My first memory of Bob was from fifth grade. I was going to Sunday school class with my cousin and she confided in me that she "liked" a boy, but if I ever told anyone she would never share a secret with me ever again. I promised I wouldn't, of course. When we got to the class, she discretely pointed Bob out and I told her I thought he looked like the Blue Eagle from Sesame Street--he had a really low hairline and thick black eye brows.

Several years later I decided he was the best looking guy on the planet. He became friends with my brother. If I had any inkling he might be stopping by, I’d race up to my room and make myself look as pretty as possible.

I’d sit in the same room with them until my brother would turn and ask, “Don’t you have anything better to do than sit there and stare at us?”

I was mortified, but he was right--.I was just sitting there and staring. I’ve always had a staring problem. But a lot of girls had a hard time not staring at Bob.

For some reason I'll never understand, a few short years later, he professed his love to me. Me! A staring, immature, insecure little monster.

  

I think we jumped into marriage before either of us was ready. I wasn't involved in any of the planning for the big day (other than my dress). I wasn't even aware of which songs were going to be sung. Looking back, it's hard to fathom, but it's true.

It wasn't until the night of the rehearsal that I recognized a song from Fiddler on the Roof. Eeek! I hated that movie, but the lyrics were oh-so appropriate. 

                                        Is this the little girl I carried?
                                        Is this the little boy at play?

                                       When did she get to be a beauty?
                                       When did he grow to be so tall?

                                      Wasn't it yesterday when they were small?
                                      I don't remember getting older, when did they?

The fact is, if I would have gotten a peek into some of the difficult days ahead of us, I probably would have bailed (and saved my parents a lot of shekels).

How fortunate God doesn't let us see into the future. Because if I had bailed I would have missed out on experiencing the miraculous ways God would heal our marriage, making us stronger and more dependent on Him than ever.

From the very beginning of my pregnancy, we knew Brett wasn’t “right.” Bob pleaded with me to follow the doctor's advice and terminate the pregnancy, but God intervened in a miraculous way and convinced Bob we were meant to have him. 

Now Bob views Brett as a gift from God, with a special purpose. He considers him the "glue" that held us together. He has never complained or resented the fact we will be tending to Brett's every need for the rest of our lives.

Today, I marvel at the selfless, loving man I married. I don’t doubt his devotion to me anymore. Though life isn’t always easy, he does everything he can to make my life as easy as possible

And, truth be told, since the day he told me he loved me, I’ve never been able to envision my life without him.

If only I’d been born just one decade later I could have experienced the incredible technology of having (at my finger tips!!) not only a camera but also a way to take a video of each and every entertaining moment in Caitlin and Dane’s lives. I’d give almost anything to be able to sit and watch those unscripted, random scenes of hilarity and sweetness.

When Caitlin and Dane were little, the only way we had of recording anything was with a contraption not much smaller than those that television news crews lug around today. There was a lot in involved in putting it together—certainly not conducive to catching any spontaneous fun times.

I was totally incompetent with the thing. I never held it steady enough and I constantly forgot to push the "stop recording" button and thus we have literally hours of film of the pavement at Disney World. 

But one particular Christmas I was thankful for my ineptness, for forgetting to push the "stop recording" button…because it’s given me a lifetime of laughter...

All the presents had been opened and the clean-up had begun. No one had any idea the camcorder (that I’d carelessly placed on a chair) was still recording.

Only seven year old Caitlin is in “the shoot.” She’s kicking through the carnage of wrapping paper, tissue and boxes. She finally stops her search and, with a big, dramatic sigh, announces (to no one in particular), “Nope. No 'Free Willy.'”

We howled with laughter when we watched the inadvertent recording of Caitlin kicking her way through dozens of presents in search for the one thing she’d asked for but didn’t get.

The phrase became a standard joke between me and my mom. Heaven forbid I replied, “Nope,” to any question, because neither of us could help but follow it up with, “No 'Free Willy.'” 

I can relate to my seven year old Caitlin this year. In the face of all God has given me and in the wake of one of the most exciting years of my life (my first grandchild is due to arrive any moment), I’ve been kicking through the gifts, only focusing on the one gift that’s missing…the wondrous gift of my mother’s constant love and laughter. 

I’ve been convicted of the need to sit and savor the greatest gift of all…Jesus. Prince of peace, Lord of Lords! Love has come, hope is born! What an indescribable gift it is to know that nothing in all creation can surpass the glorious gift of His Son.

Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

(I stumbled upon this blog, written almost exactly three years before my mom left us for her Heavenly Home.)


I've been so inspired by my mom's 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 between the two of us.

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 into 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.

I just returned from a wonderful visit to see my brother and his family in Charlotte, NC.

While I was there I was able to reconnect with Robin and Ellie, my best friends from college. It had been 25 years since I’d seen Robin, but Ellie and I have kept in touch.

Ellie’s husband Johan, was recently a victim of downsizing. He was elated because it freed him to pursue his own dreams. Ellie went kicking and screaming. She went from living a life of leisure in Connecticut to learning how to drive a fork lift for Johan’s bourgeoning business in Charlotte.

While leaving Costco, something blew off Ellie’s cart and a kind woman ran to retrieve it. And who might that kind woman be? Robin. Definitely a God thing! They were meant to be reunited.

Ellie insisted on picking me up from the airport because it would give us more time to visit.

I told her about my recent trip to Santiago with Dane. She knows I’m a ditz and always appreciates my stories.

When I was checking out of our hotel, the man at the desk asked me, “Habla Ingles?”

“No habla Ingles.” I stupidly answer. Of course I know what he’s asking. It’s just me being ditzy. 

Looking rather incredulous, he asks me again. 

“No habla Ingles.” I repeat a little more firmly.

“Habla Espanol?” 

“No habla Espanol.”

At this point, he’s not sure where to go and finally asks, “Americano?”

Bingo.

The second night I’m in Charlotte, we all meet for dinner and we talk about some of my most embarrassing moments. 

Like the time I went to class with a big curler in my hair. All the second glances I was getting served to puff up my ego a bit. 

Like the time I hit the dirt when a giant leaf came dive-bombing towards my head. I watched “The Birds” when I was five years old and have been terrified of them ever since. The shadow of that leaf looked exactly like a big bird.

Most embarrassing of all was the time I got caught eating Robin’s food. Robin is 5’7” and weighed 98 pounds. I am 5’8” and weighed 150 pounds.

Robin always had snacks in our room. Since I was forever trying to lose a few, I never had snacks, but it didn't keep me from sneakily munching on hers. 

One day I came into our room and found Robin peering into what she thought was a toy surprise from her cereal box, possibly a little magnifying glass. 

She had accused me earlier of eating her "Donkey Kong" cereal, which I'd flatly denied. 

When I walked in and saw her with her “toy,” I was thrilled she’d found the missing glass piece from my watch. 

Busted. 

Not only had I been snacking on her cereal but I had pawed through it so much that the face of my watch had come off in the box. How gross, how mortifying. 

Thankfully, my beloved sister-in-law, Shannon, appreciates my stories just as much as my college friends. I can’t express how thankful I am that my job allows me to fly in for a quick visit and laugh with such abandon, because laughter really is the best medicine.

One of the greatest blessings in my life was the special bond I shared with my mom.

My older brother used to tell me I couldn't even formulate an opinion without consulting her first. He would ask me something simple—like, what was my favorite color? I'd ask my mom what her favorite color was. “Green,”  she'd answer. 

“Green,” I'd tell Jeff.

 It exasperated him. "Why can't you come up with anything on your own?” 

"That is what I came up with on my own!" I'd answer indignantly and turn to my mom, “Huh Mumma?”

My life became a series of “Huh Mumma’s?” I never stopped seeking her affirmation.

Today is Brett’s 15th birthday. His first birthday without my mom. I know if she was here, we would rehash some of the funny stories, ruminate about the positive impact “The Baby” has had on our lives. She never once called him Brett, always The Baby.

It was only because of a heart-wrenching chain of losses that my mom was living with us when Brett was born. Oh, how thankful I was to have her by my side every day! 

All those days of carefully measuring and re-measuring Brett’s 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 on the hour, every hour. The seemingly impossible job of trying to keep the oxygen cannula lined up with his tiny nostrils.

When we brought Brett home they provided us with a "mother tank" of oxygen that had a 50 foot long cord allowing us to walk around the house with him. Anytime we'd pick him up we'd pull on 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 then "pull" on an imaginary oxygen cord. It was hilarious to watch because I found myself doing the same thing. We both had gotten so used to the cord that long after it was gone we were still “pulling” air. It was hysterical. I’m sure if I were to see her today, I could reenact it and we’d laugh just as hard now as we did then. 

The Baby, who is fifteen years old today, is still like a baby—a giant, content baby. 

Today, I’m thanking God for allowing my mom to be here in Michigan…from the day Brett took his first breath fifteen years ago to the day she took her last. 

Our awesome God knew just what I needed…”Huh Mumma?”

”We act as though comfort and luxury were the chief requirement of life, when all we really need to make us happy is something to be enthusiastic about.” I jotted that down without noting who said it, but apparently it resonated with me. Winston Churchill described success as "going from failure to failure without any loss of enthusiasm." I love it.

I was reminded of that joke about the optimist and pessimist. Some psychologists decided to perform an experiment on two little boys, one an eternal optimist, the other a perpetual pessimist. They locked the pessimist in a room with every thing a boy could ever dream of owning. There was a merry-go-round, an umpteen amount of popular video games, a live pony and all sorts of other toys to charm the daylights out of any little boy. Surprisingly, when they came to check on him in a hour, they found his dreary little self just sitting in a corner.

They were incredulous. ”Why are you just sitting there??? Why aren't you playing with all the fun things we've provided for you?"

He answered dejectedly, "If I tried to ride the pony it would probably buck me off, the merry-go-round would make me dizzy and the video games are too violent..."

They left him moping in the corner and went to check on the optimist. They had locked this little boy in a room full of nothing but manure. When they came to check on him, he appeared to be having the time of his life! He was diving in out of the manure, happily flinging it about—generally just having a walloping good time.

Again, they were absolutely incredulous. ”What are you doing??? How could you be having so much fun?”

The happy little lad answered joyously, "I figured with all this manure, there had to be a pony in here somewhere!"

Talk about optimistic enthusiasm! I do believe we need to be enthusiastic about something, and as Christians we have something far greater than the prospect of a live pony to make all the "crap" worth wading through. We have the assurance of eternal life. We know despite what wretches we are, we are loved unconditionally. We have God's word to direct, comfort and empower us. We have brothers and sisters in Christ who are steady sources of love, encouragement and prayer. 

Yet I still have days when all I see is the manure. Days when I feel far from God, when I feel hopeless and inadequate. Days when I act just like that wretched little pessimist—moping around because I've let all the sad stuff blind me to all the good stuff.

Let's face it, crap happens. In so many ways, losing my mom has been the crappiest thing that's ever happened to me. She was the epitome of optimistic enthusiasm, and it was contagious, and I will never stop missing it—but I’m also never going to stop striving to be like her, hoping one day my attitude will lift others up the way she could always lift mine up.

One of the things I’m missing the most about my mom is hearing her laugh. Talk about laughing with abandon! I’ve never met a person who laughed as easily as she did. 

Every time I think about the following story, it makes me laugh.

I often complain about the state of our public schools. Horrified that students who can’t even write a complete sentence are getting diplomas. It’s certainly not doing the students any favors.

But do I actually do anything about it? Do I even have any idea who sits on our school board? No. Apparently I’d rather sit in my warm, dry home and belly ache about it.

Not so with my friend Stacey. She does the grunt work. She makes it her business to learn everything about the people running for seats on our board of education. Her efforts convicted me I needed to vote. I asked for a cheat sheet so I’d be sure to vote for those who uphold the same values I hold so dearly.

I gave my mom the same cheat sheet, and begged her to vote as well. It was five years ago and her illness had already progressed to the point where it was a real feat for her to go anywhere. But, by golly, she did it.

The cheat sheet turned out to be useless. Though she lived in Canton township, it was Van Buren schools.

She said when she entered the room it was completely empty save for the poll watchers. They were jubilant to see her! Turned out she was the only voter who showed up that day, but she was living proof that there were still people out there who cared.

“But, you didn’t actually vote did you?”

“Of course I did,“ she replied. ”I couldn't possibly disappoint those people after the overly warm reception they gave me.”

“Well, who in the world did you vote for?”

“I have no idea, I just picked some names I liked and voted for them.”

“Mom! For all you know you could have voted in a child molester!” 

The idea that my mom (at my urging) may have been the sole determinant of who is sitting on the board of education in Van Buren township struck us as so funny we laughed until we cried.

Oh, my goodness, did I ever love laughing with her. 

Yet another attribute I’m striving to emulate—to laugh easily and often. 

I’ve always adored my mom, adored everything about her. Her humor, her love, her affection, her wisdom, her faith, her eternal optimism and boundless gratitude.

She’s been completely homebound for at least the last three years. But there was never any mention of having cabin fever or bemoaning the fact she spent so much time alone. I can't conceive of her complaining about anything.  

I did talk to her everyday and saw her most days. If I called and she didn’t answer, it would take all of about 15 minutes before I’d start panicking. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sent Bob or Loretta rushing over to check on her, only to find out she’d just had to use the bathroom.

She knew every boring little detail of my life. I’d tell her where I was flying and she’d remember every leg of my trip. I remember calling her once and her answering, “You’re on that long sit in Salt Lake aren’t you? If I were you, I’d tell Delta those long sits are totally unacceptable.” 

“Yep, mom. I think that’s been passed along.” 

But oh, how thankful I am for the job I love (long sits and all), because it has allowed me and the kids so much time with my family… regardless of where they lived. 

The sad reality is some of my mom’s pain was my gain. A year or so after losing my dad, she came to live with me and got a job with United Airlines. She hated that job with a passion, but because she never complained about it, I never knew how much she hated it. And then 9/11 happened--and they let her go. I expressed my sympathy.

“Are you kidding me?” she answered, “if I knew how, I would have been jumping up and clicking my heels together all the way to the car.” 

She moved back to Florida after losing that job. No doubt God’s hand was in it because Craig needed her. But when when God took Craig home in 2002, she came back to live with me again and Brett was born just four months later. 

Those first few months of Brett’s life were awful but she was right there beside me…helping care for him, encouraging me, and never losing her sense of humor. Looking back there was seemingly so little to laugh about, but because my mom found so much humor in things, we’ve always laughed a lot, regardless of our circumstances. 

She made her own fun. She always got a kick out of teasing the kids. After picking up Caitlin from school they’d stop by the house, because my germaphobic Caitlin wouldn’t suck her thumb until she’d washed her hands. 

There were some wretched muskrats in the swampy area behind our house. Caitlin left the door open while she dashed in to wash her hands and when she came out, my mom, sounding as horrified as she could, said, “Oh honey! You left the door open and a muskrat ran into the house.” Caitlin let out a blood curdling scream and my mom would laugh about it to this very day.  

She took on the job of driving Dane to school. Just like me, Dane isn't a morning person. Neither of us want to be talked to or talk. Of course, knowing this made my mom talk incessantly. One morning she asked him what time school started. The clock in the car said 7:28. Dane answered 7:30. She stomped on the gas pedal, driving as fast as the car would go. When the clock flipped to 7:30, she let off the gas. “Shoot! You can’t say I didn’t try.”

Another time she was driving him she said, “I was thinking today we could shoot up to Michigan Avenue, hop on 275 to M14, take M14 and then get off at Sheldon…what’d ya think?” Dane answered, “To go where?”

She lived in three of our houses. Always in the basement. Not a nice finished basement, mind you, but rather a dusty, spider filled, cement floored basement. My cousin Cass came to see us one day and when her little daughter Emma, who was only about four at the time, saw my mom’s bed downstairs she came up to me with her serious little face and asked, “Can’t Aunt Judy live in the nice part of the house?”

I told Caitlin once I didn’t want to live without Gramma. She said it was one of the meanest things I’ve ever said. I tried to re-phrase it, “I’d prefer not to live on this earth without her. My hope is that Jesus will return and I won’t have to.”

How could I bear not talking to her everyday, discussing every topic under the sun, laughing with her, getting her wise advice on everything?  How could I bear not having someone who loved me unconditionally and consistently reminded me this life is but a blip and how we’d only know in Heaven how much GOOD Brett’s life is bringing to this earth? She focused on the things she had to be grateful for more than anyone I knew, and encouraged me to do the same. 

Just the other day she was saying how many years she prayed she’d live long enough to see Caitlin married to a man who adored her. And God answered that prayer. But she didn't think she'd live to see her first grandchild.

I never wanted her to think like that, never wanted to believe her life would end before Jesus returned.

I know God planned the perfect timing of my grandbaby’s arrival. When we celebrated his impending birth last weekend, Dawn Baker said a sweet prayer, quoting Psalm 139.

When I got home, I picked up my Bible and turned to the psalm, it’s easy to find because I have Brett’s ultrasound picture tucked within it’s pages. Next to “I am fearfully and wonderfully made,” I wrote Brett's name. A few verses later are these words, “All the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be. How precious are Your thoughts, O God! How vast the sum of them?” In the margin next to these verses, I’d written, “How often do I only yearn to hear Mom’s thoughts? Teach me God, how to hear Your thoughts.” 

I’ll never stop longing to hear her affirming and encouraging words, or being able to relate funny stories to her. She always got such a kick out of my stories. I know the void she left will never be filled.

One of my biggest fears was her dying alone. Not only did she not die alone, but both of my siblings were in town and we were ALL there with her. It was truly a miracle. We couldn’t hope for anything more than for her to go painlessly and peacefully into the arms of her Savior and be reunited with my dad, my brother, her sister and brother, her parents and many others. I will choose to focus on God’s mercy and grace in letting her leave us just the way she’d always prayed she would.

When I turned 50 several years ago, my sister had her boys dutifully come to the phone and wish me a happy birthday. After my oldest nephew’s “Happy Birthday, Aunt Laurie,” there was a small silence. I think he felt compelled to add something more and finally surmised that my life was "probably more than half over." He obviously had a grasp on probabilities. It cracked me up. Bless his heart.

Today is my brother Craig's birthday. It’s hard to fathom he’s been gone more than fifteen years. Oh, how he is missed! Especially his humor and eternal optimism.

One of my sweetest memories is of us lying on a hillside, watching for Jesus. We were probably only about six and eight. We'd just watched a film at church about the Rapture. The movie scared the daylights out of most of us, worried sick our prayer of salvation might not have "taken" and we'd be left behind to experience horrors beyond description.

It certainly didn't scare Craig. He was thrilled to know Jesus was going to return ANY day, possibly that very day. He convinced me to go outside and watch for Him—maybe we could be the first ones to spot Him in the sky.

Craig never stopped longing for Christ's return. He lived his life knowing "that the One who raised the Lord Jesus from the dead will also raise us WITH Jesus...so we do not lose heart...though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen but what is unseen. For was is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." (2 Corinthians 4:14-18)

 It IS a sobering reality that my life is "probably more than half over," but I don't lose heart, I know I will see Craig again, and I know our eternal glory will far surpass any of this world's heartache.

I had a trip last week I thought was going to be a complete bonanza. All we had to do was ferry an airplane (no passengers) from Detroit to Quebec City, pick up a group of people, fly them to Boston and then ferry the aircraft back to Detroit. Does it get any easier than that?

I packed lots of reading material and was prepared to enjoy my easy day. It was not easy or enjoyable, at all.

Turns out a fancy-schmancy Spanish insurance company had chartered a couple of our 747's for their little jaunt from Quebec City to Boston and had specifically requested to have only Spanish-speaking flight attendants. Uh-oh. No hablo espanol. We did have four flight attendants who spoke Spanish, so it should still be okay. It's a 52 minute flight from Quebec City to Boston, for crying out loud. How hard could it be to pass out Cokes and snack boxes?

I vowed to be the happiest, most eager to please flight attendant they'd ever laid eyes on--it wouldn't matter a lick that I didn't speak Spanish. They were a happy bunch and the boarding seemed to be going seamlessly. I was working in the back, nodding and grinning and trying to be as helpful as possible.

All the announcements were being made in Spanish, so I had no idea a man in the upper deck had somehow managed to crack his head open and they had subsequently paged for a doctor.

A passenger came up to me and in halting English told me she was a doctor. I wasn't sure how to respond. Well...bully for you... so is my brother-in-law? I just nodded, trying to looked suitably impressed. She didn't appear to appreciate my response to her little bit of braggadocio and started pointing at the ceiling until I finally understood she was saying that "they" had paged for a doctor. They did??

I led her to one of the Spanish speaking flight attendants who told her they'd already gotten a doctor to bind up the wounds of the klutzy Spaniard upstairs.

Shortly after I got that cleared up some passengers came to me to help them find their seats. Surely, I could handle this one. I took their boarding passes and motioned for them to follow me. Their seats were in row 76. I led them back and back and back and... discovered the rows ended at 68. Hmmmm...this was a toughie. I motioned for them to take some empty seats until I could sort it out. They weren't understanding me, so again, I hailed one of the Spanish speaking flight attendants and after he explained the problem to them, they looked at me and laughed.

The flight attend added some comments of his own and they looked at me and laughed even more heartily. It was very unsettling. It's no fun standing there like a stooge being mocked at in another language. Hey! I wanted to say, don't you think I might be able to figure out what "muy estupido" means?

It was actually the very first time I'd ever been on a 747 so I had no idea that rows in the 70's were in the upper deck. What an idiotic way to do it...who had thought up such an illogical way of numbering the rows anyway? That was the one who was muy estupido...not me. 

I asked the spanish speaking flight attendant what they were finding so funny and he said they were a little incredulous that a flight attendant didn't know how many rows there were but, no problemo, he had cleverly turned it into a big joke. Har-dee-har-har. Oh, well. Live and learn. I guess I should be happy I gave those people such a big laugh--a little unexpected bonus thrown in for them, free of charge.

As I started making my way through the cabin and closing bins I noticed a girl crying in an exit row. The man next to her was unsuccessfully trying to soothe her. It was evolving into all out wailing, but I didn't want to stare. Maybe a boyfriend had just broken up with her or something...they're a passionate people, right? I certainly didn't want to risk saying anything muy estupido again.

I continued closing bins and by the time I circled back there was major drama going on with the weeping girl at the exit row. When a flight attendant had attempted to brief her about her exit seating duties, he wisely determined the shrieking wasn't going to cut it for the "willing and able to assist in an emergency" response we require. We would have to move her to another seat.

The girl was incapable of moving, apparently she was having a full-blown panic attack. Yet another page for a doctor, oxygen bottles brought out, paper bags provided for breathing into---the whole nine yards. Nothing seemed to be working to calm her down.

One of her traveling companions commented that they go through this every flight. Every flight?? It seemed like they would have grown tired of these antics and sent her packing back to Spain a long time ago. They finally had to physically lift her out of her seat, one lifting her torso, the other her legs and tote her back to a row of empty seats. They laid her down, belted her in while one stroked her head and the other her feet until she finally calmed down. Phew!

Finally, we were able to take off. The service required passing out hot towels, snack boxes and a beverage. There were six of us serving close to 300 people in the back and the 52 minute flight only allowed us to serve about half the people before we had to quickly stow everything and prepare for landing. How embarrassing. The whole "easy" day was a fiasco from start to finish.

I was telling Caitlin about it and asked her if she'd brushed up on her Spanish during her stint at an orphanage in El Salvador. She said she had boned up on only two phrases: "sientate por favor!" (please sit down!) and "quieres pow pow?" (do you want a spanking?). Darn! I could have used those phrases! I could have told the passengers to please sit down and I could have asked that girl if she wanted a spanking. It would have been perfect. Oh well. Maybe next time---though I'm kind of hoping there won't be a next time.

I don't believe in chance encounters or coincidences. I can't tell you how often I've left for work feeling downtrodden, only to discover God arranged for me to fly with just the person I needed to get my focus off of myself and onto Him.

It’s been several years now and I can't even remember her name, just her story. 

She normally flies London trips (which explains why I've only seen her just the one time), but she needed extra time and had picked up an Orlando turn with me.

She told me about one of her recent trips. A woman and her daughter were returning home from London, just the two of them. Sometime during the flight the woman told a flight attendant she wasn't feeling well, maybe just indigestion? They offered up what they could to alleviate her discomfort, even offering to page for a doctor, but she didn't think it necessary and the crew didn't think much more about it.

The flight attendant said the woman and her daughter weren't even seated in her section but when she was walking through the cabin she felt prompted to ask the girl how her mother was doing. The girl said she thought she was feeling a bit better, but she'd been in the bathroom for quite a long time.

Horrifyingly enough, it was soon discovered she'd passed away. From that point on, this flight attendant never left the girl's side. When they arrived in Detroit she assured her she would stay with her, even ride in the ambulance with her to the hospital. 

When she was told she wouldn't be able to accompany her in the ambulance she remembered she'd inexplicably driven from Grand Rapids rather than flying into Detroit. Her rare decision to drive meant she had her car and could drive to the hospital! 

She was there in no time to take up her place again at the girl's side. She booked a hotel room for them and stayed there with her until her dad arrived from Wisconsin the following morning.

A week later she was back at the airport to fly the same London trip. She was feeling down, still affected from the trauma of her last trip. She was especially feeling melancholy about turning her phone off and being incommunicado for the next three days. Just as she grabbed her phone to power it off, it rang.

Surprisingly, it was her brother-in-law from California. He called to relay a story he'd just heard from one of his friends. Turns out his friend's best friend just lost his wife on one of our flights. When he finished giving her all the details (having no idea she was actually on the flight), he added, "And this is the great part...God put an angel on that flight to watch over his daughter...this 'angel' never left her side until her dad got there...isn't that a sweet story?"

Only an awesome, all powerful, loving God could arrange all those details! She couldn't explain why she'd made the rare, last minute decision to drive to the airport that day. Then, just when she was at her lowest point and seconds before she turned her phone off, her brother-in-law calls her out of the blue and tells her a story that lifted her up like nothing else could.

I know I've shared this before, but a missionary once defined "fellowship" as "making God larger together." How thankful I am for God's faithful provision of fellowship just when I need it most.