A few weeks ago I had lunch with some of my cousins, one of which I hadn’t seen since I was a little girl--what a gift it was to catch up! Our common bond was my Gramma Huber and in the days following our lunch, memories of her flooded my mind.

She didn’t have an easy life. As a little girl, I remember thinking it wasn’t fair that my Grandma Cummins seemed to be living the life of Riley while my Gramma Huber struggled in every aspect of her life.  

I never knew my Grandfather Huber when he was well. I can only remember him sitting in his chair, unable to do anything on his own, relying on Gramma to meet his every need 24/7. 

My mom often said how much she wished I could have known my grandfather before he got sick. My mom’s parents had been close to my dad’s parents, so she knew and loved him well and thought he was one of the funniest people she’d ever met.

When my grandfather first started showing signs of his illness, he would wander out of the house, sometimes forgetting how to get home. After he wandered out one night, my gramma called my dad to come help her find him.

Shortly after my dad arrived, my grandfather strolled in.

My gramma tore into him, “Clifford! Where in the world have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you!”

“Tomcatting around,” he answered with a smile.

My dad roared with laughter. He loved that story. 

After my grandfather died, I spent many nights at Gramma’s house. It seemed she was always on a diet. I told her that once you're a Gramma you shouldn’t have to worry about your weight. 

“When I become a gramma, I’m gonna eat whatever I want and not care one whit how fat I get.”

She laughed, “Oh, you’ll care.” 

And, of course she was right.

I remember her sitting in her chair with a little mirror, plucking her whiskers.

“Why do you think you grew those whiskers?” I’d ask.

“Just wait. You’ll grow them, too.”

I highly doubted that. Not only was my other grandma living on easy street, I was sure she didn't have any whiskers either. It just wasn’t fair!

In spite of her tough life, my gramma laughed easily and often and I never doubted she delighted in my company, and I delighted in hers. She was a wonderful gramma and I have her to thank for raising my beloved dad to be the most loving husband and father a girl could ever ask for. I just wished I’d soaked up more of her hard earned wisdom, I wish I knew more about what made her the strong, faithful woman she was. 

I read a post on Facebook today that perfectly captures what I’m feeling today.

“When the elderly die, a library is lost and volumes of wisdom and knowledge are gone.”

Sad, but so powerfully true.

I’ve never been more thankful for my job than I am today. It’s the only reason I’m able to see the kids as much as I do. I've ALWAYS been over-the-top thankful for the ability to fly for free and visit my family members frequently. They are spread across the country and we would never be able to afford monthly, or even bi-monthly, visits if not for my flying benefits. And now that I have grandchildren…Oh. My. Word! I can’t get enough of them. 

I’ve lived my whole life blissfully unconcerned about germs, so it has taken real discipline on my part to be very mindful of arriving to Caitlin’s as germ-free as humanly possible. Me! Who used to think arriving clean was a feat.

Back in December, when Caitlin and I came home from the hospital with Maisie, she (understandably!) wanted me to strip down and jump in the shower. She laundered every scrap of my clothing. Unfortunately, she shrunk my pants. I could have handled going home looking like the seams were about to burst open, but four inches too short? I looked ridiculous. Fortunately, I was able to squeeze myself into a pair of Caitlin’s. They were as tight as a drum, but only two inches too short, so I looked a tad less dorky in them than I did in the germ-free “floods” that emerged from the dryer. 

Every visit I grow more in awe of what a wonderful mother Caitlin is. It’s certainly not from following my lead. It’s only by the grace of God that Caitlin and Dane made it safely to adulthood.

Caitlin makes Brooks healthy, homemade meals, using organic, wholesome food, with lots of vitamin packed vegetables. Contrast that to Caitlin and Dane’s standard fare—Chuck E. Cheese and McDonald’s.

A few weeks ago I watched her as she prepared Brooks’ lunch. She began sautéing vegetables. I watched him, hungrily anticipating his meal.

“Mmmm, onions!”  It was palpable how eager he was to get at those onions.

As soon as she put some in his bowl, he slurped them down like my kids used to slurp down gummy worms. 

She slathered a generous amount of butter on warm toast and placed it on his plate, too, but nope, “More onions, please!”

Surely there isn’t a child on the planet who eats healthier than Brooks! He absolutely loves vegetables. The only teensy problem is is that vegetables aren’t very calorie dense, so he’s not gaining as much weight as they’d like.

When Bob and I were visiting last weekend, Caitlin and Cam told us a funny story about some of the pitfalls of Brooks’ ultra healthy cravings.

In their desire to get more calories in him they pleaded with him to eat a bowl of Puffkin’s for breakfast. He would have none of it, demanding carrots instead.

“You can have carrots after you eat your Puffkin’s,” they promised.

 What I wouldn’t give to crave carrots and celery above all else.

Watching Caitlin’s due diligence in every aspect of her mothering, I can’t help but compare it to my own mothering and how far I fell short. But by God’s glorious grace, the kids grew up not only with strong, healthy bodies but they both love the Lord with all their heart and nothing, nothing gives me more joy than knowing that.

I have to admit, as I’ve been writing, the words to this hymn have run on a constant loop in my mind:

                                 

                                                  “Grace, grace, God's grace,

                                        Grace that will pardon and cleanse within;

                                                    Grace, grace, God's Grace,   

                                          Grace that is greater than all our sin."                                                                      

   

Oh, the comfort of knowing God’s grace is greater than all my mistakes and shortcomings. It is only through Him that I’ve achieved any thing at all.

Bob and I rarely go to the movies. Mostly because I’m the harshest movie critic I know and I hate wasting money only to be let down or brought down. I tried making a list of all the movies I truly loved and I could only come up with about fifteen. But on the rare occasion I do like the movie, it’s worth every penny to see it at the movie theatre.  

I’d heard great things about a recently released movie and I couldn’t wait to go see it.

I hated it. I was let down and brought down. Maybe I’m just a sucker for happy endings--or at least a few laughs.

One of my all time favorite movies, The Sound of Music,  came out when I was only three years old. My parents took all of us to see it. It’s one of my few vivid childhood memories. I’ve read that the more emotion that is attached to a memory, the more likely it is that you’ll remember it. Which might explain why I’m able to remember it so clearly.

I sat mesmerized through the whole movie. When it ended, I cried, and cried and cried.

Rather alarmed, my parents tried their best to comfort me, “Honey, what’s the matter? It’s all good. They got away. They live here in America now. There’s nothing to cry about.”

Nevertheless, I could not get a grip and sniveled all the way home.

When my dad used to fly cross country trips he always brought us home gifts. Unique, thoughtful gifts. When I learned to read, he brought me home several books about the Von Trapps, because he remembered how much their story and that movie had affected me.

I devoured those books. I have to admit, I almost wished they hadn’t included their photos, because not a one of them was blessed with movie star good looks and sadly, it made me love them a little less.

I’ve thought about what triggers the strongest emotional reactions in me and decided it’s the sound of music (ha-ha). On the rare occasions I get to hear my cousin play her violin, I can’t help but cry because It evokes such sweet memories of growing up in a wonderful family.

The movie reels of my family’s lives here on earth have hardly been a string of happily-ever-after stories. But our faith in Jesus promises our stories don't end here--the best is yet to come--the happiest of all happy endings awaits us in Heaven. Hallelujah! 

On a flight a few weeks ago a family slowly made their way to their seats. The mother cradled a tiny newborn. Her husband and three more children lagged behind her. If I had to guess, the eldest was no more than five. They were all laden with backpacks. The husband nudged along a toddler, while carrying a beat-up old carseat and a vintage 1960’s pink, vinyl suitcase.

I watched the husband stow the suitcase and gently buckle the toddler into her carseat. He was strikingly good looking. At least she’d hit the jackpot when she snagged him. 

As soon as he made sure everyone was all set, he headed up the aisle to his own seat. A flight attendant touched his elbow and told him she was sure she could get someone to change seats with him so he could sit with his family.

“Thank you,” he answered, “but my family is sitting up front. I was just helping her out.”

A lump formed in my throat because nothing moves me like the kindness of strangers.

When we landed, it was after midnight. It had been a long, hard day and we were all eager to get off the airplane and head home. 

Ugh! It was going to take forever to get that family off. The children were fast asleep, with zero desire to move, much less have those heavy backpacks strapped back onto their little backs. 

Nevertheless, we had them up and ready in short order. One flight attendant retrieved the surprisingly heavy pink suitcase. I carried the carseat. Another carried the toddler. The little boys staggered down the aisle.

“We have a wheelchair ordered, right?” I asked. “Because their stroller isn’t going to cut it.”

“We don’t have a stroller,” bemoaned one of the little boys.

What?? Are you kidding me??

The wheelchair was waiting and we loaded it down as best we could. But two backpacks and the car seat were still left for the little boys to handle. They put the backpacks in the carseat, then took opposite sides of it to carry it. They had to put it down every few minutes, to rest between picking it up again.

I caught up with the guy pushing the wheelchair, “Can you please order another wheelchair?”

“Everyone else is gone for the night.” 

That figures. That poor family.

The tram showed up just then, and with a sigh of relief we slipped in right before the doors closed. 

It wasn’t until the next day that I realized I’d missed the chance to exhibit the kindness of a stranger. Big time. I felt sick. Who knows what blessing I’d missed out on if only I’d chosen to go the extra mile. Maybe I could have learned her story, encouraged her. How could I have left those little boys to carry those heavy backpacks and that car seat on their own? 

Even as I write, my heart hurts. Live and learn. How often have I heard those words from my mom? Too many to count. 

I pray I did learn this time. Please God, open my eyes to see those who need someone to go the extra mile with them. But I won’t see them if I don’t slow down. 

Dallas Willard’s advice for all of us is: “Ruthlessly eliminate hurry from your life.” 

I doubt anyone needs to heed that advice more than I do.

When I’m in a funk, I don’t write, in fact I don’t do much of anything at all. I plod through the motions of taking care of Brett and do the bare minimum to keep the house in some semblance of order. Sometimes I don’t shower for days at a time (poor Bob).

But I decided today I WOULD write, because I find writing therapeutic. The only question remains: what to write ABOUT.

I thought about the different gifts God’s given us, or our “strong suits” as my mom used to say. A few years ago a man was doing some painting for her; he was there several days. He wasn’t inclined to engage in conversation, but she felt obligated to at least try. “So, how is your day going?" she asked him with a smile.

“It’s going the same as it was the last time you asked me!”

Exchanging pleasantries obviously wasn’t one of his strong suits. My mom had a difficult time not laughing out loud because not being easily offended and having a great sense of humor were some of her strong suits.

I thought about Bob, what an awesome salesman he is—he could sell sand at the beach. I learned long ago I’d be destitute if I had to rely on selling anything to anyone.

Years ago I ridiculously decided to partake in our subdivision-wide garage sale. I hauled out tables and things to hang clothes on and painstakingly put a price tag on every item. 

I felt a little anxious as the “shoppers” strolled around, picked up items and snorted at the price. I tried not to feel insulted. I surmised exchanging pleasantries (or even making eye contact) are not strong suits for garage sale shoppers. I think they think if they make any connection at all they won’t feel emboldened to offer a penny for an item I put a two dollar sticker on. 

Just as I think another rude shopper is leaving empty handed, she holds up an item I’d priced at five dollars. “Will you take ten cents for this?” 

“Sure!” I act like I think it’s a generous offer and decide to close up shop and call the Salvation Army.

I tally up the all the hours I spent preparing for the garage sale and figured I made about two cents an hour. I counted up my “haul”--a whopping two dollars! But hey, that’s almost enough to buy two large Diet Cokes at McDonalds. Cha-Ching!!

It's funny how the same sight and sound can evoke such starkly different emotions. I'm sure in war-torn countries, the roar of a fighter jet must fill people with terror and make them instinctively want to run for cover. Conversely, there's hardly a sound in the world that makes my heart swell with pride and comforts me like the familiar roar of a fighter jet. 

My dad was a fighter pilot and for a few fortunate years we lived close enough to his base that he could surprise us with personal fly overs. We’d hear the roar of his jet and excitedly run out to watch him. He’d fly upside down close enough for us to see his face, he’d twirl straight up into the sky, then come flying straight down, before finally arcing up and away and back to the base. With all those awe inspiring maneuvers it’s no surprise that the sight and sound of a fighter jet fills me with such nostalgia for my dad and an astonishing burst of love for our country.

As a flight attendant I've taken the for granted the ability to fly for free, traveling all over the country and visiting my family as often as I please. People have often commented that an airplane is probably the last place I want to be on my days tell off. Oh, how wrong they are! I've never lost the thrill of getting on an airplane and flying around the world. Regardless of how often  I've been bumped off flights and had to find creative ways to reach my destination, I STILL love it.

But twenty-one years ago I gave birth to Brett, a severely impaired baby boy and it put an abrupt halt to last minute travel adventures. Brett is blind and will never walk or talk. He is completely dependent on us. His many health issues made last minute trips to see family impossible. Regardless of how many miles away they lived, I never had to miss birthdays or family get- togethers. I could be there in a few short hours. Oh, how I missed it!

When he was four-years old, and I could still lift him, I decided I'd take him with me to visit my family in Florida. All was good until about an half hour into the flight when he developed a hideous case of diarrhea. It oozed out of his diaper, soiling both his clothes and my clothes. I struggled to get him into the lavatory to try and clean us up, but even if he’d been able to stand on his own, I wouldn't have been able to do much. We reeked. I felt horrible for the passengers seated around us. 

It occurred to me that it’d be a lovely time to experience a slow decompression. The oxygen masks would drop, people could put them around their nose and mouth, breathe normally, know that they are getting oxygen even if the bag does not inflate and best of all…get relief from the pungent stench emanating from us.

Not knowing what else to do, I held Brett with his poor tummy ache and stared out the window. Telling myself this would surely go down as one of the worst days of my life, I suddenly spotted a fighter jet right below us. It was so close! I watched it until it arced gracefully up, out and away. I thought of my dad and even whispered, "Dad?" 

Just thinking about how sorry my dad would feel for me opened up the flood gates and tears of self pity streamed down my face. My dad died before he knew anything about Brett. I don't really think my dad can see me—isn’t he now exempt from pain and sorrow? And wouldn't it make him sad to see me? Sad to see his little grandson? 

Still, the glimpse of that fighter jet flitting through the sky comforted me, made me think that whether my earthly father can see me or not, my Heavenly Father does see me, and He won't let anything overwhelm me. I am in His tender care—always and forever. The pure conviction of God's personal love for me at that moment gave me a rush of joy that's difficult to describe. Sadly, I don't often feel that depth of joy. But the joy was real and it was enough to assure me I wasn't alone. 

 There is no doubt in my mind that God placed that fighter jet in our air space that day. A tangent reminder that He is with me, He loves me and is plenty capable of providing miraculous signs to spur me on in times of despair. 

I once offered Caitlin and Dane ten dollars if they could name the nine characteristics of the fruit of the Spirit. They'd learned a little jingle about them at Bible camp. They sang the jingle. Didn't miss a one. Twenty bucks gone—just like that. 

I never learned the little jingle and still can't rattle them off like they can. Let’s see…”Love, joy, peace patience, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and…self control." One is escaping me. 

Upon looking it up, I realize it is kindness, possibly signifying it’s the one I lack the most. Maybe I thought goodness and kindness were basically the same. But I think kindness requires action. Kindness is proactive, it looks for ways to ease burdens, to encourage, to defend, to provide.

My Bob has kindness in spades. The first time I witnessed his kind heart was at youth group in junior high, an age where being popular is the end all and be all. An age where kids can be brutal (even "church" kids). Sadly, there's usually at least one kid that's an easy target, and it's usually a witty, popular kid who hits that target. They hit it so perfectly most find it hard not to snicker. It takes a certain amount of courage to step up and defend him. But Bob did and who knows the difference he may have made in that lonely kid's life?

Bob’s eyes are always open to see where a little kindness will make a difference. He’s constantly affirming, giving, calling or praying for those in need.

Seeing people being unkind to others sucks the life right out of us. It’s awful. 

Bob often says how thankful he is that we never have to worry about anyone hurting Brett's feelings. When our kids are hurting, Bob can hardly stand it, so having to watch people make fun of Brett and hurting his feelings would be unbearable…but thankfully, Brett is blissfully unaware.

Thinking of Bob this Father’s Day, I’m especially thankful for his boundless kindness. He’s simply the best! 

Happy Father’s Day!

Today marks six months of my life without my mom. Six months to the day, she left us to join dozens of her beloveds’ in heaven. As much as I miss her, I take comfort knowing she is now happier than she has ever been.  

As sick as she was, she never lost her sense of humor. I can honestly say (even on her worst days) she always found something to laugh about.

No one could lift me out of a slump like she could. I’m doing my best to emulate all the wonderful traits I treasured the most…her eternal optimism, humor, gratitude and selflessness. 

She was a beautiful woman inside and out. She always took care to look her best for my dad, regularly getting herself fixed up before he came home from work. Her desire to look good on the outside is the one thing I did inherit from her.

Through some cruel stroke of fate, I wasn't born with curly hair. My parents and siblings all have curls, but much to my mom's dismay, no such luck for me. As soon as I grew enough straight hair to wind around a curler, my mom created curls for me. Though there were nights when I begged to go to bed without my "cur-wers," it was a rare night that Dippity-Do and "cur-wers" weren't part of my bedtime routine. If people got a gander of me after I'd been swimming, they were shocked I didn't really have curly hair (a poser!). I'd overheard my mom tell people I was "just as pretty on the inside."  I didn't feel like I passed muster without curly hair. I wanted to tell their shocked faces that I was still pretty on the inside, even without the curls. Sadly, focusing on being "pretty on the inside" has not been a guiding principle in my life.

The last time I needed to get my passport renewed and knowing I would be looking at it for the next ten years, I made sure I got dolled up for the picture. Despite my efforts to the contrary, my picture was devastating. Good heavens! I looked like I’d aged thirty years! My mom said it was no wonder, after all I had been "put through the mill.”  Well, who knew "the mill" could wreak such havoc? To add insult to injury, as I was checking out, an insensitive beast of a man mistook Brett for my grandson. At that point, I wanted to go sit in the car and have myself a good cry.

I am disappointed that looking old and being mistaken for my son's grandmother derailed me like it did.

Even though I think my mom was at least partly responsible for my somewhat unhealthy focus on the outer me, she was fully responsible for the fact that I know Who and What I need to focus on above all else—Jesus. On my lowest days she steered my thoughts to Him, to His promises, to His abounding love and amazing grace. She knew every word to hundreds of hymns and she clung to the Biblical promises packed into all those old songs.  I know I often relied too much on my mom's advice, but I do know the most important decision of my life had to be made by me alone, and I chose Christ...and for that I am eternally grateful.

                                      "Turn your eyes upon Jesus,

                                      Look full in His wonderful face,

                            And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
                                     In the light of His glory and grace."

I believe the fact that we are born with a sense of how things ought to be is evidence that God exists and that we’re living in a fallen world.

My friend Stacey’s daughter Alisha (like Brett) was born with severe disabilities. Sometimes Alisha giggles for no apparent reason. Often this involuntary giggling occurs at inappropriate times, times when they wish she would remain quiet, like during their meal time prayers.

Stacey tells of a time when her son Caleb was only five years old and became a tad irritated with her giggling during their prayers. When the prayer ended, he asked, "Why did you get her anyway?" (implying she hadn't been one of their better decisions) 

When they told him they’d gotten her before him, he asked exasperatedly, “Well then why doesn’t God just heal her up?" 

Caleb had never known a life without Alisha. It was only as he got a little older that he began to realize how much easier their life would be if God would just "heal her up.” 

I don’t know why God allowed Alisha and Brett to be born with severe disabilities or why He doesn't just “heal them up.” I can only share that I choose to trust in God's Word and His promises, to acknowledge that as far as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are His ways higher than my ways and His thoughts higher than my thoughts. (Isaiah 55:9) 

Of course there have been blessings unveiled in some of the difficulties, but the sharp ache of Brett not being what I think he ought to be never goes away entirely and sometimes it's overwhelming in its intensity. 

The apostle Paul's claim that he was "perplexed but not in despair" (2 Cor. 4) epitomize how I feel about Brett. I take great comfort in the fact that if Paul (of all people!) never got to a state of being un-perplexed, then I can be certain I'll never arrive there—and that's okay— because, like Paul goes on to say, "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 what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” (2 Cor. 4:16-18) 

We can't see the eternal glory that Alisha and Brett are achieving here on earth but we can live "perplexed but not in despair" knowing they will be perfect and whole for all eternity.

When my cousin Jen and I were little we spent many nights at our grandma's house, getting into all kinds of mischief and laughing ourselves silly. 

We were allowed to play anywhere—as long as we stayed away from the river. But surely Grandma wouldn’t care if we just got close enough to look at the river! So look at it we did, and we could hardly believe our eyes when we spotted an old grocery cart halfway submerged in the water. Why it would be just the thing for Grandma! She had a bad knee and when we went grocery shopping she always said how much easier it was to walk with a cart. Why, with her very own cart she'd be able to walk everywhere!

With those thoughts in mind, we scrambled excitedly down the river bank and painstakingly hauled the cart out of the nasty, polluted water. We craftily wheeled it behind the garage and set about getting it spiffed up. After we'd fastidiously gotten all the river muck off of it, we walked down to Northside hardware and used our candy money to buy a can of metallic gold spray paint. 

When it was finally ready to be presented, we led Grandma out by the hand, making her promise to keep her eyes closed. When she opened her eyes we expected a squeal of delight, instead I don't think we'd ever done anything to aggravate her more.

"Where did you girls get that? Why, people will think I stole it! Take it right back where you found it!”

Back to the Rouge River?? Since we weren't supposed to be anywhere near the Rouge River we could hardly tell her we got it out of the river. 

We tried telling her how nice it would be—she’d be able to walk everywhere. She wasn’t seeing the beauty of it, she was just desperate to have it off her property.

I admit there was a certain amount of pleasure giving our bright gold cart a big push and watching it careen down the river bank and splash back into the filthy water. But who could forget the image of the Indian chief paddling through polluted water with a tear running down his cheek? Everyone was supposed to give a hoot and not pollute, but Grandma did say take it back where we found it, so there you go, it had to be done.

Beauty certainly is in the eye of the beholder, isn't it? What we saw as a beautiful ticket to freedom, Grandma saw as an ugly contraption that would only serve to label her as a common criminal. 

We are all guilty at times times of caring too much what other people think of us, when all that really matters is what God thinks of us. I used to think my Grandma cared way too much what “the neighbors” would think, but the older I got the more I started caring, too. My dad used to say, “You’d be surprised how little they think of you at all.” I don’t know of anyone who cared less about what mere man thought about him than my dad did, and there isn't a day that goes by that I don't try to emulate his determination to live a life pleasing to the Lord and not let the opinions of those around him give him one single moment of concern.

Ever since my mom left us for her eternal home, I’ve been reminiscing about those who preceded her. I know one day I will be able to laugh with my grandma about this story. I love thinking of her with her perfect glorious body with absolutely no need for a golden grocery cart to lean on. 

I am not a basketball fan (I couldn't name a single Piston's player if a gun was held to my head). But I have to admit, I have gotten into this whole March Madness thing.

A pastor was talking about his brackets, how his four year old son wanted to pick a team, too. His son picked the team he thought had a doggie as a mascot (Loyola), because he liked doggies. Who would ever guess the "doggie's" team would make it to the final four? As much as I like rooting for underdogs, especial one featuring a precious, old nun who's been a faithful fan for decades--"Go, Blue!"

I am a football fan, as frustrating as that is. An apt Lion's joke: Two avid Lion' fans were sent to hell, but they weren't miserable, and the devil wanted to know why.

"We're from Michigan, we like the heat." So the devil made it ten times hotter. They still enjoyed it, so the devil made it freezing cold instead.

When he went to check on the fans they were exuberant...chest bumping and running all over the place. The devil was stunned, "How can you be happy with everything freezing over?"

Their answer? "Hell froze over, which can only mean one thing...the Lions won the Super Bowl!"

I'm a Tiger's fan, too. My son tells me he thinks they'll be the worst team in the MLB this year. Ugh.

All kidding aside, the greatest victory of all time is celebrated on this day, Good Friday. I used to wonder why it's referred to as "good." What could possibly be good about the brutal crucifixion of Jesus?

The goodness is in Jesus' final words, "It is finished." (John 19:30) The three most powerful and freeing words ever spoken. My Bible says the word "finished" is the same as "paid in full."

"For God so loved the world that He gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life."

Hallelujah!

Last week I had the sweet opportunity to fly to New York and fly back with Caitlin and our new grandson, Brooks.

Of course, being the ditz I am, I messed up right out of the gate. As I eagerly await to get my hands on my grand baby, Caitlin is waiting patiently in line in security. When she finally makes it up to the security guard, she's told Brooks needs his own boarding pass (even though he flies for free). Caitlin is justifiably exasperated. Didn’t she ask me over and over if she needed to have something for Brooks?  Yes, but I never had to have anything for my babies. Didn’t it occur to me that things may have changed a bit after 911?

Anyway, my ignorance causes us to miss our flight. “Oh well, live and learn,” I sigh.

I would venture to guess “live and learn” might be one of the most despised phrases Caitlin hears that come out of my mouth. She’s had a life time of watching me "live and learn" almost everything the hard way. I add another one of my favorites, “Everything happens for a reason, maybe a deathly ill person was on that first flight.”

She concedes it really is no big deal, she's hungry anyway, we can enjoy a leisurely lunch while we wait for the next flight.

Caitlin is very careful to limit Brooks exposure to germs. Everything and everyone needs to be abundantly sanitized. My poor Caitlin. She not only has to endure me not having it all together, she also needs to watch me like a hawk because I doubt there’s a person on the planet who cares less about germs than I do.

Thankfully, Brooks is oblivious to the mayhem and my unmindfulness of our germ filled world. He takes everything in with his big blue eyes, contentedly cooing and smiling, opening his mouth wide open with glee. I can barely take my eyes off of him, I’m completely smitten. I do have to admit, if I keep my face in his for too long, his smile fades, his bottom lip protrudes and he begins to look like he’s never seen anything more horrifying. Of course as soon as his oh, so beloved mama’s face re-appears he reverts back to his cooing, wiggly, happy self again.

Our return flight to New York goes beautifully. Brooks is just as much of an angel on this flight as he was on his first flight. Unfortunately, in the LaGuardia airport bathroom (of all places!), I drop the tent-like thinga-ma-jigger Caitlin uses for nursing. Horrors! I nervously whisk it up like a scarf out of a magician’s hat and try to convince Caitlin it surely qualifies for the five second rule…heavens, it touched the floor less than one second.

I’m in awe of what a wonderful mother Caitlin is, a natural. How in the world could I have produced such a extraordinary person? Probably years of watching my un-togetherness, made her vow to be nothing like me. 

Bob and I have never been more proud of our Caitlin, and couldn’t be more in love with little Brooks. We are so thankful for our sweet visit and are looking forward to many more.

Gumption. Not a word you hear much anymore, but one I've heard all my life--forever being told I needed more of it. My grandmother Cummins probably informed me of my lack of gumption the most, but I heard it a lot from my mom and dad, too. 

I intended to write about a few instances where having a little gumption would have served me well, but then I started to think about my grandmother’s abundant amount of gumption (synonyms include backbone and pluck), and took a trip down memory lane instead.

My grandmother was fiercely loyal to her family. I had to think twice about telling her someone had been even slightly unkind to me because I knew that person would be getting “a piece of her mind.” She didn't hesitate to give pieces of her mind.

When her church in Florida asked her if she'd take over their card ministry, she told them no, that writing cards wasn't her “bag.” Goodness! Her own grandchildren had never received a single card from her.

My mom was with her at the time and asked her what she'd have told them if they'd asked her, “Well then, what exactly is your ‘bag’?” 

Without hesitation she answered, "I would have told them ‘my bag’ is eating and sleeping." Her answer makes me laugh to this day.

When they still lived in Michigan, she and Papa would often sing in front of the church. One of their favorites was The Old Rugged Cross. The last words say, “then He'll call me some day, to my home far away, where His glory forever I'll share.”

I don't think our country has ever been filled with so much hate, so much evil. It’s made me long all the more for the day He will take us to our Home far away. 

Billy Graham said of Christians, “The moment we take our last breath on earth, we take our first breath in heaven.”

I love picturing my mom taking her first deep breath in Heaven. I'm missing her desperately, but that image comforts me.

I pray God will provide another Billy Graham soon, convincing millions more to accept Jesus Christ as their Savior and be assured their last breath here will be their first breath in Heaven.