tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15594617012027434542024-03-20T08:12:13.154-07:00all in a day's flightLauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.comBlogger169125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-14328679350284976402024-03-16T12:46:00.000-07:002024-03-16T12:46:09.644-07:00<p> <span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;">The gate agent wanted to board him early, because he was elderly and legally blind. If I had to guess, I’d say he was in his late eighties. He was tall, probably at least 6’4” and the furthest thing from friendly. I led him back to his seat, the fourth row from the back.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Here’s your seat, sir. Right here on your right.”</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Why do you people always give me a seat in the very back of the airplane?" he growled.</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“I’m not sure sir, maybe it has to do with when you bought your ticket.”</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“How do you expect me fit into that seat? Why do you keep making the seats smaller and smaller?”</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">He was stiff and struggled mightily to fold himself into the seat. I raised the arm rest to help. He finally managed to sit down but kept his big foot out in the aisle.</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Sir, you're going to have to put your foot underneath the seat in front of you. You're liable to trip people.”</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“I can’t move it.”</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The grumpy geezer was getting on my last nerve. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I knelt on the floor, took his size thirteen wing-tipped shoe, picked it up and wedged it inside the metal bar under the seat. It <i>was</i> a tight fit. His knees were right up against the seat in front of him. Looking at him squeezed in there <i>did</i> make the seat look unusually small.</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Breathing a little heavily from the effort of getting his foot out of the aisle, I began closing bins.</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Where did you put my bag?” he barked out.</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“It’s in the bin right above you.”</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“I want it down.”</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>So now I’m your personal lackey?</i></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I forced myself to smile, “You can have it down for now, but I have to put it back up for take-off and landing.<i>” Because it sure as heck isn't going to fit under the seat with those giant feet of yours.</i></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Sitting on my jumpseat behind him, I looked at the miserable old coot, sitting stiffly, looking straight ahead.</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">His gray hair was thick and neatly combed. I’d noticed earlier that he wore a nice suit. Flicks of dandruff clung to the shoulders of his suit and there was a spot of spittle on his tie. I surmised he had once been a handsome, distinguished man—maybe even pleasant? He’s probably shocked to find himself so old and decrepit—wondering where the years went. My heart softened towards him. Who knew why he was flying? Maybe he’d just lost a loved one and was returning from a funeral.</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I knew when we landed he would need help getting up. As soon as the seat belt sign went off, I managed to make my way up to him, but he’d already tried to stand on his own and was falling over. I wasn’t strong enough to hold him up, we were both going down, but, miraculously, a man seated in the<i> very </i>last row was right beside us, helping me hold him up, kindly urging him to sit back down.</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Tears welled in my eyes—they always do when a stranger jumps up to help a fellow passenger. Strange, but true.</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The stranger waited until everyone had deplaned and helped me get the man out of his seat. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I thought the old grump was going to walk off without saying a word. But I was wrong, he stopped, turned and took a long look at me, “Thank you,” he said softly. “You’ve been very kind.”</p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">I</span> know the smallest acts of kindness are never wasted, but having it acknowledged made my day. Even though my thoughts had <i>not</i> been kind, I reaped the joy from <i>acting </i>kind and (of course) it brought tear to my eyes.</p>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-5407966463333616422022-08-13T10:56:00.001-07:002022-08-13T10:59:38.559-07:00<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">My airline has a policy that doesn’t allow anyone under the age of sixteen to fly without an adult. But, for an additional fee, they</span><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> can</i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> fly as an “unaccompanied minor,” giving our employees</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">the responsibility of ensuring they get delivered into the hands of the documented adult waiting for them at their final destination.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As a flight attendant, we are required to give them personal briefings about the safety features of the aircraft, check on them every 15 minutes, and <i>most importantly </i>make sure they do not get off without one of us walking them off. We try and board them first and seat them in the last row.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On a recent flight, the flight leader called back and told me an accompanied minor was on her way back and asked me to brief her.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After she took her seat, I launched into possibly the most thorough individual briefing I’ve every given.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Hi there! Is this your first time flying? No? Well, you probably know the drill, but I’ve got to repeat it anyway.” I jokingly start out, “I see you figured out how to put your seat belt on. Good job! The closest exit is right behind you. If for any reason a mask drops down, make sure you put it over your nose AND mouth and, if during the flight you put a mask on, be sure to remove it first. This particular aircraft has different colored exit signs…” and on and on and on I went.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She attentively listened with a smile on her face and politely thanked me for each little tidbit I passed along to her.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I ended my briefing, as I always do, “BUT, the MOST important thing is that you do NOT get off this airplane without one of us accompanying you, okay?”</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She looked appalled, “But WHY? I’m twenty-six years old!”</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Right behind me, waiting to take her seat, was the <i>actual </i>unaccompanied minor.</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">Can you imagine what this sweet twenty-six year old girl (who really could pass for fifteen) was thinking?? Getting this laser focussed, </span><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">personal </i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">briefing about every detail about the airplane and what she needs to do in an emergency?</span></span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">No doubt she was thinking to herself…<i>this old bat is taking her job waaaay too seriously…she should retire already.</i></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i></i><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">What cracked me up the most was how grateful she seemed, never once giving off vibes about how weird she must have thought I was, how weird the whole thing was. It wasn’t until I told her she had to wait until everybody else got off, that she even questioned it. Too funny!</span></span></p><div><br /></div>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-91110234972863893702022-03-08T18:48:00.007-08:002022-05-03T12:00:41.275-07:00<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">For obvious reasons, New Year’s Eve is the l</span><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">east </i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">likely night of the year that Bob and I are able to get a sitter. But I love watching football and Michigan was playing Georgia in the Orange Bowl. So Bob and I donned our Michigan shirts in anticipation of celebrating a big win. Of course, it soon became painfully obvious that only Georgia fans would be celebrating. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As anyone who knows me <i>knows,</i> I LOVE playing games. Bob would want to insert here that what I <i>really</i> like playing are mind games (ha-ha). I’m very competitive and it doesn’t take much for me to become obnoxious about it.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Anyhow, I insisted we needed to play a game. When we were dating we played all kinds of games. And we laughed and laughed. Shouldn’t we try to start 2022 out laughing and laughing? After all, there hadn’t been much to laugh about in 2020 and 2021. The only problem was I couldn’t think of a single two player game. What games did we used to play--other than video games? We wracked our brains but couldn’t remember any of them. All word games were out of the question—Bob hates word games and is so awful at them that I can’t even derive my usual glee of whomping on him. I brought out every game we had in search of something, <i>anything</i>. Turned out our only option was Old Maid. Bob had never heard of it. That in itself made me laugh. Who hasn’t heard of Old Maid?</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I explained the rules to him. He said he must be missing something because it sounded too easy. <i>Because it’s made for 4 year old’s, ya big silly.</i> I dealt the cards and we made bets. The stakes were high—the loser would have to do anything the winner wanted. When it came down to those last two cards, we studied each other’s faces as our hands hovered over one card and then the other. Did trying to hold back a smile mean we were about to pick the Old Maid? Or was it just good acting? Turns out we aren’t too good at reading each others’ faces. It made the game very suspenseful and we<i> did </i>laugh and laugh. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A few weeks later we drove down to Indy and brought back four-year old Brooks and two-year old Maisie for the weekend. It quickly became evident that Brooks is following in my footsteps, which meant sadly (but for his own good) he <i>must</i> lose at least <i>one</i> game out of the dozen we played. But the little smarty-pants was determined <i>not </i>to suffer a loss. The <i>one </i>time I made <i>sure</i> he chose the Old Maid, he simply changed the rules. When he realized she was the last card he was holding, he quickly announced, “Actually…<b><i>now</i></b> the person who <b><i>gets </i></b>the 'old lady' is the winner.” His craftiness cracked me up.</span></p>
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<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">Who would have thought that bringing in the New Year playing Old Maid with your husband of 37+ years of marriage would be fun?? Though I never </span><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">want</i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> to ring in the New Year playing Old Maid </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">again (it was actually very pitiful), the fact that we </span><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">did</i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> have a rollicking good time probably means we’re going to be okay.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> </span> </span></p>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-90432516095068048922021-10-11T07:58:00.007-07:002022-01-17T10:47:23.544-08:00<p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">The truth is getting more and more elusive. How disheartening it is to hear people claim that there is no such thing as absolute truth, that all truth is relative. As Paul the apostle said, if it isn’t absolutely true that Jesus died and rose again, then Christians are to be pitied above all men. But it </span><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">is</i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> true, Jesus is the Way, the Truth and the Life. (John 14:6) Our God is a God of truth. (Deuteronomy 32:4) He not only despises deceit, He despises anything that dilutes or manipulates the truth.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">The Bible tells us to put on the whole armor of God. (Ephesians 6) The very first piece of armor Paul asks us to put on is the belt of</span><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> truth. </i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">Tucked into</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"> that belt of truth is the sword of the Spirit, the Word of God. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Today we have at our finger tips the answers to just about any question we might have—there’s no need to wrack our brains trying to remember names, places or stats. We simply Google it.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Johnny Carson used to have a segment asking a guest if a certain individual was dead or alive. Bob and I play it now.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"> </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Do you think Bob Newhart is still alive?” “Do you think Bob Dole is still alive?’</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">We place bets and then ask our phones for the answer. Mostly we’re stunned at how long people are living. Turns out, both Bobs are alive and kicking. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I watched an interview with the co-founder of Wikipedia. He has either retired or will be shortly ushered out because he admitted how often Wikipedia scrubs facts they don’t want remembered. Think of the ramifications! They're literally able to change history! I’ve seen this first hand. I read a rather interesting story about a well known person, but when I went to share it with Bob, it was gone. If they can eliminate the truth, they could just as easily make up their own "facts." The days of going to the library and actually looking up something in a<i> real</i> encyclopedia are gone forever. Now we rely on a source that we now know can't be trusted to give us the truth. How many of us trust our phones for answers—yet they’re increasingly untrustworthy. We can’t lazily ask our phones and trust them to give us the facts. We certainly can’t trust the media. We have to do our own research, and even then, things we <i>know</i> are true or things we<i> know </i>happened are taken down. We are told it’s disinformation, it’s been debunked, or it’s settled science (actual data is no longer necessary). </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">But there is one book that can never be “taken down.” Every year the Bible is far and away the best selling book in the world. Despite it being banned and burned, Jesus assured us that though heaven and earth will pass away, His Word will<i> never</i> pass away. (Matthew 24:35)</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I looked up some quotes on truth. Some were downright depressing, especially ones claiming we are all entitled to our own truth, or that truth is constantly changing, or that if a lie is told often enough it becomes the truth. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">But I also found quotes that were inspiring, words spoken from people long gone, yet their words today are surprisingly prescient. To quote just a few— </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“In a time of deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.” —George Orwell</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“…in general, it is the object of our newspapers to create a sensation—to make a point—rather than further the cause of truth.” —Edgar Allen Poe</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“The man who fears no truth has nothing to fear from lies.” —Thomas Jefferson</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Ultimately, the <i>only</i> truth that matters is that Jesus lived, died and rose again. God sent Him to <i>save</i> the world, not <i>condemn</i> it. (John 3:17) What comfort it is to know that in spite of living in a time of ever changing “truth,” Jesus is the same yesterday, today and forever.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px; text-align: center;"><i></i><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>Glory, Glory hallelujah</i></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><b>His truth</b></i><i> keeps marching on</i></p>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-38192052188171169492021-09-06T10:59:00.003-07:002021-10-15T09:37:38.112-07:00<p><span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue; font-size: large;">I miss seeing smiles. Unlike languages, smiles are universal. A simple smile can convey so much —empathy, encouragement, goodwill, friendliness. On top of all this, it softens everything you say, especially when you're saying something people may not want to hear. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: large;">As the whole world knows, flying is getting unfriendlier by the day. Working my beverage cart, I stopped at a row and asked the woman at the window seat what she’d like to drink. She gave me a questioning look. Per my usual, I think to myself—</span><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: medium;">for crying out loud. What do you </span></i><span style="font-size: medium;"><b style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><i>think</i></b><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> I’m asking? I’m standing in front of you with my </i><b style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><i>beverage </i></b></span><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: medium;">cart— do you think I’m asking you what your favorite movie is?</span> </i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: large;">When it struck her that I was asking her if she’d like a beverage, she asked what we had.</span><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: medium;"> Errrrr.</span> </i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: large;">Because it’s hard to hear through my mask, I basically scream out the options. Because she didn’t have the courtesy to remove her headphones, she asked a second time. Preferring not to scream out the list again, I asked her if she wouldn't mind removing her headphones. She didn’t hear that either, so I did a charade-like act of removing headphones. My request irritated her. But I said it with a smile, and maybe if she could've</span><b style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"> seen</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: large;"> my smile she may have taken it better.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Every time I have to remind people to put their mask over their nose and mouth, I say it with a smile that can’t be seen. Complying and enforcing federal mask mandates is unpleasant enough, a smile would at least soften the “gentle reminder.”</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I liken the softening effect of a smile to the softening effect of an emoji. I may text, “Please don’t dillydally!” But, and this is <b><i>huge</i></b>, I tack on the blowing a kiss emoji—or maybe even the laughing until I’m crying emoji. It changes the whole tone of the text.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">It doesn’t look like we’ll be uncovering our smiles any time soon in the travel industry, but I know when we do, it’ll make a world of difference.</span></p>
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<p style="background-color: white; color: #1e2836; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Every time you smile at someone, it is an action of love, a gift to that person, a beautiful thing.</span></b></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #191c1f; font-family: Georgia; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mother Teresa</span></p>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-21184930893539141562021-06-24T14:44:00.011-07:002022-01-19T10:28:21.972-08:00<p> <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">For well over a year, my daughter and her family have lived in almost total isolation. They’ve had their food delivered, they haven’t visited people or had people visit them—they have simply </span><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">stayed home</i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">. Caitlin used this time of being cut off from society to teach Brooks about God’s love and the wonderful world He has created for us. He’s learned hymns and Bible verses. He knows God loves him and he knows how much he needs to love God and others. This is the only life Brooks remembers. As more and more people get vaccinated or develop natural immunities, Caitlin is slowly starting to venture out. And every new thing Brooks sees fills him with wonder and excitement.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;">Before the pandemic, Brooks would say, “Hi!” to everyone they passed as Caitlin strolled around their neighborhood. He was mostly ignored because most were in their own little world—looking at their phones or talking on them. But it didn’t deter Brooks in the least, he’d turn around in his stroller and say to their retreating back, “Bye!”</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">He can’t remember interacting with people outside of his family, so the first time Caitlin took him to a park with lots of children he in was awe. Pondering the whole experience on the way home he told Caitlin, “Mama? I don’t <i>know </i>those kids, but I love them.” </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When I was there, we visited the same park and Brooks approached every child he came upon with an enthusiastic wave,“Hi! My name is Brooks.”</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;">Not<i> one </i>child acted like they even heard him. But Brooks wasn’t put off by it, he even smiled big as they ran away from him. <i>He </i><b><i>loves</i></b><i> these rude little brats? Are</i> <i>you kidding me?</i></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">It breaks my heart knowing that Caitlin and Cam won't always be able to keep Brooks and Maisie under their wings, controlling everything they see and hear. To know that one day they will be <i>forced </i>to be in<i> </i>this fallen world, and experience the sadness of it along with with joy. But for now, I'll cherish every minute of their sweet innocence, soaking up as much of them as I can.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I thought Brooks first exposure to Target was so funny. Can you imagine not seeing anything but the walls of your own home for over a year and then going to <b><i>Target</i>?</b> </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Apparently, he didn’t say too much about it until Cam took him there, “Dada, you’re going to LOVE the inside of Target!” </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we’d all emerged from this pandemic with gratitude for all the things we’d taken for granted? The simple freedom to go anywhere we want and be with anyone we want? To be able to rejoice with those who rejoice and mourn with those who mourn? </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I wonder what people living in third world countries thought of us when utter panic set in at the very idea that we might run out of enough soft paper to wipe our bottoms. I remember jokes being shared about using the yards of paper coupons that get spit out of the cash registers at CVS in place of toilet paper.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When did we stray so far from God’s commands to love each other and carry one another’s burdens? To “be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other just as in Christ God forgave us?” (Ephesians 4:32) In some ways it’s been a slow fade, in other ways it’s been a terrifying plunge. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I pray for a spiritual revival, but our world is becoming more and more like the world Paul told Timothy it would look like in the last days: “People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money…abusive, ungrateful, unholy, without love, unforgiving, slanderous, brutal…lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God.” 2 Timothy 3:2-3</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Thinking about Caitlin's little family getting this window of time isolated from the world reminded me of how much I loved the "Little House in the Big Woods" books when I was little. I devoured them. Such an innocent time--Pa hunting for their food, Ma at home teaching reading and writing. Ending each night with Bible reading and prayer. I remember wanting to <i>be </i>Laura and live in the "Big Woods." I loved Ma and Pa.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">It's hard to fathom it's been less than seventy-five years since children were taught to read using the Bible, that their day started out reciting The Lord's Prayer. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">There are so many aspects of Caitlin and Cam's isolation from the world I wish they could freeze in time. A child's loss of innocence is so sad and today's world snatches it from them way too soon. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I believe one upshot of this pandemic was the forced homeschooling, allowing parents to oversee everything their child is being taught...could it be one step closer to reversing the plunge? I can only hope and pray it is, because no one wants to live in an unloving, brutal, lawless and ungrateful world and I believe only a new "Great Awakening" can change it.</p>
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<p style="background-color: white; color: #18191b; font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-28036930780028710912021-05-10T15:03:00.014-07:002023-10-15T17:35:34.097-07:00<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Fully vaccinated, I was finally able to see my sweet grandbabies, three year-old Brooks and one-year old Maisie. It was pure heaven. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I flew in late Thursday night, and perhaps one of the moments I’ll cherish the most, was Caitlin jumping out of her car, clutching me close, and sobbing. It felt a bit like I’d risen from the dead. Of course, I cried right along with her, holding her just as close.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When I came up from the basement the next morning, Maisie took one look at me and ran to Caitlin, burying her head between Caitlin's legs, clutching her tightly, taking shy peeks at me. After all, she’d only seen her Nana on FaceTime. But Brooks was clearly happy see me, he came and took my hand in his, eager to take me on a tour of “Louisville”— he refers to their house as “Louisville” and everything outside of it as Kentucky.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">He asked when Papa was coming. I told him he’d come after he got his shot. He is a little obsessed about the shots, knowing several people had needed them before they came to visit. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“If I went far away from Louisville, would I need a shot to come<i> back</i> to Louisville?” he asked. So funny how his little mind processes everything. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Caitlin wasn’t feeling well, so after the tour of “Louisville,” she went to lie down and left me in charge. I had brought hundreds of stickers with me and got Maisie so interested she didn’t even cry when Caitlin left the room. Her surprisingly adept little fingers had no problem peeling off the stickers and pressing them firmly on to a piece of paper. She even starting saying, “tickers.”</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Brooks quickly grew bored with the "tickers,” so I read him a book. I dare say, no one reads children’s book’s with as much exuberance and drama as I do. But Brooks likes to study the illustrations, especially the expressions on the character’s faces, trying to decipher their emotions. “Why does he look mad?” Why does she look scared?” “Why is she laughing?” </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">After Maisie grew tired of the tickers and Brooks the books, I came up with a new game. I found a big box and a bed sheet. I put the box on the bed sheet and had Brooks climb into the box. I grabbed a handful of the sheet and ran to and fro across the wood floor, spinning Brooks on each turn. Since Maisie had transitioned from crawling to outright running, she held a piece of the sheet and ran along with me. Oh the laughs and giggles this “game” evoked. Is there anything more gratifying than listening to children laughing? They wanted to do it again and again and again. Just as I was about to tell them Nana needed a break, Caitlin came down and announced it was time for their naps.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Putting down Maisie was simple enough: say it’s time to go night-night, take the now crying Maisie upstairs and put her in her crib.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Brooks nap-time routine is a <i>much</i> lengthier process. First, I rock him as I read a book. I think that’s it. But no, <i>now </i>we do a Bible "study"and read a story from his Children’s Bible Story Book.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“You’re so tired, maybe we should skip the Bible story,” I suggest.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“No.”</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Why not?”</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Because that’s just <i>not</i> how it’s done.” Too funny!</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I take the <i>giant </i>Children’s Bible Story Book and scan the chapters, looking for the shortest story. “Elijah and the Widow.” Easy-peasy. Nana will break down each paragraph into one sentence.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">It’s poorly illustrated (to say the least) and with Brooks penchant for determining emotions, I know there will be questions.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The story begins with God instructing Elijah to tell King Ahab that there would be a great drought and famine in the land and many people would die. Nana’s version: “God told Elijah to tell the king there wasn’t going to be enough food for everyone for a long time.” </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Next page. Not so fast, Brooks turns it back. “Why does the king look like that?” Honestly, the drawing depicts such an angry, red face it’s downright scary.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Because the king didn’t love God,” I answer before turning the page. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Nana’s version continues, “Elijah found a woman and her little boy and asked if he could have some of their food. Even though they barely had any food they still shared it with Elijah. And because she was so nice to Elijah, God gave her free food for the rest of her life."</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I try to close the book. Not so fast. “Why does that little boy look like that?”</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I study the freaky illustration and try to come up with an answer. The little boy is looking at the food with eyes that are literally bulging out of their sockets. I try not to laugh. I tell Brooks that he’s just very, very excited to eat the food and quickly close the book before he can ask any more questions.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“<i>Now, </i>you lay down with me and we sing songs.” <i>Really? Will there even be<b> time</b> for a nap?</i></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Sadly, Brooks knows the words to more hymns than I do. I suggest “Jesus Loves Me,” thinking at least I know that one. We sing it together and I stand up to leave.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“That’s not all there is!” he says indignantly. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I’m pretty sure “second verse, same as the first” isn’t part of his lexicon so I lie back down beside him.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">He sings the precious words of the second verse. He hits every note perfectly. Honestly, he has such a gift, I could listen to that sweet little voice sing all day long.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I kiss him goodnight. “Nana? Do you want me to help you with the last part?” </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">A <i>third</i> verse? <i>Who knew? </i>Of course I do. He sings the last verse in a whispery voice and my eyes well up hearing him hit each note, each syllable so clearly. The fact that Caitlin taught him these words that will be imprinted on his heart forever makes my heart surge with pride and joy.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I'm so enthralled with them, I could just sit, watch and listen to them all day long. There’s so much more I could share, so many more funny Brooks’ stories, so much more about adorable, happy Maisie, how much it meant to me that she was reaching for me within hours—letting me kiss her sweet neck and cheeks until she couldn’t stand it any longer, but I’ll end with the last verse Brooks sang for me--words I never learned but hold so much truth and comfort.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>Jesus loves me, this I know,</i></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px; text-align: center;"><i>as he loved so long ago,</i><i></i></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>taking children on his knee,</i></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>saying, “Let them come to me.”</i></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>(I discovered this song was penned in 1859--- more than a 150 years ago!)</i></p>
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<p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; text-align: center;">(I learned these sweet words were written in 1859, more than a 150 years ago!)</span> </p>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-35984228445338085302021-04-02T20:19:00.006-07:002021-09-06T11:26:58.970-07:00<p>On this day over two thousand and twenty years ago, Jesus faced the agony of His crucifixion. He pleaded with the Father, asking Him if there was <i>any</i> other way to fulfill God's promise of eternal life for those who believed in Him. But there wasn't. Jesus was and<i> is </i>the only Way. Though reviled and rejected, He redeemed and reconciled. </p><p>My mom was not afraid to die, but she was afraid of dying alone. It struck me today that<b> <i>even Jesus </i></b>did not want to be alone in His last hours--He wanted His beloved disciples by His side. Deeply distressed and troubled, He told Peter, James and John that His soul was overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death and asked them to stay with Him (Mark 14:33-34). </p><p>The Friday night before the Wednesday God took my mom home, I went to a wedding shower, a party. During that party she called and left me a voicemail. Her sweet, weak voice left this message: "Hi sweetheart, I really hate to ask you, but can you come be with me?"</p><p>It was loud and my phone was deep in the cavern of my purse. I never heard it ringing. I never looked at it to see if anyone had called. When I got home, I left my phone in my purse. Caitlin and Cam flew in late for Caitlin's baby shower. I finished some last minute things that needed to be done for the baby shower the following morning and went to bed.</p><p>While at the shower, I heard my phone ringing and dug it out of my purse to answer it. It was my mom's friend Glady, she needed me to come over right away, my mom was too weak to get up to use the bathroom and Glady wasn't strong enough to help her. I got there in time to help her, but my mom never regained enough strength to walk on her own again.</p><p>It wasn't until the day after we buried my mom in her plot next to my dad and brother, that someone called and left me a voicemail. That's when I saw I had an unread voicemail from my mom. What?? Imagine the heartache I felt, hearing those sweet, pitiful words--that dear voice I've longed to hear every single day since she died. How it hurts to know she left this world feeling disillusioned about me. Thinking I cared more about having a good time at a party than soaking up every precious minute I had left with her (although I <i>really</i> didn't believe she'd be gone so soon). She died believing I'd coldly brushed off her plea for my company. I failed her when she needed me most. I <i>was </i>selfish, it was always more about me needing her than her needing me. She was always better at consoling than being consoled. Why didn't she tell me she'd called and left a message? How I wish she'd given me the chance to tell her I never got that call. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, missing my mom, my chest tightening at the remembrance of how inattentive I'd been in those last days, aching for a do-over, for just those few days back to love on her like she deserved. </p><p>Today, I think about how Peter must have felt when he let Jesus down. Not only did he not stay awake with Him, a few hours later he claimed he didn't even know who Jesus was.</p><p>I know my mom would hate to see me holding on to these painful regrets. She never wanted to see me sad, she always put all of us first, never asked anything of us, just loved us unconditionally. </p><p>Today is Good Friday, the day Jesus died to take away all my shame, so<i> why </i>do I still let shame haunt me? It's not how my Lord wants me or any other Christian to feel or act. It's callously tossing away the freedom Jesus paid such a high cost to give me. It's self-centeredness, and being God-centered is the only way to be set free from shame and regrets. "Praise be to God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In His great mercy He has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead." (1 Peter 1:3)</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i> God sent His son, they called Him Jesus</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>He came to love, heal and forgive </i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>He lived and died to buy my pardon </i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Because He lives I can face tomorrow </i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Because He lives all fear is gone</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>because I know He holds the future </i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>And life is worth the living, just because He lives</i></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-55498521801808742522021-03-17T10:33:00.018-07:002021-10-17T12:53:42.402-07:00<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What a bizarre world we’re living in, with all this silly canceling. Goodness! Dr. Suess, Peter Pan, Winnie the Pooh? And the list keeps growing. Cartoons are meant to be innocent, nonsensical humor, not analyzed for their depth and symbolism. Personally, I’ve never liked watching cartoons. Never even cracked a smile. But my brothers loved them, they couldn’t wait to watch Saturday morning cartoons. I found them aggravating. Would it really be so bad if Wile E. Coyote caught the Road Runner just once? But what does that say about me? That I want evil to triumph over good once in a while? Of course not, because they’re <i>not</i> real. That’s the whole point. Do you think children would be laughing if a<i> real </i>coyote was being blown up every whipstitch? Of course not.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Cartoons may have not been not my thing, but Dr. Suess books were, and still are. All of them. Mostly because I love reading things that rhyme. I’m either too uncultured or too stupid to appreciate the beauty and symbolism of classic poetry. “Ode to a Grecian Urn?" Does it rhyme? No. Canceled.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Remember the Sunday School lyrics, “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world. Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world?"</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You may have thought your child was learning that <i>every</i> child is precious to Jesus. But no, just the opposite, in today's world this song would have to be canceled, lest it be construed as racist.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I <b><i>despise</i></b> racism. I hate the thought of <i>any</i> race being judged by the color of their skin. I’m not naive enough to think we will ever eradicate racism completely, but I did think our country had grown leaps and bounds in achieving Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream of being judged “not by the color or our skin, but rather by the content of our character.” Rather than embracing this Biblical principle, our society appears to be going in the opposite direction. In fact, the color of our skin is beginning to trump the content of our character.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We are <b><i>all</i></b> made in God’s image. Period. God shows no partiality (Acts 10:34). He is the<i> only </i>One equipped to judge one’s hearts and motives.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I pray all this absurdity ends soon, that instead of kowtowing and making apologies (that are never accepted anyway) people will start pointing it out for the nonsense it is. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">People are hurting in these unprecedented times. They’ve lost jobs, homes and loved ones. They’re living in isolation and fear. We are still a compassionate nation. I’ve read many inspiring stories about people reaching out, meeting needs and raising money to help small businesses stay afloat. Yet these aren’t our headlines, no, apparently it's more important to report why libraries need to be purged of Dr. Suess.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">There <i>is</i> real evil all around us. All this digging into old cartoons and childrens' books are just a sleight of hand to make us look away from what's really happening. The Bible warns us about calling good evil and evil good (Isaiah 5:20). Jesus didn't leave us without telling us what the last days would look like. He said there will be an increase in natural disasters, earthquakes and famines. Even if everyone on the planet drove an electric car and nary an airplane could be found in the sky, the climate would <i>still </i>change because "God has the whole world in His hands...<i>the wind</i> <i>and the rain</i>...the little bitty baby....you and me sister..." </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">God has blessed this country beyond measure, but we are moving further and further from Him. Can you imagine how much it would hurt us to see our own children engaged in such divisiveness and rage? How much<i> more</i> it must hurt our Heavenly Father to see His children acting like this. I pray in the coming days we will take to heart Paul’s admonishment to, “make every effort to keep the<i> unity</i> of the Spirit through the bond of peace.” (Ephesians 4:3). Our country needs unity and love like never before.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> God bless America, land that I love</i></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> Stand beside her and guide her</i></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> Through the night with the light from above.</i></span></p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-37586730530344382702020-12-25T19:57:00.004-08:002024-03-16T11:36:34.772-07:00<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When this pandemic started and we were told to stay six feet apart, I figured at least the days of having grocery carts rammed painfully into the back of my ankles were over. But I was wrong. I thought every shopper would stay on their dot, but they do not. Of course, there are those militant shoppers who make it their business to enforce the six foot rule—making everyone else scramble guiltily back into place. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I <i>especially </i>notice the struggle to stay six feet apart at work. We tell the passengers before we land that we’re going to give them special instructions about our <i>new </i>deplaning process. After we taxi to the gate and the seatbelt sign is turned off, we tell them to please <i>stay seated</i> until the row ahead of them has retrieved their belongings and are six feet in front of them. That’s what we<b><i> say</i></b>, but evidently this is what they<b><i> hear</i></b>: “Everyone, please arise immediately! Quickly grab your luggage even if it means reaching over people ahead of you. Bunch together as closely as possible. If the deplaning process slows down, crane your neck to see who’s to blame and then sigh loudly, blow out a big puff out of your germ filled lungs, and announce you "have a tight connection.”</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>Why </i>are we so prone to drift off our dots and bunch together? Because were created to engage with one another and it’s nigh on impossible while wearing a mask and standing six feet apart. We were never meant to live in isolation. In San Francisco, three times as many people have died this year from drug overdoses than from Covid.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When my Papa was alive he was convinced Christ would return for us in<b> <i>his</i></b><i> </i>life time. He passionately studied his Bible and what it said about the Lord’s return. I hear his voice when I read the words, “For the Lord Himself will come down from heaven….and we will be caught up together in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And we will be with the Lord forever.” (1 Thessalonians 4:16-17) </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Now,<i> I’m</i> convinced that Jesus will return in <i>my</i> lifetime. If I’m right, there couldn’t be a <i>worse</i> time to be isolated from each other…from even attending church together. Time is of the essence and we need to grasp every opportunity to point to Jesus, who humbly came down from glory as a babe in a manger, to save a weary world from suffering and sin... to rescue us from our fear-filled days and give comfort from within.</p>
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<p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">As we celebrate Jesus’ first coming, I’m praying for boldness to reach out to others. Jesus proclaimed He is, “The way the truth and the life.” (John 14:6)</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"> He’s the only way to eternal life and to not share that would</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> be equivalent to having the cure for cancer and not sharing it. Jesus is the cure the whole world needs.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">As we celebrate His birth today, I pray all of you will embrace the fearlessness that trusting in Him offers. Merry Christmas!</span></p><p><br /></p>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-38422863674404473532020-12-14T17:59:00.002-08:002021-04-04T06:42:17.476-07:00<p><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">Last week on one of my layovers, I woke up in the middle of the night. I often have trouble getting back to sleep but have found that listening to a podcast helps keep my mind from jumping from one upsetting subject to another. I chose to listen to a sermon by Alistair Begg. He was preaching about Joseph. Joseph is in the dungeon along with Pharaoh’s cupbearer and baker. They want him to interpret their dreams. Joseph tells the cupbearer that his dream means he will be set free in three days. After hearing that joyous interpretation, the baker is eager to find out what his dream means. At this point, Pastor Begg pauses and asks, “Can you imagine how </span><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">dreadful </i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">it must have been for Joseph to tell the baker what </span><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">his</i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> dream meant? That instead of being set free in three days, Pharaoh was going to have his head cut off, hang him on a tree and that birds will eat away at him?”</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">(I must have drifted off at this point, because I can’t remember any more of the sermon)</span></p><p> * * *</p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">Someone is knocking on my door, I get up to see who it is. He looks familiar so I open the door. He says he is a friend of Dane’s. He is holding a clear box. In the box are a handful of orange Advil tablets, several boxes of Junior Mints, and some mice. My hair stands on end when I see the mice. I can’t even look at them. I tell him if any of the mice get out of the box I might </i><b style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><i>literally</i></b><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> die from terror. He ignores me and walks across the room and dumps everything out of the box. I jump up on the bed and start </i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><i>shrieking.</i></span><i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> My screaming makes them all hustle back to the box. The appallingly speedy mice dart in first, the boxes of Junior Mints scoot back and the Advil tablets hop back. When they they’re all back in the box, the man puts the lid back on it.</i></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i> I am dumbfounded, “I had no idea Advil tablets could jump like that!” (Apparently, the scooting boxes of Junior Mints didn’t strike me as unusual). </i></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i> “See?” the man says, “They are way more afraid of you. They’d rather be safe in their box than get screamed at.”</i></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>Then he just stands there looking at me. I wonder if he expects me to pay him for his little “magic” show? Or maybe just tip him? After a few minutes of awkward silence, he finally leaves. </i></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i> * * *</i></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Half awake, I realize the man in the dream looked familiar because it was Charlie Kirk. Fully awake, I think it’s hilarious. I often have weird dreams, especially after I go <b><i>back</i></b> to sleep. I always think I’ll<i> </i>remember them, but I never do. So I got up, grabbed my journal and wrote it all down, I even wrote down what I thought it might mean.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Today, for whatever reason, I decided to get that journal out of my suitcase and read what I’d written. After I finished reading it, I decided it wasn't hilarious after all, but it <i>did </i>make me want to verify the story about the baker’s ghastly demise. I grabbed my Bible, found the story, and sure enough, that’s exactly how it went down with the poor baker. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Underneath the words “possible interpretation“ I wrote: “Maybe it means we’ve been led to believe we’re better off locked up in our houses than being about our Father’s business—convincing a troubled, fear-filled world that our time is in His hands.”</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I’m tempted to leave off the rest of my “interpretation.” It’s a little cheesy, but because it’s the only part that <i>did </i>made me<i> kind </i>of laugh, I’ll share it. I wrote, “Maybe the Advil represents Christians as healers and the Junior Mints as comforters? And the mice? Nothing but sheep dressed in wolves clothing!!! <i>Not </i>innocent little creatures but rather rabid imposters scaring us into immobility.” </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">These<i> <b>are</b></i><b> </b>disheartening,<i> </i>dark days in America. I keep reminding myself that light ALWAYS overcomes darkness and I pray daily that the light of truth will expose the lies. I think our country is either on the precipice of a great revival, or the days ahead are going to get darker and Christ’s return is imminent. Either way, “God has not given us a spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” (2 Timothy 1:7) And what does God require of us? To seek justice, love mercy and walk humbly. (Micah 6:8) We can, and must, proceed in faith without fear-- resting in the assurance that our times are indeed in God’s loving hands.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>“All the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be.” </i>Psalms 139:16</p>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-57596677953026726112020-10-11T13:58:00.006-07:002024-03-19T10:18:17.035-07:00<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">I’ve been feeling very dispirited these past few months. It’s no wonder—I’ve been ruminating too much on things I can’t do anything about—news about unfathomable grief, the seemingly unending rage and this "plague"</span></span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> that’s keeping me away from my grandbabies.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">This "plague" that is making it more and more difficult to be pleasant at work. Everyone, passengers and flight attendants alike, have VERY different views on how to handle the non-compliant passengers. Some passengers deplane angry at me, wanting my name to write a letter of complaint because they saw me walk right by a passenger without a mask on and did <i>nothing</i> about it! I'm not used to studying faces as I walk through doing a "cabin check." I look for people not buckled in, for belongings not stowed correctly, for ensuring exit rows are briefed and bins are closed. So undoubtedly, I DO miss those non-compliant passengers. Then there are passengers who mumble about the stupidity of it all. Then there are flight attendants who want to toss people off if they even hesitate to pull their mask over their nose. Removing passengers results in delays and more grumpiness. I'm just really feeling over it.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For reasons I can’t explain, writing often lifts me out of my melancholy. The problem is, I haven’t <i>felt </i>like writing, and haven’t written a single word in months. When I got up this morning, I determined I would <i>not </i>step away from my computer until I wrote at least one sentence. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But I sat, and I sat, and I sat. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Just me and my mouse, alone in the house. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My mind remained blank, as my spirits sank. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">No matter how hard I tried, I could find nothing inside. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All I could do was to sit, sit, sit; and I did not like it, not one little bit. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Then a strange buzz made me jump, and brought me out of my slump. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My own sad face appeared on the screen, </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But soon was replaced with a precious human being.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh, how I thank God for the innovation of FaceTime! Of course, the little human being was my two-year old grandson, Brooks. Hence my lame attempt to emulate Dr. Suess (with a little outright plagiarism).</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I hate to brag, but I think my Brooks is the most brilliant toddler I’ve ever met. He has a vocabulary that rivals children twice his age. I’m mesmerized by him. And lucky for me, he loves to talk. I hang on to every precious word. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He enthusiastically tells me what he’s having for lunch, about how he lost his mask while jogging with Mama, but then…they found it! I read him a few books before Caitlin suggests maybe they should tell Nana good-bye because she might have things to do. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“No! I don’t want to say goodbye to Nana.” He proceeds to “take me” into another room to show me all the trucks and toys “the cousins” gave him. I love how he refers to them as <b><i>the </i></b>cousins rather than <b><i>my</i></b> cousins.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He tells me he’s going to put me in a basket while he plays. It’s a black basket, I can’t see anything.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Get me out of here! I don’t like being in this basket. It’s too dark in here.” I jokingly whine.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“You’re not in the basket, Nana. You’re in your house.” He has no patience with nonsensical talk.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I hear Maisie crying. “Why is Maisie crying?” </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Because she wants to nurse some more.” He answers matter-of-factly.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For whatever reason, he absolutely loves watching me push the button to open and close the garage door. It’s usually the first thing he asks me to do. I act like I can’t find the button.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s right above the ladder,” he patiently tells me.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Caitlin and Cam shared a story about Brooks and his night time prayers. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“What are you thankful for, Brooks?” Cam asked.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Jesus,” he sweetly answered.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Awww, that’s wonderful Brooks. What else are you thankful for?”</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Goliath.” (I need the laughing until you’re crying emoji here)</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">His mean Nana would have been tempted to say, “You mean you’re thankful that David <i>killed </i>Goliath and cut off his head.” Actually, I’d leave out the severed head part. When I was a little girl, I remember reading that gruesome little detail and being horrified by it.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Before this providential FaceTime call, all I could do was to sit, sit, sit, sit, and I did not like it, not one little bit. Then that call came in and lifted my spirits, and lo and behold, I was able to write a few lyrics.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Thank you, Jesus!</span></p>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-80887518476064663562020-07-20T12:21:00.003-07:002021-09-06T11:39:20.243-07:00<div style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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. </div>
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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." </div>
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">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. </div>
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I can’t remember it ever being <i>suggested</i> 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.</div>
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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 <i>most </i>is that we never <i>once </i>thought about stepping one foot out of that car.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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“Can you promise not to let Craig get out of your sight?”</div>
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“Yes!” Jeff and I promised. </div>
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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.</div>
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“Please, Mumma. We promise we won’t let Craig get away.”</div>
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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.”</div>
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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?”</div>
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He agreed, trotting obediently beside me. </div>
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“Don’t forget to keep a close eye on Craig,” my mom warned one last time before leaving us.</div>
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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.</div>
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And just as my mom promised, she was only gone a few minutes. </div>
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“See, mumma? We stayed right here.”</div>
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My mom's eyes scanned the area, “Where’s Craig?”</div>
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I was positive he was on the other side of the cage. But he wasn’t.</div>
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“He has to be right around here,” Jeff assured her. “He was right here.”</div>
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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…<i>curly brown hair, brown eyes, a brown and white striped shirt.</i> I can picture him to this day.</div>
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“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.”</div>
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“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.</div>
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This time, it <i>did </i>take a long time to find him. My mom couldn’t stop crying, praying and mumbling to herself how she should have known<i> </i>better.</div>
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Jeff and I couldn’t fathom how he’d gotten away from us. </div>
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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.</div>
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It irked my mom that not a single person found it odd that a<i> three-year-old child</i> would be riding up and down the elevator by himself. Not a one asking him where his mother was.</div>
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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?”</div>
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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.</div>
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<i>“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</i></div>
Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-63506583899673380612020-07-02T11:33:00.002-07:002023-10-05T14:57:16.170-07:00<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">We were playing in the sand by the water. One minute Craig was playing beside me and the next he was gone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Where’s Craig?” my mom looked up from her book and asked me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I started crying, “I’m sorry Mumma. I didn’t see him get up.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Oh honey, it’s not <i>your </i>fault,” she said through tears. She kept up her pleading, “Please Jesus, please Jesus. <i>Please</i> let me find him.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But still, I <i>felt </i>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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’d never seen my mom so beside herself. It scared me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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 <i>he </i>was the reason for all the joy and relief his sudden appearance brought.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Some guy walked right in on me!” he said indignantly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My mom knelt down, clutched him tightly against her chest and sobbed her heart out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Craig started crying too. “Why are we crying, Mumma?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">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?”</span></div>
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Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-83286289394087857342020-06-23T10:47:00.002-07:002024-03-16T13:04:54.628-07:00<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><i>“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?”</i> <i>Matthew 5:44-46 (TPT)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">As citizens of the United States of America, <i>we the people </i>get to choose who leads our country and who enacts laws meant to keep us safe and preserve our freedoms. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Maybe if <i>civil </i>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.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">After all, we do have a choice in the matter. We <b>can </b>choose</span> <b>not </b>to be offended. We can <b>choose </b>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.</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">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<i> surely </i>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. </div>
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<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">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 <i>chose </i>not to be offended.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It started with the question, “When did you find out your son was going to be born with severe disabilities?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Almost from the moment I found out I was pregnant.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Then why did you still have him?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“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."</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Did you really think they might be wrong?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“No. Deep down I never did,” I admitted. “Some people told me that maybe I didn’t have enough faith.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Did you ever think it might have been a<b> </b><i><b>selfish</b> </i>decision on your part? That just because <i><b>you</b> </i>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?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I never <i>had </i>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<i> they </i>might choose differently. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And honestly, it kind of knocked me off my high horse of moral superiority. I’m not qualified to judge others. Only God is. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It also opened up the door to share my faith.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“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 <i>our </i>lives for good. And someday he’ll be perfect in heaven.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But we <i>did </i>manage to<b><i> </i></b>talk about politics <i>and </i>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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">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 <i>can choose</i> it, one day, one minute at a time.</span></div>
Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-70035618531509679552020-06-13T10:52:00.001-07:002020-12-15T11:18:10.334-08:00<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">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?</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">"I love the name Brooke Ellen--don't you think it has a melodious ring to it?”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">I barely got the words out before Bob answered, "I hate it." </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">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 <i>any</i> of them, nor could he come up with a name he <i>did </i>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. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">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 <i>liar </i>claimed that different breathing combinations could make natural childbirth a pleasant experience?</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">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, <i>who am I to deserve a perfect baby?</i> 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 <i>very</i> wrong with the baby.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">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 <i>doubly </i>tortuous “route” this was.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">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 <i>just </i>breathe the way "we'd" practiced. I <i>hated </i>the Coach. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">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.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">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.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">Almost delirious with pain and fever, I didn’t care. “Fine, pick whatever name you want.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-55205867780594590212020-06-06T10:54:00.002-07:002023-10-15T11:50:56.709-07:00<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Feeling a little nostalgic, I turned and asked Bob, “Hey, babe, if you could choose just <i>one </i>day to re-live, which day would you choose?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But I persisted and he finally came up with a day he wanted to relive: Our wedding day. Which happened to be the <i>wrong</i> answer. [reasons detailed in another part of my memoir]</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Is that <i>really </i>the day you’d want to live all over again?” I asked, clearly disappointed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I told him part of the “rules” of choosing, was that you <i>couldn't </i>change anything, you had to go back and relive it <i>exactly </i>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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Well,” I huffed. “It only took me about two minutes to choose what day <i>I’d</i> like to live all over again. It was the day you told me you loved me.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“That's only because you’re better at remembering stuff. I <i>knew</i> I shouldn’t have tried to come up with a day. I knew I’d somehow pick the wrong one.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">I had to admit he had a point. He </span><i style="font-family: Helvetica;">does </i><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">have a terrible memory. And, of course, I would tuck his little admission of a terrible memory away--to pull out for future use.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It was forty-two years ago. I was sixteen and I could hardly believe that Bob Staples was telling me he <i>loved me</i>, of all the girls who had a thing for him (and there were many), he loved <i>me</i>! </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The social anxiety I experienced as a teenager lasted well into my twenties. In fact, I<i> still </i>experience it today. But it was <i>especially</i> awful as a teenager.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The first Thanksgiving after Bob told me he loved me, he wanted me to spend Thanksgiving Day with his family. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">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,<i> it’s gonna be okay, all you have to do is say you’re welcome, just say you’re welcome.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">What came out of my mouth? “Buh-bye.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The room erupted in laughter and I did my best to laugh <i>with</i> them. But tears of embarrassment threatened instead. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“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.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">Yup, an anxiety ridden little goof.</span><br />
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Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-22790087909301572792020-05-24T10:23:00.002-07:002023-10-15T11:45:26.367-07:00<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">Quite some time ago, I decided to take on the Herculean task of writing a memoir. You’d think, during our mandatory stay at home orders, I’d have spent the time writing like a fiend. But you would be wrong. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Every night Bob and I are shocked that another day has <i>flown </i>by. You’d think the days would be <i>crawling</i> by with nothing to do but stay home and take care of Brett.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And every night I go to bed berating myself for not accomplishing <i>one</i> earthly thing. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I did start reading<i> </i>books about <b><i>how </i></b>to write a memoir. What it should include and not include, how it should have a singular theme (not just a collection of stories), how many words it needs to be (at least 80,000) and on and on. It’s all been very disheartening, and I’ve been tempted to throw in the towel, or at least not call it a memoir. <i>I’m not disciplined enough. Goodness, I can’t even stick to my goal of writing a short blog once a week.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But a few things have kept me from abandoning my dream of writing, maybe not a memoir...but something. One has been the encouragement from friends. Another came from a writer we met during our week at Joni & Friends. She interviewed us for an article. And, lo and behold, Joni & Friends used <i>our</i> story for one of their brochures. Very cool. When I told her how much I loved to write and was thinking about writing a memoir she said, “Do it! Your story needs to be told. And when you finish it, I’d be happy to proofread it for you.” You’d think <b>that </b>would have lit a fire under my fanny. But no, almost a year later and I’m still in the pondering stage. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">A singular theme? At <i>least</i> 80,000 words?!? Not a collection of stories? I can accept the first two, but I don’t agree with it not being a collection of stories. Life <b>is</b> a collection of stories. Stories about wrong turns, embarrassing moments, unexpected characters, heartbreaking loss and unspeakable joy. All of it used by God to mold me more and more into the image of His son.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Even though I’ve spent <i>infinitely </i>more time laughing with Bob than crying, when I sat down to write about our first year of marriage I couldn’t think of a <i>single</i> funny moment. I wrote down the first story that popped into my mind. It didn’t shed Bob in the best light. Not surprisingly, when I read it to him, he didn’t like it. Here’s how our conversation went, verbatim.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Well, jeez! I thought you were going to write about redemption. About Brett and the difference he’s made in our lives.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“It <i>is </i>about redemption! It’s about what monsters we were<i> </i>and how God is making us less and<i> </i>less<i> </i>monstrous every day. It was just by chance that one of y<i>our </i>monster moments came to mind first.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">How’s that for eloquence? Maybe I can entitle it, “A Treatise on Becoming Less Monstrous.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><i>“And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you [us], will continue His work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.” </i> Philippians 1:6 (NLT)</span></div>
Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-56792247855230609732020-04-24T06:54:00.001-07:002020-05-24T10:55:50.449-07:00<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Children as young as five are learning about things I didn’t learn about until at least high school. The sweet window of a child’s innocence keeps getting smaller and smaller. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">There’s no denying modern technology hastens the loss of their innocence, but now that millions of children are being homeschooled for the first time, I wonder if might stave it off a bit longer. What parent doesn’t want to shield their child from this world’s ugliness as long as they can?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I remember my first day of high school. I was thirteen. Our homeroom teacher started with an ice-breaker question. She asked us (in alphabetical order) to describe ourselves with an adjective starting with the first letter of our last name. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I was the first “H.” My maiden name was Huber, the last name of the girl sitting next to me was Huebler. “I’m going to use ‘happy,’” she whispered. “So think of something different for yourself.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And honestly, I<i> did</i> try to think of something different, but my turn came around too soon and I froze up and quietly answered, “Happy. I’m happy.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I got a murderous glance from Huebler, forcing her to think fast for a different adjective. “Horror,” she finally answered. “I am a horror.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The room erupted in laughter. Boys asked for her phone number</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I couldn’t fathom why she got the response she did.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">At dinner that night, I asked my parents, “Why would people laugh at me if I described myself as a ‘horror?’”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My older brother howled. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My parents looked on the verge of laughter, too. But they knew I was genuinely clueless and finally answered, “Because a whore is a woman of ill-repute.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Ill-repute? What in the heck was a woman of ill-repute?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My dad asked, “What would make you even <i>think </i>of describing yourself that way?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I told them what had happened in homeroom, how we had to use an adjective that started with the first letter of our last name to describe ourselves. How I stole the adjective from the girl next to me. How everyone laughed at her when she said she was a horror. That boys started asking her for her phone number.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">They ended up having to explain what a “woman of ill-repute” was, and I was sorry I asked. It made me feel sick and sad. It made me sick that all those boys were asking for her phone number and sad to think there were girls out there who did that stuff to get them that awful moniker. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">A chunk of innocence lost, and as I got older more and more of that innocence got chipped away.</span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Remember the Sunday school song, “Be careful little eyes you see.. little ears what you hear…little hands what you do…little feet where you go…little heart whom you trust?” Once something is seen, heard, said, or done, it can’t be undone. Guilt and shame can immobilize us, but the “Father up above…looking down in love” provided a way to wash away that guilt and shame— His name is Jesus. “Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” John 1:29</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> “With His blood Has has saved me, with His power He has raised me—</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> To God be the glory, for the things He has done.”</span></div>
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Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-57695333172570707432020-04-08T14:49:00.001-07:002020-04-09T09:43:51.789-07:00<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I think one of the saddest consequences of the original sin was the introduction of self-consciousness. When Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit they went from joyfully flitting around the Garden of Eden to being mortified they were naked. How sad to go from having a completely free conscience to being shamefully self-conscious.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The curse of self-consciousness has had a greater hold on me than most. I’ve always admired those who display the least self-awareness. How freeing not to care what other people think! As a teenager, I remember a man at church who belted out hymns with total abandon—in spite of the fact that he had a terrible, tone deaf voice. People like him—who care more about what God thinks than what people think—don’t allow criticism or derision deter them in the least.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Sadly, I haven’t been too successful at <i>not </i>caring what other people think of me. It’s held me back from speaking up boldly about my faith and reaching out to others for fear of being rejected.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My entire family is (or was) musically gifted, with me being the s<i>ole</i> exception. Maybe, had I not been so self-conscious, I could have learned to play something or sing in key (but I highly doubt it, as I think it’s a God given gift). I can actually pinpoint the exact moment in time when even the <i>idea </i>of trying to acquire an ear for music was put to rest. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I was a teenager and we were driving home from church one Easter Sunday. I remember feeling overwhelmed with love for Jesus and what He did for us, the sweet hymns we’d sung still resonating in my mind. And then, inexplicably, I screeched out, "He could have called 10,000 angels!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The car literally rocked with laughter. I wasn't at all surprised that my brothers were laughing at me— but my mom was doubled over with laughter, too. Shockingly enough, even my<b><i> dad </i></b>was laughing. I don’t remember my dad <i>ever</i> laughing at me. I immediately started crying. But even my tears didn't serve to stifle my mom's laughter. When she was finally able to catch her breath, she tried to assure me (amid fresh bouts of laughter) that it wasn't that it was <i>bad </i>singing, it was just the incredibly<i> high</i> notes I’d hit that had spawned all the hilarity. Whatever. I haven't tried to belt out a note since. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">In a recent sermon (lots of time to listen to sermons these days), the pastor said that self-consciousness is really just a pre-occupation with me, myself and I. Ouch!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Eugene Peterson defined worship as interrupting our preoccupation with ourselves. The less s<i>elf</i>-conscious we become the more <i>God</i>-conscious we become. It’s the reason worship feels so good—feels so right. (I couldn’t find the exact quote, but that’s the gist of it). </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">In these unprecedented times we need an awareness of God’s presence more than ever. And I’m seeing it! So many inspiring stories of people shrugging off their “me, myself and I” attitude and leaning in to reach out to others in any way they can. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Another silver lining is seeing the humor people are finding in these "lock down" days. There are dozens of examples, but one of my favorites was, “And just like that, prayer and spanking are back in schools.” </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">I was blessed to grow up in a family who found humor in even the worst of circumstances—because we know the God who holds our future. And let’s face it—knowing there’s a happy ending allows us to live our story with a lot more levity and laughter.</span></div>
Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-85313517406298205492020-03-27T19:15:00.002-07:002024-03-19T10:29:37.800-07:00<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">I know I’m in the minority and will probably be roundly criticized, but I think we all could use a little levity about now. I suggested to Bob that what America needs is 24 hours of stand-up comedy with pictures of the tens of thousands who have recovered from this virus running on a constant loop in the background.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Actually, there might be <i>hundreds</i> of thousands who have recovered, because so far we have no way of knowing how many have had the virus and recovered from it without ever knowing they had it.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">There's never been a worse time to be a flight attendant. Everyone is on edge. Many flight attendants appear to have found their calling: inflight generals. Their unexpected promotion enables them to scan every row looking for a non-compliant passenger so they can bark out an order to either cooperate with federal mandates or NEVER fly again. The slightest hesitancy on the passengers part results in immediate removal from the airplane.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">"What? You're flying out to visit your mother because she's dying? Well, maybe you should have thought about <i>that </i>before you rudely sat there with your mask below your nose...risking other people's lives because you're a SELFISH monster!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Doesn’t laughing and thanking God for all those who have recovered sound like more fun than watching the fear-mongering news? Heaven forbid you say anything remotely hopeful. Some of the things people are being commanded to do ARE actually downright humorous. On a layover in California, I witnessed a law enforcement agent wave in a person in off a deserted beach. <i>The beach is off limits. For God's sake! Who do you think are? The utter gall of being out there enjoying the beach, breathing in fresh air and being miles away from another human being?? If you're feeling like you need to get out, there are plenty of Walmarts you can visit! This it utter lunacy. Yet an overwhelming majority are complying.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The Bible not only <b><i>commands</i> </b>us NOT to fear (hundreds of times), it also tells us there is healing power in laughter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Years ago a study claimed the average four-year old laughs about 400 times a day while an average adult laughs only about 15 times a day. I was with my dad when I read about this and asked him how many times he thought <i>he</i> laughed in a day. He thought about it for a minute before answering that he and my mom laughed<b><i> at least</i></b> 100 times a day. My dad was not prone to exaggeration. In fact, to my knowledge he didn't exaggerate <b><i>at all. </i></b>Perhaps because of his background as a pilot and an engineer, he was more apt to make calculated guesses. Thus, there was no doubt in my mind that they were indeed laughing that much. In fact, I have no doubt that <i>everyone</i> in my family (with the possible exception of me) debunks the study’s conclusion about how many times an adult laughs in a day. If my dad was alive today, I'm sure he would find the absurdity all around us VERY humorous. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I listened to a sermon today. He talked about an interesting study that was done on creative thinking. Part of the study included asking 1600 children the same question every year, beginning in first grade and ending in sixth grade. The question they asked was, “How many of you think of yourselves as artists?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">In every case, <i>all</i> the first graders raised their hands. The number of raised hands dwindled each year. By the sixth grade only a few tentatively raised their hands. The study surmised that the older we get the more we want to be seen as normal. We’re more comfortable<i> conforming</i> to the world around us. We’re afraid to stand out, to be different and, as a result, creativity is stifled. Evidently, as we age, we not only laugh less, but we also lose the confidence to exhibit our creative gifts and are more likely to conform and comply with directives we innately KNOW don't make any sense.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Thankfully, there <b><i>are</i></b> those few who aren’t afraid of what other people think of them—who stay true to who God made them to be, constantly creating new things and seeking more and more knowledge. Where would we be without those non-conformists—especially <i>now?</i> I know God is in control, but I also have confidence in the God-given genius and ingenuity of our American scientists and doctors who are diligently seeking to discover the real facts about this virus and finding a cure. Who aren't trying to hoodwink everyone into following rules that aren't based on reality.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">In the meantime, there are plenty of silver linings. It’s heartening to see Americans at their best—their generosity and concern for others. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And, as in every catastrophe, more people look to God. An article in the Wall Street Journal yesterday concluded with this question, “Could a rogue virus lead to a grand creative moment in America’s history? Will Americans, shaken by the reality of a risky universe, rediscover the God who proclaimed Himself sovereign over every catastrophe?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica";">Could there be a better outcome than that?? To this invisible enemy that has caused so such personal angst and likely unwarranted economic disaster? I don’t think so. All of us will eventually die from something (unless Jesus returns for us first). Jesus promised us we will have trouble, but that there is no reason to fear because “</span><i style="font-family: helvetica;">He has overcome the world</i><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">.”</span><b style="font-family: helvetica;"> </b><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">John 16:33 </span><br />
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I'm praying we will stop succumbing to fear and irrational thinking, but instead put our lives in the hands of our Lord, who has proclaimed Himself sovereign over every catastrophe. </div>
Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-89022330635816595192020-03-23T10:51:00.002-07:002020-03-27T12:26:54.832-07:00<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">More than ever, in these odd times, I’m missing my family members who have been taken Home to be with Him. I want to laugh with them, to hear them re-tell old stories like only they could. Every single one of them was so darn funny.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nanny, my great-grandmother, found<i> so</i> many things amusing. Even after she lost her hearing completely, my mom would jot down a funny incident and she’d read it and then shake with laughter until the tears ran down her face. I have her name written down in my Bible next to the verse that says, “…I have <i>learned </i>to be content in all circumstances.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">When Nanny was still at the stage of just being "hard of hearing," she’d <i>think</i> she was whispering when she was actually saying things loud enough to be heard in the next room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">On one occasion, we had a visitor who had gained some weight. When the visitor left the room, Nanny ‘whispered,’ “Was that Martha?!? Why, she’s put on so much weight, I scarcely recognized her!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">We frantically made the hand motion to zip it, and, with her usual quick-wittedness, she added, “But it is <i>so</i> becoming!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">To be fair, she always described <i>herself</i> as being as "fat as a butcher’s dog.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I heard her say this so often that as a little girl I started using it for whatever unfortunate state of being I happened to find myself in. I was as “hungry as a butcher’s dog,” “as tired as a butcher’s dog,” “as mad as a butcher’s dog” and so on. I didn’t understand why my parents found this so funny until years later.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">One of my sweetest memories of Nanny was her “whispered” prayers. When she spent the night at our house, she slept in the twin bed next to mine. Those prayers seemed endless, she covered <i>everyone</i> in prayer. She prayed honestly and specifically—some requests I’m sure she would be mortified to know I could hear <b><i>l</i>o</b><b style="font-style: italic;">ud and clear</b><b>.</b> I remember her praying for help to show Christ-like love to a person she clearly found intolerable. She’d say, “You <i>know</i> Lord how I feel about [so and so]. Oh, how I <b><i>do </i></b>need Your help with that one.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She would specifically thank God for all of us. I loved hearing my own name as she went down the list.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">As more and more of my faithful pray-ers were taken Home, it saddened me to know I was losing their prayers along with their physical presence. I have “Papa” written in my Bible next to the verse, “The prayers of a righteous man are powerful and effective.” Papa, my maternal grandfather, who never got off the phone without telling me how much he prayed for me, especially after Brett was born. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Of course, I know no one prayed for me more than my mom did. I’ve struggled for decades with sleep, and <i>every</i> morning she would ask me how I slept. She’d be thrilled on those rare days I’d tell her that I’d slept through the night and woke up feeling rested. <i>Praise God!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I wish I could remember where I read it, but anyway, it said that because God is outside of time, our prayers are eternal. When I read that, my eyes welled up at the thought that my loved ones prayers did <i>not</i> end when their lives here on earth did. Their prayers are still sustaining me!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Only God knows how much I miss calling my mom up and asking her to pray for me. How often I’d get off the phone encouraged and even laughing out loud about things that just moments ago had seemed so dire.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I take comfort in knowing millions of Americans are praying for God to heal our land. What a gift it is to lift each other up in prayer!</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> What a friend we have in Jesus</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> All our sins and griefs to bear</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> And what a privilege to carry</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> Everything to God in prayer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> Oh, what peace we often forfeit</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> Oh, what needless pain we bear</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> All because we do not carry</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> Everything to God in prayer....</span></div>
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Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-75725466324307090832020-02-27T18:21:00.002-08:002020-02-27T18:32:19.877-08:00<div style="font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Brett was born with hydrocephalus, or water on the brain. He was born five weeks early, yet his head was already larger than the average newborn’s. But he looked perfect to me. His head continued to grow in such tiny increments, that if I hadn’t been daily measuring it, I wouldn’t have noticed. I got so used to the size of his head, that I remember looking around and thinking that one pin-headed baby was being born after another.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">At five weeks old, he underwent brain surgery to put a shunt in to drain the water from his brain. By then, I would guess his head was about the size of an average three or four-year old’s. Yet still, in my eyes, he looked normal. When I’d take him out, I’d think, </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: Helvetica-Oblique; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">why, if it weren’t for his blindness, people wouldn’t think there was a thing wrong with him. He’s beautiful.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">We didn’t take any pictures of him during those first months after his surgery, so when I recently looked at a picture that my sister-in-law had taken, my heart hurt for him. My sweet baby, with that </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: Helvetica-Oblique; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">enormous</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;"> head. </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: Helvetica-Oblique; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">How could I have </span><span style="font-size: 12.00pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">ever</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: Helvetica-Oblique; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;"> thought he looked normal?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Not long ago, I watched a movie about Barnum & Bailey’s Circus. It featured the side shows, the ‘freaks of nature” who were roped into joining the circus to get paid to get laughed at and mocked. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Grown adults and children flocked to buy tickets to gawk at the bearded lady, the fattest woman on earth, the tiniest man, the tallest man, the werewolf man and the like. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">With a heavy heart I thought of the parents of those side show people, wondering if, like me, they’d gotten so used to how their child looked that they didn’t see them as any different than any other child. I thought of how heartbreaking it would be to see your child being made fun of. It occurred to me that my little Brett could have been a side show.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">I, </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: Helvetica-Oblique; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">quite accidentally</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">, discovered that a sense of what is “normal” is learned as early as the first few weeks of a baby’s life.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">After Caitlin was born we were given a booklet that detailed her expected development. At one week she should be able to do such and such, at two weeks this, and so on. I became obsessed with that booklet, testing her, making sure she was reaching all the milestones. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Putting away laundry one day, I happened to notice an old Mr. T mask that Bob had worn to a Halloween party. Curious to see how Caitlin would react, I put it on and knelt down to talk to her. I got my face about the distance the booklet estimated she could bring into focus, “Hey precious,” I said softly through the mask.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">She let out a scream different from anything I'd heard before or since. I immediately ripped the rubber mask off my head (practically scalping myself in the process).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Bob heard the scream and came tearing in from the other room. Knowing he wouldn't understand my "experiment," I stuffed the mask underneath me and sat on it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">“What made her scream like that?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I looked stumped, “I have no idea,” I lied. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">I must have looked awkward holding Caitlin, trying to comfort her while keeping my bottom firmly planted on Mr. T. Unfortunately, Bob spotted a little tuft of his mohawk and demanded to know what it was. I held it up, acting baffled. </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: TimesNewRomanPS-ItalicMT; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">What in the world?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">"I can't believe you would actually want to scare a newborn baby! What is </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: TimesNewRomanPS-ItalicMT; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">wrong</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;"> with you?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">"It was an </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: TimesNewRomanPS-ItalicMT; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">experiment</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">…and, it turns out she’s exceptional!” Then I tried for humor, “But she may be a little racist.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">Bob was </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: TimesNewRomanPS-ItalicMT; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">not </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12pt;">amused—he was furious. He took Caitlin from me and left me sitting there. Whatever. An innocent experiment ruined our day.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Before children learn to disguise their faces to hide what they’re thinking or feeling, their reactions to people like Brett run the gamut—from giggling, to pity, to fear. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">When Brett was in the hospital, my father-in-law taped these words on his bassinet, “...I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” Psalm:139:14</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I don’t know why God knit Brett together in my womb the way He did, but I know he will be receiving a glorious, new body in Heaven, where nobody will look at him with anything but admiration and love. What a glorious day that will be!</span></div>
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Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-45999199041218989982020-02-14T15:09:00.002-08:002024-03-16T12:19:01.326-07:00<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">I</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">’ve never been more thankful for my job than I am today. It’s the <i>only </i>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. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">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 <i>clean </i>was a feat.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">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 <i>two </i>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. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">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.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">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.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">A few weeks ago I watched her as she prepared Brooks’ lunch. She began sautéing vegetables. I watched him, hungrily anticipating his meal.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Mmmm, onions!” It was palpable how eager he was to get at those onions.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">As soon as she put some in his bowl, he slurped them down like my kids used to slurp down gummy worms. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">She slathered a generous amount of butter on warm toast and placed it on his plate, too, but nope, “More onions, please!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><i>Surely there isn’t a child on the planet who eats healthier than Brooks!</i> 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.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">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.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">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.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“You can have carrots <i>after</i> you eat your Puffkin’s,” they promised.</span></span></div>
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<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> What I wouldn’t give to crave carrots and celery above all else.</div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">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, <i>nothing </i>gives me more joy than knowing that.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">I have to admit, as I’ve been writing, the words to this hymn have run on a constant loop in my mind:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"> “Grace, grace, God's grace,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"> Grace, grace, God's Grace,</span></span><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> Grace that is greater than all our sin." </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">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.</span></span></div>
Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559461701202743454.post-18570337277029260252020-02-07T09:23:00.005-08:002023-10-05T15:04:10.916-07:00<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">As I was watching the Super Bowl last Sunday, I was struck by what one of the commentators said: “Football is the only major sport where a player can become a highly successful athlete without ever touching the ball.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Winning a football game requires every player to play his own specific role with excellence. If just one position isn’t played well it can cost them the game.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">If not for great offensive linemen (the ones <i>most</i> likely not to touch the football), the best quarterbacks are vulnerable to having hundreds of pounds breaking through the line and annihilating them. Without those talented offensive linemen, the best wide receivers wouldn’t get the chance to make spectacular catches that make the highlight reels nor would you see running backs juking and powering their way through mammoth sized players for impressive rushing yards. In fact, over the course of 54 years of Super Bowls, not<i> </i><b><i>one</i></b><i> </i>offensive lineman has ever won the Most Valued Player award. They may not share the limelight or win the MVP awards, but without them there wouldn’t <i>be </i>any superstars.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Just as there is no “going it alone” in football, there is no “going it alone” in the Church either. Each of us has been given specific gifts, but we all share the same goal—to add to His kingdom and build up the Church. Some gifts put people in the limelight, while others work behind the scenes to make that limelight possible</span><br />
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We all have God-given dreams and gifts. Often I’ve ignored His prompts to follow my dreams. Insecurities, fear of failure and criticism have held me back. But what I see as a failure, God may be using for good in ways I can’t see--may never see. If my heart and motives are right, I have to believe my strivings will be used to accomplish His purpose. </div>
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<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">It’s only recently that I’ve been convicted to not “go it alone” or sit on the sidelines but rather to trust God to train me to develop the gifts He gave me before the creation of the world to<i> do </i>good works, both in the Church and in the world around me.</div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><i>“Just as each of us has one body, with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to the others.” </i>Romans 12:4-5</span></div>
Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01966264620323386913noreply@blogger.com0