In the past few months, I’ve been using wrong, random words in my sentences. I don’t realize I’ve used the wrong word until someone points it out. These words make my sentences absurd, and I’m highly amused by it. Bob is not amused by it. At all. (See note)

We had squirrels in our attic. They tirelessly darted back and forth all hours of the day and night. 

I complained to Bob, “Those squirrels are making so much money up there!”

“Money?” 

“What about money?”

“You just said the squirrels are up there making money.”

I erupted with laugher. Who knew? They’re not just making noise, they’re making money. It makes me smile just writing it.

Recently we had the grandkids up. We were in a hurry and I needed them to hop to it.

My sweet, three year old Annabelle, was dilly-dallying.  

“Come on, sweetheart. I need you to step it up. Jump up in your suitcase.”

She stopped and stood there. A blank look on her face. What in the world? She’s the epitome of obedience. “Annabelle?”

“You said suitcase, Nana.”

“When did I say ‘suitcase’?”

“You told me to get into my suitcase.”

Oh, my goodness, did that ever make me laugh! Poor Annabelle. So eager to do just as she’s told.

Using all these wrong words that don’t make a lick of sense reminded me of the “Mad Libs” books we used have as kids.

As I thought of them, I jumped on Amazon to see if they still sell them. Sure enough, they sell all kinds of them. I bought some. They would arrive the very next day!

This boggles my mind. How in the heck do they have “Mad Libs” books that handy? I find it mind boggling that I can go from having an inkling that I might want something to actually buying it in the space of two minutes. It’s dangerous. Because, turns out, I have a lot of inklings.

I was so excited to fill in those Mad Libs with the kids. 

“You guys are going to crack up! Just give me any noun, adjective, verb, or adverb, I’ll write them in and then read you the story you made.”

“What’s a noun?” Maisie asked.

“A person, place or thing.”

“But…that’s everything.”

“Pretty much, so just come up with something.”

She came up with “eyeball,” of all things. Plural noun? “Eyeballs.”

Adjective? “Funny.”

Verb? “Running.

Adverb? “Fast.”

Of course, the completed story was funny. But she used the same noun, plural noun, adjective and adverb for every story. But it made her laugh every time and that’s the point, so who cares?

Brooks knows the parts of speech. He got a little hung up on an adverb, so I started to explain what an adverb was.

He interrupted me, “Nana! I know what an adverb is. I’m just trying to think of a good one.”

He came up with “hastily.” Hastily? He’s seven!! Good heavens.

His carefully thought out words didn’t make the stories quite as comical as the “funny, fast running eyeballs” featured in Maisie’s stories, but they still made us laugh. “Quiet Nana hastily crawling.” 

I love being silly. The kids love silly. Mostly. It’s ingrained into us to try and make someone smile. Just think of the antics we’ll go through just to get a baby to smile. 

But the one who's the most amused? Me. By a mile.

One day I rushed into the room where Bob was working. 

“Babe! Oh my gosh!” 

“What? What’s wrong?”

“The water may have been contaminated… at CAMP LEJEUNE!!”

(For anyone who doesn’t get that bit of silliness, it’s a reference to a commercial that ran dozens of times a day, offering legal advice to any unfortunate soldier impacted by the bad water).

**Note**

Bob is not humorless. He’s just fearful my random words might be caused by my head injury. I don’t, I think there’s a logical explanation, I was probably thinking about how much money it would cost to get the squirrels out and probably thinking about packing the kids up and taking them home. But I did take quite a fall several months ago. I hit the curb so hard it knocked me out. A Good Samaritan stopped and called an ambulance. In the emergency room they determined I had a small brain bleed and a concussion. I ended up staying three nights. But I am getting better, the double vision is gone, the headaches aren’t as severe (most days)…but the fogginess, blurred division and dizziness persist. What I miss most is being able to walk outside. I can’t wait for those first warmish days in the spring. And we had the best autumn I can ever remember… such great walking weather!  Anyway, I’m thankful I am getting better, a little slower than I’d like, but I know it could’ve much worse. At least I haven’t lost my sense of humor and I’m thinking the medicinal effect of laughter should kick in any day now.

I was watching a baseball game with Bob. I commented on how much one of the players reminded me of my brother, Craig.

“I’m not seeing it. At all,” Bob responded.

“Because it wasn’t the face you knew. It’s his nine year old face. Before it morphed into his adult face. Still soft around the edges.”

Nine year old Craig still sucked his thumb. My mom was desperate for him to stop. I think Craig was just as eager to abandon the habit. She tried all kinds of tactics. Nothing worked.

One night she wrapped an ace bandage around his hand, making it impossible for him to get his thumb in his mouth.

When he took it off the next morning, his hand was freakishly large. Apparently, the bandage had cut off his circulation. He came into my room to show me his big hand, his curly hair all wild from sleep. 

He had his hand behind his back and when he got close, he brought it out with a flourish, “Ta-dah!”

It was hysterical! His hand was five times its normal size! We laughed and laughed. 

“Wait til Mom sees it! She's going to crack up. Put it behind your back, just like you did for me.”

We knocked on her bedroom door, barely able to suppress our laughter.

Mom opened the door and smiled, knowing we were up to something.

Craig whipped his giant hand out from behind his back, “Ta-Dah!”

My mom looked at it and started screaming. What in the world? Why can’t she see the hilarity of it all?

She was on the phone with a doctor within minutes, and per his instructions, she filled one pan with cold water and another with hot water. She alternated putting his giant hand first in the cold, then in the hot. She was choking back sobs, berating herself, saying she didn’t care if he sucked his thumb the rest of his life, she was done with the interventions.

I don’t know how many dunks it took, but his hand did shrink down to its normal size. Phew!

Disaster averted, my mom sighed her oft repeated phrase, “Live and learn.”

I’d heard those words a thousand times. I’d started to resent them. Why couldn’t we learn what we needed to know without living through one disaster after another? 

Now, I’ve adopted the same mantra. What’s the alternative? Bemoan every misstep until I feel properly chastised?  It’s actually a healthy habit. Own it, learn from it, and do the next right thing. Obviously, we can’t be too glib about it, or trivialize it. But we don’t learn by skipping blissfully through life. We learn through the stumbles and the sorrow.  Jesus began a good work in me the hour I first believed, and the work will not be complete until the day He takes me home. But until then, I'll continue to live and learn. My mom used to say, "Some people need to learn it the hard way." I'm one of those "some people,"who often need to learn it the "hard way." But I do learn it. Living and learning. And so it goes.

I walked a mile with Pleasure, 

She chattered all the way,

But left me none the wiser,

For all she had to say.

I walked a mile with Sorrow,

And ne’er a word said she,

But oh, the things I learned from her

When Sorrow walks with me!

                       —“Along the Road”

                            by Robert Browning Hamilton

 I don’t know how old I was when I became self-conscious. I know it wasn’t a good thing; I was too young to care so much about what other people thought of me. I used to love being silly and making people laugh. But somewhere along the way, I realized some were laughing at me, not with me. The slightest criticisms began to crush my spirit. Soon enough I was too timid to make a peep. Too worried I might sound stupid or look stupid. What a curse. I’m insanely jealous of those who don’t give a flip what other people think of them. My dad was one of those lucky people. He often told me, “You would care a lot less about what people think about you if you only knew how little they think of you at all.” Wise words.

Thankfully, my granddaughters (5 and 3) are still blissfully oblivious to a watching world.

The first thing Maisie and Annabelle want me to do is dance with them to “Dancing Queen.” They tear upstairs to grab some “grip free” socks so they can spin freely on the wood floor. 

We play the song loudly, I grab their little hands, spin them one direction and then the other, slide them through my legs, they squeal with laughter and I laugh right along with them. If anyone happens upon us (even Bob), I stiffen up. Please don’t watch us. I know I look stupid.

When it’s time to get ready to go out to lunch, I help three-year old Annabelle get dressed. She has many princess dresses….what I would call “dress up” clothes or halloween costumes. For Annabelle, they’re just one of her many everyday outfits. I try and dissuade her. “Why don’t we save your princess dress for later?”

“But Nana, I'm a princess!” Of course you are! And princesses wear princess dresses! Silly Nana.

She admires herself in the mirror, “I look beautiful.” Please, Lord, please don’t ever let her stop believing she’s a beautiful princess. 

I ask Caitlin if she’s okay with Annabelle’s outfit. Sure! Why not?

Why not, indeed? I think back on all the clothing battles I fought with Caitlin when she was three. Were they ever worth it? I remember running late for work and instead of the outfit I’d laid out for her, she came downstairs wearing a one-pice bathing suit paired with a plaid flannel skirt, and dress up sandals. I can still picture every detail, Caitlin so pleased with herself for assembling such a cute outfit. Okay, I guess some battles did have to be fought.

Annabelle flounces through the restaurant in her princess dress, smiling big at all the compliments she receives from every table she passes. 

On the drive home, Maisie asks if we can play, “Dancing Queen.” Of course we can. She sings along. I wasn’t aware she knew the lyrics. I know only a few. She belts out the line, “See that girl? Watch that scene! Dig it, the dancing queen.” 

Those sweet, innocent memories will be etched in my mind forever.

Please, Lord. Please let that lack of self-awareness stay with them as long as possible. Let them sing and dance unaffected by a watching world that can be cruel. Don’t let what other people think of them ever stifle their infectious joy or squash their creativity. Let them live only ever caring what You think…knowing they are Yours and You love them with an everlasting love.

 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.

“Here’s your seat, sir. Right here on your right.”

“Why do you people always give me a seat in the very back of the airplane?" he growled.

“I’m not sure sir, maybe it has to do with when you bought your ticket.”

“How do you expect me fit into that seat? Why do you keep making the seats smaller and smaller?”

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.

“Sir, you're going to have to put your foot underneath the seat in front of you. You're liable to trip people.”

“I can’t move it.”

The grumpy geezer was getting on my last nerve. 

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 was a tight fit. His knees were right up against the seat in front of him. Looking at him squeezed in there did make the seat look unusually small.

Breathing a little heavily from the effort of getting his foot out of the aisle, I began closing bins.

“Where did you put my bag?” he barked out.

“It’s in the bin right above you.”

“I want it down.”

So now I’m your personal lackey?

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.”  Because it sure as heck isn't going to fit under the seat with those giant feet of yours.

Sitting on my jumpseat behind him, I looked at the miserable old coot, sitting stiffly, looking straight ahead.

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.

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 very last row was right beside us, helping me hold him up, kindly urging him to sit back down.

Tears welled in my eyes—they always do when I witness the goodness of strangers, jumping up to help a fellow passenger.

The stranger waited until everyone had deplaned and helped me get the man out of his seat. 

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.”

I know the smallest acts of kindness are never wasted, but having it acknowledged made my day. Even though my thoughts had not been kind, I reaped the joy from acting kind. 

 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 can fly as an “unaccompanied minor,” giving our employees  the responsibility of ensuring they get delivered into the hands of the documented adult waiting for them at their final destination. 

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 most importantly 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.

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.

After she took her seat, I launched into possibly the most thorough individual briefing I’ve every given.

“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.

She attentively listened with a smile on her face and politely thanked me for each little tidbit I passed along to her.

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?”

She looked appalled, “But WHY? I’m twenty-six years old!”

Right behind me, waiting to take her seat, was the actual unaccompanied minor.

Can you imagine what this sweet twenty-six year old girl (who really could pass for fifteen) was thinking?? Getting this laser focussed, personal briefing about every detail about the airplane and what she needs to do in an emergency?

No doubt she was thinking to herself…this old bat is taking her job waaaay too seriously…she should retire already.

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!

For obvious reasons, New Year’s Eve is the least 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. 

As anyone who knows me knows, I LOVE playing games. Bob would want to insert here that what I really like playing are mind games (ha-ha). I’m very competitive and it doesn’t take much for me to become obnoxious about it.

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 I can’t even derive my usual glee of whomping on him. I brought out every game we had in search of something, anything. I couldn't even a regular deck of cards. 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?

I explained the rules to him. He said he must be missing something because it sounded too easy. Because it’s made for 4 year old’s, ya big silly! 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 did laugh and laugh. 

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 must lose at least one game out of the dozen we played. But the little smarty-pants was determined not to suffer a loss. The one time I made sure 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…now the person who gets the 'old lady' is the winner.” His cleverness cracked me up.

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 want to ring in the New Year playing Old Maid again (it was actually kinda pitiful), the fact that we did have a rollicking good time probably means we’re going to be okay.  

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 is 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.

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 truth. Tucked into that belt of truth is the sword of the Spirit, the Word of God. 

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.

Johnny Carson used to have a segment asking a guest if a certain individual was dead or alive. Bob and I play it now.

 

“Do you think Bob Newhart is still alive?” “Do you think Bob Dole is still alive?’

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. 

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 real 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 know are true or things we know 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). 

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 never pass away. (Matthew 24:35)

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. 

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— 

“In a time of deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.” —George Orwell

“…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

“The man who fears no truth has nothing to fear from lies.” —Thomas Jefferson

Ultimately, the only truth that matters is that Jesus lived, died and rose again. God sent Him to save the world, not condemn 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.

Glory, Glory hallelujah

His truth keeps marching on