My daughter strongly discouraged my entry into the Facebook world, convinced that viewing pictures of friends traveling the world and living high on the hog would send me into the depths of despair because I was stuck at home with Brett.

My mom joined Facebook early on and would often leave her page open at our house. Bob would get on it, doing what Caitlin and Dane called "creeping." He couldn't resist commenting either, "Hey there! It's your dad on Gramma's Facebook..."

One day I decided Bob should have his own Facebook account and took the liberty of signing him up. At some point I noticed he had more than a hundred friend requests he hadn't accepted. I told him (because I really believed that's how it worked) that all these people were getting messages that he didn't want to be their friend.

After enjoying hours of creeping, now he was indignant that I'd signed him up.

"Why did you sign me up in the first place? I'm in SALES! Do you think I can afford to alienate hundreds of people?!?  All I wanted to do was look at Caitlin and Dane's stuff, and that was working out just fine going on your mom's."

Well! Talk about ingratitude! "How would I know you wouldn't want to be friends with people?" I huffed. "Why wouldn't you? That's the whole point!"

Anyway, ruffled feathers were smoothed, he became friends with lots of people and now he's an active member. He makes funny comments, "likes" all manner of things, wishes people happy birthday--the whole nine yards.

I finally joined after being advised that if I was serious about my dream to write, I needed to at least be vulnerable enough to post my blogs. Not that this necessarily meant people would read them, but it certainly opened up the possibility that someone might.

So I signed on and fell in love with it. Not that I'm immune to some of the rather paranoid, negative thinking that crops up on occasion...hmmm, so and so stopped liking my posts, maybe they don't like me anymore, or maybe they're just not on it anymore, but no I see they're liking other peoples' posts... I nip all that all kind of thinking in the bud, because really, AIN'T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT.

Turns out, being on Facebook didn't make me feel stuck in my own little world, it expanded my world. I get a peek into lives I wouldn't otherwise get to peek into, and they get a peek into mine, as well. I love acknowledging accomplishments and milestones and celebrating new births. I love being reconnected with friends and family I haven't seen in decades, and making new connections.  I love looking at the pictures, marveling at how quickly time flies, incredulous our babies are having babies.  There are posts that have made me laugh out loud and some that have brought tears to my eyes.

But perhaps the most unexpected gift of Facebook has been the encouraging comments on my blogs, often from unexpected sources--and usually just when I needed it most. So, for all these reasons and more, I remain an unabashed fan of Facebook.

My cousin Jen just "happened" to be on my flight the other day. There are approximately 22,000 flight attendants, so the chance of this happening (especially flying into Minneapolis rather than Detroit) is slim to none.

That time with her was definitely a gift from God. One of my New Year's resolutions is to spend more time with those I love. Jen is on that list, so I was especially thankful that God brought her to me.

Since I've always been painfully shy, God has had to bring all my friends to me.  He has used a number of ways to accomplish this. Like having last names beginning with the same letter, so seating charts put us together. Like a new girl coming on our church retreat and sharing a bunk with me. My brother marrying one, me giving birth to one, me being born to one, my mom having a surprise pregnancy with one. Rooming in college with a few, rooming in flight attendant training with a few. Growing up in the same church with some. Aunts and Uncles and cousins giving birth to several. In many, many instances it took glomming onto my other friends' friends.

All these ways and more, God has brought precious friends into my life and I don't spend near enough time with any of them. I'm determined this year will be different. As my daughter would say, I'm going to be more "intentional" about finding the time. I think I'm off to a pretty good start. I'm often marooned at home with Brett, so the first thing I needed to do was quit thinking my house had to be clean or food needed to be prepared in order to have company. How freeing is that? I invited a friend over the other day and didn't even feel compelled to change out of my pajamas.

I've always liked the analogy of our life as a tapestry with God doing the weaving. Often all we can see is the messy underside that looks like nothing more than a bunch of tangled threads, the furthest thing from order and beauty. I like to think of those threads as friends.

Some are tightly interwoven from the very beginning and stay that way to the end. Like family members and those who have shared most of our pain, sorrow and joy.

Sometimes a bright thread is woven in unexpectedly, adding a lightness and strength you weren't even aware was missing (my friend Stacey comes to mind).

Sometimes the threads separate, busily being woven into their own uniquely beautiful design on another part of the tapestry, and sometimes those threads become re-woven with yours, perhaps just when you're feeling particularly thread-bare and fragile (like my friends Kelly and Ellie).

Regardless of where we are in the weaving process, God uses each thread to add strength, beauty and variety to the fabric of our lives. But we have to allow ourselves to be interwoven. Sometimes I am tempted to isolate myself, using all my free time on my own selfish interests.

But God didn't intend us to live in isolation. He created us to enjoy the comfort, strength and beauty of high thread counts. As long as God is doing the weaving, we can be assured that regardless of the messy looking underside, He is creating "something beautiful, something good."

The only thing I like about seeing another year slip by is the idea of a fresh start and new beginnings.  This year I decided I'd try blogging about some of the changes I'd like to make, both big and small. Maybe by articulating them, I'll be more inclined to act on them.

As kids, my brothers and I usually came home from school and played outside until dinner.

Exceptions were made when there was something special on The Four O'Clock Movie, like Godzilla week. I hated Godzilla. My brothers' insistence on watching that ridiculous creature aggravated me to no end. My mom knew that, so she turned it into a special time just for us. She'd pop up a big of bowl of popcorn, with lots of salt and butter. We'd sit on opposite sides of the living room couch, our feet together, the bowl of popcorn between us and we'd read and eat to our heart's content.

I was probably into Laura Ingalls Wilder at the time, completely engrossed in "Little House in the Big Woods". I loved Ma and Pa and remember wishing that I lived back in that time. Before Godzilla. Before The Three Stooges.

I love that memory. I love that my mom was willing to put everything aside to enjoy the simple pleasure of spending companionable time with her little girl. My mom has always been good at living in the moment, seizing the pleasures of the present rather than dwelling on past mistakes or worrying about the future. I'm resolving to be more like her...to be fully present, to embrace the moment and be more grateful for what is and less guilty about what isn't or wasn't.

I remember when they told us Brett would probably not respond to us in anyway. I wanted to ask (but mercifully didn't), you mean he'll be a vegetable? As a child, I thought the designation came purely from its shared properties with an inanimate object. Like a giant carrot, a carrot that needed to be fed and changed. I can remember stories of horrific accidents and hearing conversations,  "...and now the poor thing is nothing but a vegetable. I bet his parents never thought they'd be changing diapers the rest of their lives." Yes, I'm sure that was a safe bet.

Today is Brett's eleventh birthday. I hate to admit it, but his birthdays always overwhelm me with sadness. I mourn for a normal little boy's birthday celebration. I mourn the fact that another year has not brought any change, other than that he's bigger.

This past week I attended a funeral of a boy that was the same age as Dane. It was heart-wrenching, unbearable. I wouldn't want to compare their mourning with what I feel for Brett, but some of the same truths I use to encourage myself are true for them as well.

Their son is no longer tormented; Brett is content and he'll never be affected by the evilness of this world. Their son's feelings will never be hurt again; Brett's feelings will never be hurt. Their son will never make another bad decision; Brett isn't capable of making a bad decision. They no longer have to worry about their son's safety or wonder where he is; we always know where Brett is.

 I know God is good. I know He assured us that "all things will work together for good for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose."  I believe that God is bringing about more good through Brett being the way he is than if he were perfect.

And their son? What if just one person joined the ranks of Heaven because of the words that were shared at his funeral?  This life is, after all, just a blip compared to eternity. Their lives will never be the same, a day won't go by that they won't miss their sweet baby boy (my mom can attest to that).

His father shared words I will never forget; his son had spent the last few years of his life doubting God's goodness...but that he sure wasn't doubting it now. I love that, because ultimately, that's the most comforting truth of all: God IS good, even when we can't see the good, He IS good, and without a doubt, their beloved son is now basking in God's goodness.

We'd been saying for years that we wanted to downsize to a ranch house, that Brett was getting too heavy to carry up and down the stairs, that we didn't need all that house, all that upkeep.

We were forever looking, but never finding. Our friend was showing a home in our subdivision and told his clients that, eventually (when said ranch was found), our house would be on the market.  

Turns out, our house was exactly what they were looking for, in fact, they felt that our house was meant to be their house. We had nowhere to go, but they made us a really good offer...surely we could trust God to find us a home? 

As the closing date neared, I became more and more discouraged. Houses were selling before we even got a chance to look at them. Bob and I weren't agreeing on things and my biggest prayer had been that we'd be on the same page, that we'd both know it when we found the right place. Now I wanted to take it all back. I started asking what would happen if we decided not to sell after all. Could they sue us, would they sue us? 

 A few days before the closing, Bob was doing his usual crawl through neighborhoods looking for "for sale" signs. He pulled up next to a yard filled with furniture. He learned from a neighbor that the house had been sold, but the sale had fallen through and they were planning on listing it with a realtor in the next few days.  

Through pure determination, Bob was able to track down the attorney in charge of the estate and asked if we could come see it before they listed it. I wasn't enthused, but I was trying to be open minded. 

As soon as we walked through the door, I could envision us living there. I raced ahead of Bob, practically running from room to room. I was coming up from the basement when Bob stopped me and said that I wouldn't believe my eyes when I looked in the garage, there were tears in his eyes.  I seriously doubted anything about a garage could wow me that much, but whatever. I opened the door and there it was--a beautiful wheelchair ramp!  

I whispered to Bob that we needed to make an offer. I had little doubt in my mind that the previous owner had spent the last years of his life doing little more than smoking, urinating and installing shelves in the basement. 

The "finished" basement was divided into nine rooms, most of them large closets with wall to wall shelving. And what was up with all the electrical outlets? Oh. My. Word. There are 121 outlets in the basement alone. Seriously. I counted them just for this blog. We made a low ball offer; I tried to justify the offer by driving home the stench, the filth, the beyond weird basement. She thought it was ridiculously low, but agreed to present it and get back with us the following week.

We had a wish list of all the things we wanted. This house had all of them, even the piddly things way, way down on our list. I was afraid to get too excited about how insanely perfect it all was, how in awe I felt at God's perfect timing, because what if it wasn't meant to be? We didn't have to wait long, she called Bob first thing Monday morning to let us know they accepted our offer, they didn't even counter it. 

We never want to get over the miracle of finding this house, it truly is more than we could have asked for or imagined and we are very, very thankful.

I experienced a minor miracle on my way to work the other day. As I was driving, my van suddenly became obnoxiously noisy. I called Bob. With Bob's new job, he can be anywhere in the metropolitan Detroit area at any given time.

When I called, he was having lunch 30 seconds from where I was (30 seconds!!!). I needed help right that minute and God provided Bob right that minute.

He strolled out of the restaurant and saw that my muffler dragging behind me (hence the obnoxiously loud noise). He went back into the restaurant, grabbed a knife, cut the muffler off and tossed it in the back of the van.  As I roared off (dragster style), my eyes filled with tears of awed gratitude. The whole "fix" had delayed me less than five minutes.

A little side story. When I asked Bob where he was, he answered he was right across from The Wart knowing I would know exactly where that was.

When we were little, my older brother Jeff grew a giant wart on his finger. No amount of Compound W appeared to diminish the size or staunch the growth. He had me and my little brother Craig convinced it was contagious and would torment us by pressing that gruesome thing against our exposed skin in unsuspecting moments. I was terrified it was only a matter of days before I sprouted my own nasty wart.

One day on our way home from church, Craig pointed to this domed white structure (I have no idea what it is or what purpose it serves), and claimed it was Jeff's big wart on display. From that day forward, we never drove by it without acknowledging it as Jeff's wart on display.

Decades later, I still can't resist pointing out Uncle Jeff's Big Wart on Display to my own family. Who knew God would use The Wart landmark to show me exactly where Bob was at exactly the time I needed him? And even gave me one more reason to be thankful: I never did sprout my own nasty wart.

I've never cared about cars--other than preferring not to drive a nice one. I have a knack for getting them scraped up and dented up in no time, or rather (as I have to constantly remind Bob), I have a knack for parking next to people that scrape and dent up my car in no time. It's so much less stressful to buy one already dented up.

Even though Bob has sold cars for 30 plus years, I've never picked out a car for myself. Before Bob bought my last car, I asked him what color it was (not that it mattered). He said it wasn't a color, per se, just brownish/grayish/greenish. After driving it for a few months, I could name the color: road dust. It was brilliant. It didn't matter if it was filthy or freshly washed, it looked the same.

I have a freakish fear of going through car washes. I slowly lurch up there, not quite trusting that the guy impatiently beckoning me in has my wheels lined up properly. I'm squirrelly about putting it in neutral at exactly the right time (I've been screamed at several times). I'm petrified I'll touch the steering wheel and get off the tracks and get stuck in there and then I get all worked up about the precise point I need to put it back in drive and squeal out of there in time to not get hit by the car behind me. All that anguish is not worth a clean car, so "road dust" is now my number one color choice.

Unfortunately, we reached a point with Brett that I could no longer lift him to put him in the car. We needed a van that could accomodate his wheelchair. Bob spent hours, upon hours looking for one. I was horrified by the prices and I hated the thought of giving up my beloved road dust colored car. Bob was willing to drive hundreds of miles to find an affordable van that would suit our needs but ended up not having to go anywhere at all. I could fill a page with the miraculous details of how God brought us the perfect van practically to our doorstep.

The first time I drove my God given van to work, it was cold and windy.  After hauling out my luggage and heading to the bus stop, I heard the ominous click that signaled the door was opening and the ramp was being deployed. There is no stopping the process once it starts, so I had to stand there and watch the door slowly open, the ramp slowly spring out and then slowly lower itself to the ground. Bob told me the ramp would only work when the van was running and the button was pushed from the inside, so I got back in, started it up and hit the button to reverse the process. After I impatiently waited for it to sloooowwwly tuck itself back in and the door to click shut, I gathered my bags and headed back to the stop.

When I reached the stop, I (thankfully) looked back at the van and saw (to my horror) that the process had started again, the ramp was already springing out. Now I was running late and numb from the cold and I wanted to kick the sides in of this despicable, crazy, not road dust colored van.

When I finally made my check in, I was frustrated and freezing. I could hardly wait to tell Bob how little he knew about how the ramp worked and to hear how very, very sorry he felt for me.

I was a little ashamed at my level of animosity towards the van. What had happened to my gratitude? It was then that I realized what an absolute gift it was that I hadn't parked next to someone. In all my years of trying to find the closest spot in the employee lot, I'm pretty sure I have never parked next to an empty spot.

How much worse it would have been had that ramp popped out and bashed in the windows of the car next to me (twice!). The rest of the day I whispered prayers of gratitude for that empty spot, definitely a God thing. And, I'm happy to say, my gratitude for the van has returned as well. It has been a wonderful thing not to be marooned at home with Brett--and I am very, very grateful.