Today’s parents must think it’s a minor miracle that we survived growing up in the 60’s. We didn't have car seats, helmets, floaties, sunscreen, or childproof caps. 

Instead of relying on electric outlet covers to keep us from poking knives or forks into them or fancy gadgets to keep us out of cupboards, we were told if we did, we’d either die instantly or be "smacked into the middle of next week." 

Obviously, we took the warnings seriously, because here we are, alive and well and buying up every possible gadget to keep our children and grandchildren from any harm. 

I can’t remember it ever being suggested that we wear a seat belt. Maybe our cars didn’t have seat belts. But the backseat was total mayhem. Whining or fighting got the "hand" reaching back and indiscriminately slapping everything in range. Today, kids ride in the car buckled into their own personal thrones, replete with cup holders and personal dvd players.

It was common to be left in the car while our moms went inside the mall, after all, they’d only be gone a few minutes. We tried keeping ourselves occupied—crouching down in the seats until a person walked behind us and then laying on the horn, laughing hysterically when they jumped out of their skins. Yelling out to other kids waiting in cars nearby, pretending to light cigarettes with the lighter, making up games to play—but it all got old pretty quickly. By the time our moms came out (looking like they could use a third arm to carry all the shopping bags) we'd be hot, sweaty messes. Today, what amazes me most is that we never once thought about stepping one foot out of that car.

Every time we went to the mall, we begged my mom to let us go in with her. We promised to be good. But alas, my brothers weren’t good at “being good.” They routinely knocked over displays, hid in the center of racks, raised the hackles of every clerk until my poor nerve-wracked mom would end up hustling us back to the car without accomplishing a thing.

Westland Mall used to have a giant bird cage. When my mom shopped there, Jeff and I begged to go in with her. We promised to stay at the cage and watch the birds the whole time.

“Can you promise not to let Craig get out of your sight?”

“Yes!” Jeff and I promised. 

And, like I’ve said, my mom knew I took my job of keeping an eye on Craig very seriously and she knew Jeff would never think of wandering off by himself. Besides, at five and three, Craig and I were each other's favorite playmates.

“Please, Mumma. We promise we won’t let Craig get away.”

We could tell when we were breaking her down. She sighed in resignation, “I guess. I only need to go into one store, so I’ll be quick.”

We couldn’t scramble out of the car fast enough. I took Craig’s little hand firmly in mine, “You have to stay right by us, okay?”

He agreed, trotting obediently beside me. 

“Don’t forget to keep a close eye on Craig,” my mom warned one last time before leaving us.

We stayed right there at the bird cage—pointing out the different birds, climbing up on the ledge, chasing each other around it--so happy to be in the mall rather than in the car.

And just as my mom promised, she was only gone a few minutes. 

“See, mumma? We stayed right here.”

My mom's eyes scanned the area, “Where’s Craig?”

I was positive he was on the other side of the cage. But he wasn’t.

“He has to be right around here,” Jeff assured her. “He was right here.”

We started calling for him, my mom getting more panicked by the second. She started crying, and when we found a mall cop she struggled through her tears to describe Craig…curly brown hair, brown eyes, a brown and white striped shirt. I can picture him to this day.

“Don’t you worry Ma’am. We’ll find him. Any minute now, someone will find a little guy crying for his mama, and bring him to us.”

“No! He won’t be crying,” my mom insisted. She knew Craig, he would be happily strolling around the mall, without a care in the world.

This time, it did take a long time to find him. My mom couldn’t stop crying, praying and mumbling to herself how she should have known better.

Jeff and I couldn’t fathom how he’d gotten away from us. 

After what seemed like an eternity, we found him acting as the elevator boy at Hudson’s. Happily pushing the buttons to get his passengers up and down from the restaurant.

It irked my mom that not a single person found it odd that a three-year-old child would be riding up and down the elevator by himself. Not a one asking him where his mother was.

But no one had, and once again my mom knelt down and clutched Craig tightly against her, sobbing in relief. And of course, per the usual, Craig started crying, too, “What are we crying about Mumma?”

We didn’t lose Craig again, that is not until 34 years later, when he left his mortal body and entered into the presence of the Lord.

“We live by faith, not by sight. We are confident, I say, and would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord.”   2 Cor. 5:7-8

One of my earliest memories was being tasked with the job of keeping an eye on my little brother, Craig. When he was two and I was four, my mom told me I did a better job of watching him than my older brother, Jeff, who was six. It made me feel like such a big girl, and I took the job seriously.

We had a fenced in backyard, and as soon as I’d spot Craig trying to climb the fence to make his escape, I’d run in and let my mom know. For the most part, I remember us playing in the sandbox. Me making houses and Craig carving out roads for his cars and trucks.

But there were two times I slipped up, I got distracted and he got away. The details surrounding both episodes remain crystal clear in my memory.

The first one was the summer we spent at Higgins Lake. We were having a house built in Romeo and we rented a camper while we waited for it to get finished. I turned five that summer and Craig would turn three in September.

We were playing in the sand by the water. One minute Craig was playing beside me and the next he was gone.

“Where’s Craig?” my mom looked up from her book and asked me.

I looked up from where we were building sand castles. “I don’t know. He was right here,” I patted the sand next to me.

My mom started panicking. She started running back and forth along the water’s edge, calling out his name and pleading with God to let her find him.

I started crying, “I’m sorry Mumma. I didn’t see him get up.”

“Oh honey, it’s not your fault,” she said through tears. She kept up her pleading, “Please Jesus, please Jesus. Please let me find him.”

But still, I felt like it was my fault. I was so good at watching him. Why didn’t he say something when he got up? He always wanted me to go in the water with him. Everyone on the beach joined in the search. They looked everywhere. In the camper, on the grounds around the camper, in the public restrooms.

I’d never seen my mom so beside herself. It scared me.

It seemed like hours slipped by, but it couldn’t have been very long before Craig sauntered out of the public restroom, completely oblivious to the fact that he was the reason for all the joy and relief his sudden appearance brought.

“Some guy walked right in on me!” he said indignantly.

We’d looked in the restrooms, but his little legs didn’t hang down long enough for us to spot them under the stalls and he didn’t know how to latch the door.

My mom knelt down, clutched him tightly against her chest and sobbed her heart out.

Craig started crying too. “Why are we crying, Mumma?”

That story was repeated often as we grew up. The thing was, whenever Craig caught my mom crying, he’d tune up and cry with her, “Why are we crying Mumma?”

What a gift it is that God doesn’t allow us to see what the future holds, because Craig did end up being taken from us way too soon. My mom outlived him by more than fifteen years. It’s not supposed to happen that way.

She would often talk about driving along with Craig standing beside her on the bench seat of our car. His left arm draped over her shoulder, head pressed against her and sucking his right thumb. How inconceivable that seems now—being so unmindful of the danger of driving with your toddler standing next to you.

She remembered those days with such nostalgia—having Craig all to herself for those few years before he had to join us at school. Every time Craig’s name came up in the last few years of my mom’s life, her eyes would well up and she’d softly whisper, “Why are we crying Mumma?”