I'm reluctant to admit how little I appreciate fine art and music, but as I'm even more reluctant to be a phony baloney I'll admit it here. There are few excursions I consider more of a snooze-fest than a trip to an art museum or the opera. But Caitlin does appreciate art and that is why we are in Florence.

I surprise myself with the awe I feel here. I stand in amazement at the sheer massiveness of the cathedrals, the soaring Gothic arches, the beautiful stained glass and all the intricate artwork. I am especially blown away by the fact that they were built centuries ago (centuries!!). I am glad I have read the novel "Pillars of the Earth" because it gave me a greater appreciation for the massive amount of work and genius that goes into building such grand, lasting structures.

If Caitlin ever feels a dip in self esteem a trip to Italy should cure it. Men are constantly telling her how beautiful she is. They even yell it out to her as she passes. I am beginning to feel even in more in awe of her myself. I see her wild blond hair, sun-kissed face, bright blue eyes and infectious laughter with new eyes. No wonder all these men are wild for her...who wouldn't be? I, on the other hand, am feeling rather old and invisible, which I actually kind of like. Well, the invisible part anyway.

While we wait to get into one of the cathedrals, Caitlin jumps out of line to get a gelato. A young woman with a plastic cup inexplicably picks me out of the entire line to beg money from. I try to look away and ignore her but she's insistent, she is right up in my face and talking non stop. I only have a ten euro bill in my purse and just when I decide to tell her to wait for my daughter to return with some change she reaches in and pinches me. A skin twisting pinch. Ouch.

Caitlin had an experience with a beggar too. She had risen before me to visit some churches. On the steps of one of them sat a very old woman with a plastic cup. Caitlin felt moved to put a few coins in her cup and touch her cheek. The woman took Caitlin's hand and gently kissed it. It brought tears to Caitlin's eyes. A kiss for Caitlin; a vicious, twisty skin pinch for me.

We take full advantage of everything Florence has to offer. We climb the 493 claustrophobic steps to the top of the Duomo where we have a spectacular view of the entire city. We walk back over the Arno river to visit a beautiful park with another breathtaking view. We do lots and lots of climbing, walking and shopping.

Unfortunately, the galleria that houses Michelangelo's David is closed just one day a week: Monday. We are there on Monday. We delay our Tuesday morning departure to L'Abri a few hours so we can see it. It is well worth it. It stands almost 18 feet tall and was carved out of a flawed, discarded piece of marble around 1502. I am moved by the incredible God-given talent that could carve something so magnificent from a chunk of marble. Even the veins in his arms look real, the musculature of his body captured perfectly...it is truly spectacular.

When we finally pull out of the city, Tommy-girl ever so properly and politely directs us on to the motor way to Switzerland. It is only when we reach the Italian alps that she starts pulling her mean shenanigans again...taking us on death defying, terror filled roads to nowhere. I am convinced it is only God's grace that brings us safely through them and high up into the Swiss alps where we finally, miraculously find L'Abri (a mere thirteen hours after leaving Florence). 

All the employees at the airline I work for were given two positive space tickets to anywhere in the world. Since my husband, Bob, doesn't have a passport, I decide Caitlin, my daughter would be my lucky traveling companion and I let her choose our destination. 

She had heard of a commune-style, Christian retreat in the Swiss Alps that she'd alway wanted to visit, so we decided on that. We would fly into Rome, see the sights there, drive to Florence for a day and then head up the Mediterranean coast to Switzerland. 

Our trip begins with an unexpected bump up to Business Elite (the international First Class). What a treat! You'd think flying on an airplane is a rarity for me as excited as I am to embark on our nine hour flight.

Caitlin and I yuk it up in our big, comfy seats, sipping on champagne and enjoying every delectable treat that comes down the pike. Unfortunately I watch two stupid movies and can't sleep a wink. I am insanely jealous of Caitlin sleeping soundly next to me, her mouth wide open. I begin to worry about the energy she is going to have after all this hard sleeping (she's even dreaming). 

When we land in Rome about 10:30 a.m. local time I've been awake for more than 20 hours. Standing at the rental car counter I feel an unfamiliar rumbling and cramping in my stomach. I say "unfamiliar" because I usually have just the opposite problem, especially when I'm traveling. As we wait for the car I'd booked for the wrong day (forgetting that we'd be arriving the day after our departure), I start breaking out in a cold sweat. I need to find a restroom, quickly. To my great dismay, I discover none of the toilets have toilet seats. Thinking I must be in the men's room, I go out and recheck the door, but no, the figurine is definitely wearing a skirt. I suffer through my bout without the heretofore vastly under-appreciated toilet seat. Apparently Italians want to ensure people don't linger on the toilet, as all of the restrooms I visit throughout the day are equally ill-equipped.

It has already reached 90 degrees and I am roasting in my black sweat pants and black turtle neck. It is not helping my whole "situation." Caitlin offers to lend me a more comfortable outfit which I describe as a floor length, strapless muumuu. Caitlin describes it as an adorable, flow-ey, floor length sundress. I don't care, it's cool and comfortable. So there I am, wearing my sensible tennis shoes with the floor length, strapless muumuu, made even more attractive worn over my matronly, thick-strapped black bra. Throughout the day Caitlin and I both randomly erupt in laughter at the picture I make...traipsing around Rome in a ridiculous get-up I wouldn't be caught dead in at home...an outfit that is soo not me.

When we locate our car (barely bigger than a bumper car), we realize it's not the requested automatic but a manual. Caitlin asks if I even know how to drive a stick shift.

"Of course." I answer.

"When did you learn?" she asks.

"When I was a teenager."

"When was the last time you drove one?"

"When I was a teenager."

When we finally make it out of the parking garage, driving in Rome is not too difficult, despite the lack of traffic lights, stop signs or any discernible rules of the road. We need to see all of Rome in a day because Caitlin plans on having dinner in Florence.

The first few hours of walking around I am doing okay, albeit exhausted. After waiting in line to see St. Peter's Basilica and getting rejected for admission (no visible knees or shoulders are allowed), I begin to feel like I really need to lie down somewhere. I remind Caitlin we don't need to see it all in a day, she can return someday... the only caveat being that I need to be, you know, alive for her to enjoy the benefits of my job. She agrees that I had better listen to my body and lie down for a bit, so after enjoying lunch at a quaint outdoor cafe we head back to our car that is parked in front of a church. I had envisioned myself stretching out on a pew in the cool darkness, but alas the church is locked and so I settle for sitting in our bumper car and closing my eyes for an hour or so.

Caitlin continues her tour of the city and when she comes back suggests we visit the Vatican and then head out for Florence. We dubbed our GPS Tommy-girl (taken from her given name of TomTom). Tommy-girl starts acting up, giving us one crazy bum steer after another in our search for the Vatican. Frustrated with her increasingly ridiculous directions, we finally give up, promising ourselves a return visit. After Tommy-girl gets us safely onto the ever so lovely Italian motor way, we pull into a rest stop and I give Caitlin a quick lesson in driving a stick shift. After a dozen or so "lurch and stalls" she gets the hang of it and drives most of the two and half hour trip to Florence.

Florence is beautiful. We look for one of the hotels that Caitlin has looked up in her guide book. We don't find any of them, but stumble upon Hotel Roma and take a quick tour, we love it but decide to make one more loop around to see if we can find a better deal. We don't find one. Hotel Roma is the ticket. Their rooms have toilet seats. Really, what more could we ask? By this time I have been on the move for over 30 hours. I am tired and hungry. My legs are beginning to ache. The first restaurant we try has a two hour wait. No can do. We stumble upon another one (not nearly as nice) a half a block away but Caitlin wants to continue on to see if we can find one that looks more appetizing. A walk around the entire block ends up being a fruitless "penalty lap." The food is rather bland but it fills the void and we blessedly head back to Hotel Roma where I fall into bed and sleep like a baby.

Today is my brother Jeff's 50th birthday. I can hardly get my mind around it. He certainly doesn't look 50. For at least the past 20 years people have assumed he's my younger brother. Not exactly a boon to my confidence...but understandable nonetheless.

As a protector, Jeff has been the epitome of the perfect older brother. I've always felt safe with him. When we were little Craig and I were both terrified of thunderstorms, especially ones that came in the middle of the night. We'd run to my parents room and plead with them to allow us to climb into bed with them until the storm passed, but we were always told to quit being silly and to get back into our own beds. So we'd go to Jeff and he'd always let us curl up with him....the three of us all huddled in his small twin bed. Comforted by his lack of fear.

After my dad's funeral I accompanied my mom back down to Florida and spent eight days there. They were the most difficult eight days of my entire life. I'd never witnessed such intense grief. I thought she would never recover, that I'd essentially lost her, too. I didn't know how to comfort her. I feared for her sanity. At one point I looked up every "doctor" in their address book and begged them to prescribe something for her, anything. Even if I had scored on some drugs she would have refused to take them. She said she didn't want to mask anything.

Neither of us took a shower for days. It seemed somehow like getting cleaned up would have been disloyal, a signal that life was continuing on without my dad. She had put a few articles of my dad's clothing in a ziploc bag so she could open it up and smell him. When the day came that she couldn't smell him anymore she curled up in her bed and cried such deep heart-wrenching sobs that I could hardly stand it. I was so unsure of myself, so unsure of how to respond to her. Should I give her the privacy to mourn in her own way? I could hear her talking to my dad and to God, would I be interrupting by going into the closed bedroom? Should I go in there and just hold her and cry with her? Or would my very presence stifle a necessary grief process? In the end I stayed huddled in my own bed, crying and begging God to give her the comfort I knew only He could ultimately give her.

At the end of the eight days, Jeff flew down. I've never been happier to see him. I could have fallen to my knees and kissed his feet in gratitude. He took over. The endless paperwork, the financial wrangling, all my dad's belongings, all the myriad of distasteful tasks that had to be accomplished that we were incapable of doing. He was just what we needed. It never occurred to me then to think what Jeff may have needed. How he may have needed to grieve.

My mom tells of watching him from their balcony as he sorted through some things in the trunk of their car. Unaware of being watched, he pulled out the ever-present tow rope, and as he looked at it and held it he slowly dropped to his knees and sobbed. Who knows why such a seemingly innocuous object would awaken such deep emotions. I don't know if it was because we never drove new cars or we just happened to be the hapless recipients of lots of "lemons," but a tow rope was as integral a part of our cars' accessories as a spare tire was to others. You just never knew when a towing might be necessary. Nostalgic memories of being towed must have overwhelmed Jeff at that moment.

We've relied on Jeff for all sorts of unpleasant tasks since my dad's death in 1999. Horrifying things, really. I don't know how we could have managed without him. I've never given him the proper kudos for always being willing and able to tackle the tough stuff that needed to be done.

Reflecting on Jeff's life today, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for him and wanted to acknowledge him as the unsung hero he is.

Happy 50th Birthday, Jeff!
I love you.

In my last post I wrote about the special bond my mom and I share. I didn't mention that she writes beautiful poetry...but she does. I wanted to share the poem she wrote for me almost twenty years ago...for my 30th Birthday.

Looking Back

How could I know at age twenty
What God already had in His plan?

How could I know that He'd give me
A daughter, a helper, a friend?

How could I know how I'd love her
That her presence would change my whole life?

How could I know how soon someone
would claim her and make her his wife?

I know that I thank the Lord daily
For a daughter so lovely and true.

And I pray that I've been since age twenty
The right kind of mother for you.

She signed it, "Thank you being such a wonderful daughter and friend for the last thirty years.
I love you, Mom"

One of the greatest blessings in my life is the special bond I share with my mom. Our relationship is one of the most consistent, loving, and joy-filled friendships I have ever witnessed. I adore her, I always have. My older brother used to tell me I couldn't even formulate an opinion without consulting her first. He would ask me something simple like what my favorite color was. I'd ask my mom what her favorite color was. "Green," she'd answer. "Green," I'd tell Jeff. It would exasperate him, "Why can't you come up with an answer on your own?" "That is what I came up with on my own!" I'd answer indignantly and turn to my mom, "Huh Mumma?"

A series of tragic events happened that brought my mom back to Michigan just when I would need her the most. It was an incalculable blessing to have my mom by my side during the difficult months of my pregnancy with Brett and those first few months of his life. I honestly can't imagine how I could have managed without her. Those first few weeks after we brought him home from the hospital are almost a blur. Those days of carefully measuring and re-measuring his ever growing head, not wanting to believe the horrifying numbers. The days and nights of trying to get him to drink one ounce of formula on the hour, every hour. The seemingly impossible, frustrating job of trying to keep the tiny oxygen cannulae lined up with his little nostrils. When we brought Brett home they provided us with a "mother tank" of oxygen that had a 50 foot long cord attached to it so that we could walk around the house with him. Anytime we'd pick him up we'd pull the cord several times, ensuring we had enough slack to keep the cord from pulling against his face. Several days after he was no longer on the oxygen I watched my mom pick him up and then "pull" on an imaginary oxygen cord. I started laughing so hard I could barely get the words out to explain that what was really funny was that I had caught myself doing the exact same thing. We had both gotten so used to that cord that long after it was gone we were still "pulling" on an imaginary cord. It was ridiculous...we laughed until we cried (literally).

My mom compared us continuing to "mind" the cord to us continuing to hold on to worries and burdens that Jesus died to free us from. What a perfect analogy. I've been freed from the "mother tank" of confessed sin yet I keep myself attached through the invisible cords of guilt and regret. Regardless of how often I have been lured away from Him and His ways, and regardless of the fact that I was taught to know better, I still belong to my Father and when I return to Him, He not only welcomes me back, but He runs to meet me! It's inconceivable I know, but I know it's true because my "Bible tells me so" (see the Parable of the Lost Son, Luke 15).

How I thank God for a mother that not only believes everything the Bible says but has taught her children to believe it too.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. You're simply the best!

I spotted a penny on the ground the other day and it triggered a memory that I recalled with surprising detail. My brother Craig was seven or eight years old at the time. We were getting in the car to go someplace and he spotted a penny in the driveway. Not being one to "pick it up and all day long have good luck," he picked it up and chucked it into the air with all the strength his skinny little arm could muster.

My mom was on the other side of the car buckling in our baby sister when she suddenly felt a painful ping on the top of her head. Seeing the penny bounce along the ground, and not believing for one second that pennies fall from Heaven, she picked it up and stormed around the car. Thrusting the offending penny under Craig's nose she demanded to know why he threw it.

Craig could not have been more incredulous...how had his penny ended up in her hand? I couldn't believe how unlucky he was. I mean, what were the chances of that penny landing on her head? We're talking maybe a four inch circumference here. I thought her yelp of pain and ensuing anger were a little over the top at the time, but thinking back I'm sure with the velocity that penny gained on its way down, that it really must have hurt like the devil.

Fast forward thirty years and I'm sitting numbly in the church pew at Craig's funeral. I was experiencing a kind of detached surrealness about the whole thing until the pall bearers walked by with his casket. The sight gave me a panicky feeling inside...that can't be my sweet brother in there! At that moment the agonizing finality of him not being a part of this world ever again cut me to the quick. I could hardly pull myself together enough to stand up and follow the rest of the family out of the church.

Just a few weeks before his accident, Craig had commented (eerily enough) that we'd all better view his death as an event to be celebrated because it would be well worth celebrating. He could sincerely say this because he lived truly believing that "to live is Christ and to die is gain." (Phil. 1:21) He knew that his life was not his own, that it was "bought at a price." (1 Cor. 6:20)

As dozens of people testified, Craig loved Jesus and lived a life that glorified Him...he lived a life that mattered. So many live their lives like it is their own, that the chief end of man is to work hard and then retire to a life of ease. They strive to gain the whole world yet lose their soul in the process...that's a tragedy.

Life is filled with pain, but Craig was spared from much of the evil and pain of this world. At the time of Craig's death a dear woman sent me a card with the following verses, "The righteous pass away; the godly often die before their time. And no one seems to care or wonder why. No one seems to understand that God is protecting them from the evil to come. For the godly who die will rest in peace." (Isaiah 57:1-2 NLT). These verses convinced me that Craig's short life was his reward, his "gain."

Losing Craig was a tragedy to all that knew him. We miss his joyful, loving presence more than I can say. But his life was not a tragedy, because his life (and his death) left a lasting, positive impact on the world he left behind and now he is "present with the Lord." (2 Cor. 5:8) There could be no greater tragedy than to leave this life without having the all surpassing knowledge of knowing and accepting that we were bought...redeemed for all eternity. I hope and pray that my own life will have an increasingly positive, eternal impact on the world I leave behind, and that I too, will have lived a that mattered.

I've missed writing. I can't believe how long it has been since I sat down and tried to organize my chaotic thoughts into something intelligible. I set a goal this year (which I thought was reasonable) to write once week, but for several reasons I've fallen off the band wagon.

Apparently I have too much going on. I feel like I run around at break neck speed all the time and never accomplish anything. I experience on a regular basis what Steven Wright described as having amnesia and deja-vu at the same time; "I know I've forgotten this before." My mind has been too scattered to be "all there" for anything or anybody...how sad is that?

Two weeks ago I had to attend my annual job training. This "training" entails some mandatory performances, which if performed less than perfectly, could entail the loss of your job. I always get way, way too worked up about it. This year I came about as close to an anxiety attack as I've ever been. I know the stuff, it's just increasingly obvious that I'm not good at live performances (horrid at them actually).

There was a silver lining in all the hideousness, because this year I was able to attend with Tammy. God was good to arrange that little miracle. Assuming I could keep my job, Bob and I were planning on traveling to Florida the following Friday to watch Dane play baseball. I confessed to Tammy I was a little apprehensive about traveling with Brett. It's not easy flying standby in the best of circumstances (much less with Brett and in the middle of Spring Break).

She convinced me to try and recruit some help for five or six days so that we could leave Brett at home, where he would be much happier anyway. It's never easy for me to ask for help. My sweet, wonderful friend (who, by the way, is just as frantically busy as I am), hauled out her calendar and figured out which days she could help.

The possibility seemed almost too good to be true. Several days of only having to take care of ourselves? Six days of watching baseball for Bob? And three for me? Does life get any better? One thing about not having the freedom to just get up and go is that when you do get a chance to get away you are a billion times more excited and a billion times more thankful.

I came home Tuesday night from training and flew out again Wednesday on what was supposed to be a two day trip. Due to some freakish weather in Orlando I ended up getting stuck there. I had literally hundreds of things I needed to accomplish on Friday before we could leave and now I had only hours to do it all.

When I got home I couldn't decide what to do first...I'd start packing, then realize I better make sure I had everything ready for Brett, that I should probably clean my bathroom, that I better make sure Brett has all his medicine, make sure he has enough food and diapers...and on and on. I would start one thing, get distracted, think of something else, run upstairs and forget what I ran up there for. I was beginning to think I might be losing my mind.

During this agitated racing around I realized I'd hardly paid any attention to my sweet, cooperative Brett laying there contentedly on the floor (like he always does). I knelt down beside him, talking to him and kissing his cheeks and neck. Normally he isn't very patient with all the kissing and stroking I arbitrarily inflict on him...and who could blame him? I get claustrophobic just thinking about someone hovering over me and kissing me like that. Most of the time he none to gently pushes my face away. That day he put up with me, even gently trailing his skinny little fingers along my cheeks--his only way of "seeing" me.

He was being so unusually responsive that I stopped and made myself enjoy the moment and was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude. Soak this up! This is what matters. Tuck this memory away so you can bring it out later. You're going to Florida!! You have people in your life that love you enough to sacrifice their precious time so that you can get away. Slow down and be thankful!

I don't want my frantic pace keeping me from enjoying life's simple pleasures or cause me to miss out on Divine appointments--which is what I feel I had that day with Brett.

Like my daughter recently reminded me, good relationships don't just happen; they're intentional. You have to be "all there" for people. Frankly, there are times when I'd rather by anywhere but all there, when I want to retreat into myself and not see or talk to anybody.

I think Satan uses both excessive busy-ness and isolation to keep us from making a difference in this world that we're just "a-passin' through." None of us are guaranteed a tomorrow, our life is but a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes, and anyone that knows the good things he ought to be doing and doesn't do them, sins. (James 4:14-17)

I hope in the coming months I'll be able to share that I've been successful in slowing down, that I'm enjoying God's simple pleasures and that I am recognizing (and doing) the good things I ought to be doing.

"Only one life; twill soon by past. Only what's done for Christ will last."