When I was in high school she asked me to trim the back of her hair. She's always been one to save money by cutting her own hair. I took the scissors and began snipping. I cut it unevenly and after numerous attempts to get it even, it ended up much shorter than she wanted. Which made her mad. Which hurt my feelings.

I asked her what had made her think I knew how to cut hair in the first place? She said I certainly didn't hesitate to grab the scissors and tear into it like I knew what I was doing. In moments, the anger and hurt turned into uproarious laughter. I don't think I would have been laughing had she done that hatchet job on me...but that's the difference.

The other day, I was telling her about a girl I met who named all five of her children after U.S. presidents. There was Kennedy, Reagan, Madison, Jackson and...? I couldn't think of the last one. She offered up several suggestions, trying to jog my memory.

"No, no...I know it was a conservative president."

"Hmmm..." my mom hesitated a minute. "Was it Bush?"

Of course, we erupted in laughter at the cruel absurdity of naming a child "Bush".

I can't imagine a life that doesn't include my mom and her daily doses of wisdom and laughter.  She is my biggest fan and my dearest friend, and I love her with all my heart.

Our trip to San Juan started with a miracle. Months ago, when I discovered Caitlin could get away with me for a few days, I started searching the globe to see where we might go. It's always a little tricky flying over Spring Break. My travel benefits are wonderful--as long as there are seats available so you can, you know, actually go somewhere.

When I initially started looking at flights, I was surprised to find that flights in and out of Atlanta to San Juan were wide open. Of course, as the dates neared they became less and less wide open.

Our much anticipated day of departure has arrived, and all the flights look iffy. The plan is for Caitlin to meet me in Atlanta. She calls me 15 minutes before her flight leaves. There are 21 people ahead of her on the standby list. Oh no! She'll never get on. Where did all those employees come from anyway??? I make the snap decision to have her run over to the JFK flight that leaves at the same time. The sweet gate agent takes the time to list her and issue her a new ticket.

In the meantime, I'm still scheduled to go to Atlanta. I've already missed the flight to JFK. I race to catch a flight to LaGuardia that lands one hour prior to the San Juan flight out of JFK. I give Bob a quick call to pray for a miracle, because that's what it'll take, a miracle. He tells me to expect one, yeah right.

I'm completely unfamiliar with both airports and have no idea how long it takes to get from LaGuardia to JFK. I ask my seat mate if he is from New York, he isn't, but knows enough to tell me it's highly unlikely I'll make it. As we deplane, a pilot overhears my seat mate wishing me luck.  He speaks up and offers me a number to call for a car to take me to JFK. The car company tells me exactly where to wait for them: on the departure level, not the chaotic ground transportation level, where I would have headed if the pilot hadn't intervened.

I frustratingly can't find the car that they say is right in front of me (the "Q" Car, which is actually the Kew Car). A woman waves me over and, as it turns out, is a Delta flight attendant too. The driver asks us which terminal? I haven't a clue, but the flight attendant (I didn't even catch her name) answers terminal 4.

I need to use every bit of the drive time to cancel our flights out of Atlanta and rebook us out of JFK so Caitlin can check in for both of us. As we near the airport, the flight attendant checks my flight, I need to go to terminal 2, not 4.  The security line is crazy. I am a strict rule follower, but desperate times require desperate measures. I go to the TSA pre-screened line--that I know I shouldn't be in out of uniform--and the TSA agent begrudgingly allows me through.

I make it to the gate just as they are boarding. Though the flight is oversold, we miraculously have seats. Caitlin even has a seat in First Class! I start crying. I can't help it.

Only an all powerful God could've orchestrated all these details to get us on this flight to San Juan. Several people needed to show unusual kindness and thoughtfulness. And God provided them: Caitlin's gate agent, a last minute walk-up with no reservation and no ticket easily unhinges many agents, but not her. The pilot, piping up with an ever-so-helpful phone number. The sweet flight attendant, taking the drive time to look up my departure gate. The TSA agent, some of which are on such a power trip that they take pleasure in "schooling" us on the rules, giving me the nod instead. Yes, God used these kind strangers to accomplish what I figured was a lost cause, and it made me that much more thankful for the precious time away with my sweet daughter. Thank You Jesus!

One of the things I've learned from writing this blog is how much I forget. Some of the things I've written about I simply wouldn't have remembered had I not written about it. It made me wish I had started earlier.

Most of our funny stories are remembered because of how often they're told and re-told--and the hundredth time we share them is just as funny as the first time. Actually, they may even get funnier. Sometimes it takes time to appreciate the humor in a situation.

Sadly, I can't recall the details of one of my favorite funny memories. When Dane was three or four, he wouldn't go to bed without saying prayers first. Not that he was a particularly devout little guy, it was just his way of putting off going to bed. But boy, did he find a lot to pray about! It ended up being the highlight of my day. How I wish I would have written some of them down! The only detail I can distinctly remember is his faithfulness to pray for our president: George Washington. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud in the midst of his long-winded prayers, with all his skewed facts and odd observations, but I knew one snicker would have ended forever his innocent, unaffected entreaties.

I wanted my mom to experience this hilarious prayer time, but warned her she could NOT laugh.  I snuck upstairs to try and listen in and caught her army crawling out of his bedroom, barely suppressing laughter. Thankfully, she did manage to sneak out without Dane realizing it and I was able to quietly slip in her place.

The biggest piece of advice I would offer young mothers is to write down those funny stories. Because as much as you believe you will never forget something, you will. A couple of sentences a day can provide laughter for a lifetime. Nothing bonds and heals like shared memories, shared laughter. Laughter truly is the best medicine.

"Laughter is one of the greatest tonics known to man. It is the second most powerful emotion we as people can express (the first being love)."

My daughter strongly discouraged my entry into the Facebook world, convinced that viewing pictures of friends traveling the world and living high on the hog would send me into the depths of despair because I was stuck at home with Brett.

My mom joined Facebook early on and would often leave her page open at our house. Bob would get on it, doing what Caitlin and Dane called "creeping." He couldn't resist commenting either, "Hey there! It's your dad on Gramma's Facebook..."

One day I decided Bob should have his own Facebook account and took the liberty of signing him up. At some point I noticed he had more than a hundred friend requests he hadn't accepted. I told him (because I really believed that's how it worked) that all these people were getting messages that he didn't want to be their friend.

After enjoying hours of creeping, now he was indignant that I'd signed him up.

"Why did you sign me up in the first place? I'm in SALES! Do you think I can afford to alienate hundreds of people?!?  All I wanted to do was look at Caitlin and Dane's stuff, and that was working out just fine going on your mom's."

Well! Talk about ingratitude! "How would I know you wouldn't want to be friends with people?" I huffed. "Why wouldn't you? That's the whole point!"

Anyway, ruffled feathers were smoothed, he became friends with lots of people and now he's an active member. He makes funny comments, "likes" all manner of things, wishes people happy birthday--the whole nine yards.

I finally joined after being advised that if I was serious about my dream to write, I needed to at least be vulnerable enough to post my blogs. Not that this necessarily meant people would read them, but it certainly opened up the possibility that someone might.

So I signed on and fell in love with it. Not that I'm immune to some of the rather paranoid, negative thinking that crops up on occasion...hmmm, so and so stopped liking my posts, maybe they don't like me anymore, or maybe they're just not on it anymore, but no I see they're liking other peoples' posts... I nip all that all kind of thinking in the bud, because really, AIN'T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT.

Turns out, being on Facebook didn't make me feel stuck in my own little world, it expanded my world. I get a peek into lives I wouldn't otherwise get to peek into, and they get a peek into mine, as well. I love acknowledging accomplishments and milestones and celebrating new births. I love being reconnected with friends and family I haven't seen in decades, and making new connections.  I love looking at the pictures, marveling at how quickly time flies, incredulous our babies are having babies.  There are posts that have made me laugh out loud and some that have brought tears to my eyes.

But perhaps the most unexpected gift of Facebook has been the encouraging comments on my blogs, often from unexpected sources--and usually just when I needed it most. So, for all these reasons and more, I remain an unabashed fan of Facebook.

My cousin Jen just "happened" to be on my flight the other day. There are approximately 22,000 flight attendants, so the chance of this happening (especially flying into Minneapolis rather than Detroit) is slim to none.

That time with her was definitely a gift from God. One of my New Year's resolutions is to spend more time with those I love. Jen is on that list, so I was especially thankful that God brought her to me.

Since I've always been painfully shy, God has had to bring all my friends to me.  He has used a number of ways to accomplish this. Like having last names beginning with the same letter, so seating charts put us together. Like a new girl coming on our church retreat and sharing a bunk with me. My brother marrying one, me giving birth to one, me being born to one, my mom having a surprise pregnancy with one. Rooming in college with a few, rooming in flight attendant training with a few. Growing up in the same church with some. Aunts and Uncles and cousins giving birth to several. In many, many instances it took glomming onto my other friends' friends.

All these ways and more, God has brought precious friends into my life and I don't spend near enough time with any of them. I'm determined this year will be different. As my daughter would say, I'm going to be more "intentional" about finding the time. I think I'm off to a pretty good start. I'm often marooned at home with Brett, so the first thing I needed to do was quit thinking my house had to be clean or food needed to be prepared in order to have company. How freeing is that? I invited a friend over the other day and didn't even feel compelled to change out of my pajamas.

I've always liked the analogy of our life as a tapestry with God doing the weaving. Often all we can see is the messy underside that looks like nothing more than a bunch of tangled threads, the furthest thing from order and beauty. I like to think of those threads as friends.

Some are tightly interwoven from the very beginning and stay that way to the end. Like family members and those who have shared most of our pain, sorrow and joy.

Sometimes a bright thread is woven in unexpectedly, adding a lightness and strength you weren't even aware was missing (my friend Stacey comes to mind).

Sometimes the threads separate, busily being woven into their own uniquely beautiful design on another part of the tapestry, and sometimes those threads become re-woven with yours, perhaps just when you're feeling particularly thread-bare and fragile (like my friends Kelly and Ellie).

Regardless of where we are in the weaving process, God uses each thread to add strength, beauty and variety to the fabric of our lives. But we have to allow ourselves to be interwoven. Sometimes I am tempted to isolate myself, using all my free time on my own selfish interests.

But God didn't intend us to live in isolation. He created us to enjoy the comfort, strength and beauty of high thread counts. As long as God is doing the weaving, we can be assured that regardless of the messy looking underside, He is creating "something beautiful, something good."

The only thing I like about seeing another year slip by is the idea of a fresh start and new beginnings.  This year I decided I'd try blogging about some of the changes I'd like to make, both big and small. Maybe by articulating them, I'll be more inclined to act on them.

As kids, my brothers and I usually came home from school and played outside until dinner.

Exceptions were made when there was something special on The Four O'Clock Movie, like Godzilla week. I hated Godzilla. My brothers' insistence on watching that ridiculous creature aggravated me to no end. My mom knew that, so she turned it into a special time just for us. She'd pop up a big of bowl of popcorn, with lots of salt and butter. We'd sit on opposite sides of the living room couch, our feet together, the bowl of popcorn between us and we'd read and eat to our heart's content.

I was probably into Laura Ingalls Wilder at the time, completely engrossed in "Little House in the Big Woods". I loved Ma and Pa and remember wishing that I lived back in that time. Before Godzilla. Before The Three Stooges.

I love that memory. I love that my mom was willing to put everything aside to enjoy the simple pleasure of spending companionable time with her little girl. My mom has always been good at living in the moment, seizing the pleasures of the present rather than dwelling on past mistakes or worrying about the future. I'm resolving to be more like her...to be fully present, to embrace the moment and be more grateful for what is and less guilty about what isn't or wasn't.