There was a certain sports show my family used to watch together back in the 70’s. I thought the show opened with the words, “…the thrill of victory and the humiliation of defeat.” But, a quick Google search told me I was wrong, it was the agony of defeat, not the humiliation of defeat. But for me personally, the humiliation of defeat is much more fitting.

I was born smack dab in the middle of two athletic brothers. I tried and failed at everything that came so easily to them. I’ve knocked out teeth, been stitched up and split my head open more times than I can count. If I ever go bald, a patchwork of stitch-marks and odd bumps will tell the story of a whole lot of humiliating defeats. Still, in spite of my older brother telling me that I “had to be the most uncoordinated person on the face of the planet,” I never gave up—determined to experience my own “thrill of victory.”

When we were little we belonged to a swim club. There were three diving boards: high, medium, and low. Almost from the first day we joined, my brothers were diving off the high dive. They progressed on to all sorts of impressive, daring dives…worthy of any diving team.

It wasn’t until the end of that first summer that I mustered up the courage to take the ultimate challenge; dive off the high dive. I climbed the steps to the top, walked carefully to the end of the board and froze, paralyzed with fear. Kids in line behind me started to get impatient, “Come on! Hurry up! Jump already!”

My brothers felt sorry for me. “You don’t have to dive, Laurie. Just jump. It’s easy.”

But I didn’t want to just jump, I wanted to prove to my brothers and others that I could dive off of it—just like them. I took a deep breath and stepped off the board. Unfortunately, mid-air I decided to turn my jump into a dive. What it turned into was a half dive, half belly-smacker. Honestly, my first thought was that I’d somehow managed to hit the cement. How could entering mere water hurt that bad? My brothers were bent over laughing. It was a tricky dive alright, and it was all I could do to keep from crying.

The medium board offered the most bounce and was used the most. My younger brother did a dive where he would stand at the end of the board, and with his back facing the water, he would bounce up high in the air and enter the water cleanly in front of the board. I told him I wanted to try it and he was more than willing to coach me, “Just jump up high, push off with your toes and dive forward.”

It sounded easy enough. I walked to the end of the board, turned around, my heels slightly off the board, got a good bounce and dove…right into the diving board. Humiliatingly enough, my body stayed on the board. I didn’t want the pitying attention I was drawing. I didn’t even pick my head up; I just did a slow roll off the board, plopped into the water, and swam nonchalantly over to the ladder. Move on friends, nothing to see here. 

My brother was genuinely concerned, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Of course! It barely hurt at all,” I lied. Just another humiliating defeat.

Sadly, I never did feel the “thrill of victory.” Not in anything that required a modicum of coordination, anyway.

But the only victory that really matters was won for me. Over 2000 years ago, Jesus came into this world in the most humble, vulnerable form of all—a precious, little baby. Jesus allowed Himself to be mutilated, tortured and killed for a world full of sinners like me, but death could not keep Him, and eventually it won’t keep us either.

“In a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, the trump will sound, the dead will rise and and our dying bodies will be transformed into bodies that will never die, and in this prophecy will be fulfilled: Death will be swallowed up in victory.” (1 Corinthians 15:52-55, paraphrased by me).

                                                                        

I’m currently reading a devotional called, “Imagine Heaven.” It’s a compilation of hundreds of true stories about people who got “glimpses” of Heaven after having near death experiences (NDEs). 

There are astonishing commonalities in each of their stories. As I’ve read them, I’ve come to believe I had my own NDE when I was just seven years old.

I always thought it was just a wonderful dream. Not too long ago, I even asked my mom, “Don’t you think it’s odd that I can still remember that dream I had when I was a little?” 

It was the winter of 1969, we’d just gotten our first a big snowfall and my little brother Craig (who was only five at the time) and I couldn't wait to get out and play in it. After my mom bundled us up in snowsuits, mittens, scarves and hats, she sent us out to brave the elements.

We trekked our way over to a small ice-covered pond and I ran and slid across it. I broke through the ice and was completely submerged. 

When I bobbed up, I screamed for Craig to help me. He did his best to pull me out—me screaming at him to pull harder and him crying so hard the snot and tears began freezing across his face. 

“I’m trying, I can’t pull any harder,” he wailed. “I can’t do it. We need Dad.”

As he took off running for home, I begged him not to leave me. My wet mittened hands clutched the edge of the ice. I knew it would only be a matter of minutes before I wouldn’t be able to hold on any longer.

Craig barged into the house so out of breath and sobbing so hysterically that my parents had a hard time making out what he was saying. “Laurie is drowning!” 

My dad ran out in his bare feet and found me curled up beside the hole I'd fallen through. Nothing but a guardian angel could have lifted me out of that pond—weighed down as I was with my sopping wet snow clothing. My time on earth wasn't done.

Ever since my mom left this world, I’ve often expressed a desire to get just a teensy glimpse of her in heaven…it’s what prompted my best friend to buy me this particular devotional.

In my dream (that I can still remember with astonishing detail), our family was on vacation. I don't know where we were, or how we got there, but it was bright and warm and we ran up and down vibrant hills of green and marveled at all the brightly colored flowers. We couldn’t stop laughing. How did we even find this place? We were all getting along so well--we loved each other too much to get aggravated about anything (so NOT the norm on our family vacations, when just breathing on each other could cause extreme aggravation).

Not too long before my mom died, she and I both read a book about a little boy who claimed he’d been in heaven. His family became convinced it was true when he told them things he couldn’t have known any other way.

When I asked my mom if she’d liked the book, she answered that she did, but that one little detail “didn’t sit well” with her.

“The wings!” I said, before she could even voice it—which was exactly what she was about to say. Our like-mindedness cracked me up.

Neither me nor my mom liked the idea of having wings (my shoulders slump forward just thinking about them). I can only imagine them being pesky and cumbersome—making it hard to do anything (other than flying, of course).

Obviously, I know if I do have wings in heaven, I will be tickled pink— thrilled to be soaring all over the place. But right now, in my earthly body, I don’t care a whit about flying, and the visual of wings attached to me kind of freaks me out.

All this to say, my conviction that I experienced my own NDE could not come at a better time. The remembrance of the brightness, beauty, love, and laughter now fills me with expectant joy. I truly believe my “dream” was the little glimpse of heaven I’ve been longing for—and, I am happy to say, we did NOT have wings.

I attend a weekly Bible study, and quite some time ago one of the lessons left me feeling especially convicted. 

Our teacher started the lecture saying, “Dealing with Jesus is always a good deal.”

The lesson focussed on two individuals who were forever changed by their faith in Jesus.

One of them was a man named Jairus who came to Jesus and begged Him to come heal his sick little daughter. The other one we only know as the “bleeding woman.” 

Back then, the woman’s condition would have left her ostracized from society—forced to live a lonesome, isolated life. She believed Jesus could heal her, and so she bravely joined the throngs and fought her way through to get close enough to touch the hem of Jesus’ garment and was immediately healed! She could return home a new woman.

But Jesus didn’t allow her an anonymous escape. He stopped and asked who had touched His clothing. Imagine her dismay! She knelt trembling before Him, admitting it was she. Jesus reached out and touched her and called her Daughter! Imagine going from trembling fear to unthinkable joy. Not only did He touch her, He looked in her eyes, used an endearment and proclaimed to all that it was her great faith that healed her. 

The woman came expecting only to be healed but got a relationship with Jesus as well because, “dealing with Jesus is always a good deal.”

In the meantime, Jairus was growing increasingly impatient. Why wasn’t Jesus dropping everything to come heal his little girl? He continued to plead with Jesus to come quickly—before it was too late.

When Jesus finally followed Jairus home, they came upon a heart wrenching scene—while Jesus had tarried, the little girl had died. Non-plussed, Jesus told them to stop wailing, the little girl wasn’t dead, she was only sleeping and they laughed at Him. But Jesus took her little hand, saying, “My child get up.” And she did!

Jairus expected a healing, but got a resurrection! Because, “dealing with Jesus is always a good deal.”

At the end of the lecture she posed a question, “Is there something Jesus is asking you to give up in exchange for a better deal?”

My face felt hot and I heard an almost audible voice: “Boxes of wine.”

There are few things I look more forward to than getting Brett settled in for the night, popping up a bag of popcorn, pouring myself a glass of wine and settling in with a good book. I’m especially eager to get to this part of my evening when I’ve stumbled upon a real page turner. It’s my little slice of Heaven. The problem is, I buy boxed wine, making it difficult to ascertain how many glasses I’m drinking. And deep down, I knew it was getting out of hand.

On the way home, I debated whether or not to tell Bob about my conviction—because I’m not a huge fan of accountability (especially when it’s Bob the one holding me accountable). But in the end, I did tell him. 

He responded with a little too much enthusiasm for my taste, so I quickly added, “Actually, it may have just been a hot flash and I’ll probably backslide.”

“It wasn’t and you won’t,” Bob answered.

And he was right, it wasn’t and I haven’t— and it has been a good deal. There are few things I fear more than ignoring the voice of the Spirit. I heard it once said that “there’s no softer pillow than a clear conscience.” 

An absence of fear and a clear conscience—I’d say that’s a pretty good deal.

As far back as I can remember, it was my mom I sought to please the most. I couldn’t stand for her to be disappointed in me. I sought her wisdom and favor in every action and every decision I ever made—big or small.

I never doubted her unconditional love, never doubted that she delighted in my company every bit as much as I delighted in hers. We were so much alike. We had the same sense of humor and would laugh until our sides hurt. We both loved to read, and spent hours reading together.

She could always sense when I was feeling down. She was good at calling me out for being too caught up in this present world rather than the eternal, or on my outward appearance rather than what I was like on the inside.

When my parents moved to Florida, I still talked to my mom everyday. We’d laugh just as much as ever and I’d seek her advice on everything from cooking to child-rearing. 

Because I’d never met two people more madly in love than my parents were, I couldn't imagine either one of them living without the other, so when my dad died of a sudden heart attack just shy of my mom’s fifty-eighth birthday, I thought the strong, fun-loving mother I’d always known was gone forever. Thankfully, she was too other-cantered to allow her overwhelming grief lessen her attentiveness and love for her four children. Fortunately, my brother, Craig, also lived in Florida, so at least she wasn't alone. 

When Craig died in a tragic accident less than two years after losing my dad, my mom surprised us again with her strength, resilience and great faith in the face of her horrific grief.

After Craig’s death, my mom came to live with us in Michigan. Sadly, if not for the appalling double loss of my beloved father and brother, there is no way she would have moved in with us just when I needed her most. At the time of Craig’s death I was pregnant with my son, Brett. We knew Brett was going to born with “issues,” but nothing could have prepared us for the severity of his disabilities. 

I can’t imagine going through those first days, months and years of Brett’s life without my mom by my side. She was with me from the day Brett took his first breath until the day she took her last. 

When my mom first became ill, I was filled with fear and anxiety. I didn't want to live in a world without her in it. Many nights, that awful, elephant-on-my-chest anxiety would keep me awake. I’d beg God to heal her—no one would be able to fill the void she’d leave in my life.

Giving up on sleep, I’d get up and grab my Bible, and look up familiar verses. “You are my refuge and my strength, an ever present help in trouble.” (Psalm 46). “Lord, You have searched me and You know me…how precious to me are Your thoughts, O God!” (Psalm 139).

And suddenly it struck me! I’d made my mom my refuge and my strength, she was my ever-present help in the unfortunate circumstances I found myself in. Her thoughts had become more precious to me than God’s!

I think back on those nights now and believe God used those nights to alter my thinking, gently assuring me I would okay because HE is my refuge and my strength. HE is my ever-present help and will never leave me or forsake me.

It’s been exactly two years since I had to say goodbye to her and I still ache to hear her assuring words of wisdom. I still break down and cry because I so desperately want to ask her to pray for me, to tell her about the things that are weighing me down. In these times I ask myself, “What would she say to me?” And I can almost hear her voice, “Don’t be sad, honey. Let go of regrets. Rejoice that I have a new glorified body and am no longer suffering."

I’ve struggled all day today to keep my tears at bay. How could it be that I’ve lived two whole years without her? I grieve her loss more than ever, but I do take comfort in knowing Jesus will wipe every tear from our eyes, that there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain. Hallejujah! (Revelation 21:4) 

Our beloved grandson, Brooks, came to town a few weeks ago. Oh, and Caitlin and Cam came too. Ha-ha. There aren't words to describe the awe and delight I get from just watching Brooks dart around the room. He seemingly went from walking to running overnight. Now, he only runs.

What I found particularly touching was his reaction to his Uncle Brett. The best way to describe Brett is that of a giant, blind infant. 

Brooks stared at him with consternation for several minutes before saying, “Up.” And then again, “Up!”

I can just imagine what was playing out in that bright little mind of his…okay, you’ve been lying there plenty long enough, now it’s time for you to get up and play with me.

He squatted down close to his face, probably trying to get him to look at him. How enchanted Uncle Brett would be if he could see him! Someday, my sweet Brettski, someday.

“You need to be very gentle with your Uncle Brett,” Caitlin cautioned.

Brooks has been taught what “gentle” means, and his sweet little fingers stroked Brett’s face very softly. Awww!

He watched with particular interest when I changed Brett’s diaper and then got his bottle ready. I asked Brooks if he’d like to give Brett his bottle. He got to me in record timing, hands outstretched to take the bottle.

“Mom! Don’t give it to him. He’ll just drink it himself.”

Of course, I didn’t listen to her and gave it to him anyway. I had to laugh as he quickly grabbed it, and with his arms held straight out, ran to put it in Brett’s mouth. 

“Good job, Brooks!”  At which he stopped and clapped for himself—his standard response to being praised for the slightest achievement.

Brett makes involuntary noises and will occasionally rub his hand against his belly. Brooks mimicked both perfectly. Adults might not be able to speak Brett’s “language,” but Brooks had no trouble communicating with him. It was hysterical. 

I’d give anything to live close to them. I’ve begged Caitlin to just put me on FaceTime and put me on a shelf in their living room.

“Mom. You’d never see him. He never stays in one place, he doesn’t stop running from room to room.”

“But surely I could catch a glimpse of him running by once in a while. I’ll settle for that.”

Unfortunately, Brooks isn’t a fan of FaceTime. As soon as he sees me, he says, “Bye!”

blows me a kiss and runs off. Shucks. 

Every grandparent I know tells of not being able to describe the joy grandchildren bring. I’m thrilled to have joined the club…and they're right, there really is no describing it.

For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul?” Mark 8:36 (NKJV)

I saw a bumper sticker once that said, “He who dies with the most toys, wins.” How sad that a life can be summed up by how much “stuff” they leave behind when they die.

Several years ago a best selling book consisted entirely of a compilation of answers people gave to the following question: "How would you sum up your life in six words or less?" 

The columnist writing the review came up with his own six word summation: “Dad was Santa. Downhill from there.” 

I asked my husband, Bob, to sum up his life in six words or less. He thought about it briefly before answering, "Life is tough. Couldn't be happier." Awww, no wonder I’m so crazy about him.

The more I thought about Bob’s answer the more I realized how spot on he was. He gets it! Like the apostle Paul said in Phil. 4:11: "I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want."

A Christian’s life isn’t defined by material success, but rather by how much we love God and love people. Since reading the article, six words or less summations from the Bible have jumped out at me. Inspired nuggets of wisdom that are meant to help us live a life full of contentment, meaning and purpose.

Just a small sampling include—“Godliness with contentment is great gain.” (1 Timothy 6:6) “Give thanks in all circumstances.” (1 Thessalonians 5:18). “Forgive others as Christ forgave you.” (Matthew 6:14) “Judge not, lest you be judged.“ (Matthew 7:1). “Set your mind on things above.” (Colossians 3:2) “Love your neighbor as yourself.” (Matthew 22:39) “His mercies are new every morning.” (Lamentations 3:23) “You cannot serve God and money.” (Matthew 6:24) “With God, all things are possible.” (Mark 10:27) "Love covers a multitude of sins." (1 Peter 4:8)

A six word summation of today's generation might well be, "Let's entertain ourselves at all costs." What a stark contrast to the precepts the Bible has laid down for us! I want my own six word summation to be: “Living to please God, not people.” I want to strive to follow the Bible’s wise words and in doing so bring others to believe in Him and win the biggest jackpot of all—eternal life with the King of Kings and Lord of Lords!

“Only one life, ‘twill soon be past; only what’s done for Christ will last.”

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your paths.”  Proverbs 3:5-6

Navigational tools have made paper maps almost obsolete. Relics to be framed and hung on walls. Finding a place is as easy as tapping the correct address into our devices, sitting back and listening to the lady tell us exactly when and where to turn, and ta-da—we arrive at our destination. Although I do remember one occasion when the “lady” led me on a wild goose chase and I ended up on a road nowhere near my intended destination. I was shocked! She’d never failed me before! Maybe I hadn’t listened closely enough—but no, I was sure I’d hadn't heard her say anything about “calculating a reroute.”

As a flight attendant, “reroute” is a dreaded word. Just when you think you’re on your way to a warm Miami layover, crew scheduling calls and (likely due to some weather issues) you’re informed you’ve been rerouted and will now be laying over in Fargo. After all, airlines aren’t concerned about getting their flight attendants to their nice layovers but rather ensuring that our passengers get to their paid destinations. Of course, the crew enjoying YOUR layover in Miami rather than THEIR own in Fargo—well, their reroute was a bonanza.

Several years after we decided we weren’t going to have any more children, God arranged a reroute that would stretch us physically, emotionally and spiritually. I became pregnant with our son, Brett, who was born with severe disabilities. 

After his birth I tormented myself with the thought that Brett might be my punishment for making one too many wrong turns. Was he born the way he was because I’d drowned out the still, small voice of the Spirit who had continually prodded me to calculate a reroute? That I'd stubbornly  stayed on the route I thought would make me happiest? Willfully choosing wrong turns rather than trusting and obeying the perfect navigational tool of His word? His voice to "continue on the route" becoming so quiet that soon I couldn't hear it all and become hopelessly lost in despair and guilt.

I remember telling my mom I thought Brett might be my punishment—that I didn’t deserve a healthy baby. I’ll never forget her response, “My goodness! If it was about deserving, no one would have a healthy baby.”

Now I look back and realize how wrong I’d been to think of Brett as a punishment. Today I see him as a special gift with a unique purpose. I take comfort in knowing Brett is God’s perfect plan for us— he is not the result of a “wrong turn.” As we “continue on the route” to our final destination, I know God will supply us with everything we need. I can trust Him to navigate us through the physical, emotional and spiritual trials we will continue to encounter along the journey. And when we are finally Home, we will discover that all our troubles were “achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.” (2 Corinthians 4:17)