“However, I say to you, love your enemies and bless the one who curses you, do something wonderful for the one who hates you, and respond to the very ones who persecute you by praying for them...what reward do you deserve if you only love the lovable?” Matthew 5:44-46 (TPT)

All my life I’ve been told politics and religion are taboo subjects— because, heaven forbid, someone might get offended. As Christians we are commanded to spread the good news, not stay silent lest people find Jesus offensive. 

As citizens of the United States of America, we the people get to choose who leads our country and who enacts laws meant to keep us safe and preserve our freedoms. 

Maybe if civil dialogue about politics and religion hadn’t been verboten for so many years, it wouldn’t be as volatile as it is now. Regardless of our political disagreements, maybe we would treat each other with kindness rather than scorn.

After all, we do have a choice in the matter. We can choose not to be offended. We can choose to be open-minded. Maybe if we’re willing to listen, we’ll be enlightened, maybe we’ll see things differently. But not in this environment. Not when we’re shouting each other down.

My job as a flight attendant brings dozens of people into my life that I may only talk to one time. Most people are under the impression that we fly with the same people all the time. That surely we must know so and so because they also fly for Delta. There are some flight attendants who routinely fly together, but I'm not one of them. I fly a variety of trips--one day trips, two day trips, three day trips, International and Domestic trips. Because of this I may fly with a person once and then not see them again for another ten years or so - or maybe never again. I pray for boldness to share my faith, especially my story about Brett. I can usually sense if my opinions or convictions will result in vitriolic tension, and I speak and act accordingly. I certainly believe in the high calling to be a peace maker. 

Recently I had a political conversation with a flight attendant about an issue our country is deeply divided on—he is passionately for it and I am passionately against it. But I listened, and I gained a new perspective and I chose not to be offended.

It started with the question, “When did you find out your son was going to be born with severe disabilities?” 

“Almost from the moment I found out I was pregnant.”

“Then why did you still have him?”

“Because I don’t think it’s up to me to decide to stop a beating heart. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself. Besides, doctors aren’t always right. Maybe God would perform a miracle—maybe he would be born perfect, in spite of their dire predictions."

“Did you really think they might be wrong?”

“No. Deep down I never did,” I admitted. “Some people told me that maybe I didn’t have enough faith.” 

“Did you ever think it might have been a selfish decision on your part? That just because you didn’t want to ‘live with’ it, that, after you’re gone, your other children and the rest of society will be left to take care of him?” 

I never had thought about it that way (not that it would have changed my mind), but he suggested it in the nicest possible way. His words were gentle. He wanted me to see how others might see it, to help me understand why they might choose differently. 

And honestly, it kind of knocked me off my high horse of moral superiority. I’m not qualified to judge others. Only God is. 

It also opened up the door to share my faith.

“I don’t think Brett is a mistake or just a sad story. I think he’s part of a bigger story that God is using for good. I know he’s changed our lives for good. And someday he’ll be perfect in heaven.” 

Did our conversation result in him becoming a Christian? No. Did he change my mind about abortion? No. I still think every life, regardless of how flawed they are, is sacred. And I believe it begins at conception. 

But we did manage to talk about politics and religion without turning it into a shouting match. We didn’t “un-friend” each other just because we don’t agree on politics or religion. 

I loved the book, “Un-off-end-able” by Brant Hanson. A line that really resonating with me stated, “Refusing to be offended by others is a powerful door-opener to actual relationships.” Amen to that.

Admittedly, becoming unoffendable is an ongoing struggle for me. But this book by Brant Hanson convinced me of our need to get there, that in fact, we can choose it, one day, one minute at a time.

As soon as I found out I was pregnant with my first child, I started talking about names. Who knew coming up with a name could be so stressful? Or that Bob would have such strong, unbending opinions about it?

"I love the name Brooke Ellen--don't you think it has a melodious ring to it?”

I barely got the words out before Bob answered, "I hate it." 

We didn’t butt heads so much with boy’s names. I only cared that it be one syllable. But I continued to throw out one girl's name after another. He didn't like any of them, nor could he come up with a name he did like. I think he was so convinced we were having a boy, that he stopped caring. So when I suggested Emily Ann, he said he was good with it.  

We dutifully signed up for Lamaze classes. What cruel wacko came up with that absurd idea? How much unnecessary torture has been endured because some masochistic liar claimed that different breathing combinations could make natural childbirth a pleasant experience?

I remember the Lamaze instructor having our husbands, or "coaches" as she insisted on calling them, pinch us with increasing pressure-- so we could practice "breathing" through the pain. I'm embarrassed now that I joined the herd mentality that bought into that claptrap.

Throughout all my pregnancies, I had an unspoken fear that there would be something wrong with the baby. I don’t know where the fear stemmed from, but I couldn’t shake it. I remember thinking, who am I to deserve a perfect baby? I think back and wonder if God was preparing me for my third pregnancy when we would know from the very beginning that indeed something was very wrong with the baby.

Because this first baby was in no hurry to make his or her appearance, we had to go the inducement route. I only realized after my second child was born, what a doubly tortuous “route” this was.

It didn’t seem so bad at first but it slowly built up to the most excruciating pain I'd ever felt. Of course Bob, the “coach,” was right there with me, telling me how much easier it would be if I would just breathe the way "we'd" practiced. I hated the Coach. 

To top it off, my brilliant doctor had estimated the baby to be around seven pounds, instead, without the aid of any pain medication, I gave birth to a baby girl weighing in at just under ten pounds.

In spite of the horrific pain, I decided there could be no greater joy than giving birth. The awe and instantaneous surge of love was overwhelming. And whether Bob thought he was ready for a baby or not, with her first breath he loved our baby girl with everything he had in him.

My whole family had spent the day at the hospital, so while I was getting “repaired,” they flocked to the nursery to get their first peek at Emily Ann.

My younger brother, Craig, came in to see me first, “She’s a moose!” he laughed, “she’s twice the size of all the other babies in there.”

I didn’t know it at the time, but my mom told me later that Craig left my room and headed straight to the nursing station—insisting something was wrong with me because my whole body was shaking violently. That shaking lasted for hours and was soon accompanied with a burning fever. I ended up staying in the hospital for a week, so many antibiotics pumping through my veins that every pore seeped out the smell of them. 

When Bob came back the day after Emily Ann was born, he had our “Baby Names” book with him. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stand the name Emily. I think it sounds like a grandma’s name.”

Almost delirious with pain and fever, I didn’t care. “Fine, pick whatever name you want.”

He thumbed through the pages and came up with Caitlin. I loved it. I had plenty of time to come up with a middle name and since I’d always loved the name Suzanne, that’s what we settled on—Caitlin Suzanne. It’s a beautiful name and it fit her to a tee.

Several years ago I was fondly recalling the day Bob first told me he loved me—hands down, one of the happiest days of my life. 

Feeling a little nostalgic, I turned and asked Bob, “Hey, babe, if you could choose just one day to re-live, which day would you choose?”

He doesn't like questions like this. They make him skittish. I think he thinks I have a "right" answer in mind and if he comes up with the "wrong" one, I’ll be a beast about it.

But I persisted and he finally came up with a day he wanted to relive: Our wedding day. Which happened to be the wrong answer.  [reasons detailed in another part of my memoir]

“Is that really the day you’d want to live all over again?” I asked, clearly disappointed.

He said he only chose it because he would go back and change everything about it so it would be a wonderful memory for both of us.

I told him part of the “rules” of choosing, was that you couldn't change anything, you had to go back and relive it exactly as it was. I asked him to come up with another day. He wouldn’t. He didn’t want to risk coming up with another wrong answer.

“Well,” I huffed. “It only took me about two minutes to choose what day I’d like to live all over again. It was the day you told me you loved me.” 

“That's only because you’re better at remembering stuff. I knew I shouldn’t have tried to come up with a day. I knew I’d somehow pick the wrong one.”

I had to admit he had a point. He does have a terrible memory. And, of course, I would tuck his little admission of a terrible memory away--to pull out for future use.

                                                           * * * 

It was forty-two years ago. I was sixteen and I could hardly believe that Bob Staples was telling me he loved me, of all the girls who had a thing for him (and there were many), he loved me! 

It probably wasn't such a stellar day for him. His avowal of love was met with total silence on my part. Because I was an immature, nervous goof, I couldn't get a single word out. Finally, I just embarrassingly buried my face in his neck.

Months and months later, I finally mustered up the courage to tell him I loved him, too. (Even though I'd been hopelessly in love with him for years.)

                                                          * * *

The social anxiety I experienced as a teenager lasted well into my twenties. In fact, I still experience it today. But it was especially awful as a teenager.

If I had the attention of more than a few people, or was called on in class, my neck and chest would get blotchy, my face would turn beet red and my underarms would perspire so much I could feel the water dripping down my sides. Mercifully, body odor didn't accompany the copious sweating. I tried every antiperspirant on the market but nothing worked to turn off my underarm faucets. 

I used to cut washrags into little half moon shapes, safety pin them together and then pin them under the arms of all my shirts and sweaters.

The first Thanksgiving after Bob told me he loved me, he wanted me to spend Thanksgiving Day with his family. 

Bob, his mom and his cousin all celebrate their birthdays on Thanksgiving. Bob had bought a present for his mom and signed my name on the card, too.

After she opened it, she got up, walked over to Bob and thanked him with a kiss. When I realized she was going to come over and thank me with a kiss too, I got all flustered, silently telling myself, it’s gonna be okay, all you have to do is say you’re welcome, just say you’re welcome.

What came out of my mouth? “Buh-bye.”

The room erupted in laughter and I did my best to laugh with them. But tears of embarrassment threatened instead. 

“Awww,” Bob said after seeing my face. He pulled me against him and I half buried my face into his shoulder and managed to hold it together.

Yup, an anxiety ridden little goof.