Last month Caitlin and I took a mini vacation together. We visited a vineyard and spent the night in a quaint Bed and Breakfast in Charlottesville, Virginia, where Thomas Jefferson founded the impressive University of Virginia almost 200 years ago.

The winery was located in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains. After our wine tasting, we bought a bottle of our favorite and took it out on the patio to enjoy in the bright sunshine. I sat there reveling in Caitlin's delightful company, marveling at the majestic surroundings, and thanking God that I live in "America the Beautiful."

When we left the vineyard we drove with the windows down, taking in the fragrant mountain air and singing loudly along to Taylor Swift. A joyful thankfulness engulfed me, not only for the means to spend this time together, but that in this season of Caitlin's life she is free to get away with me, that she wants to get away with me. My throat constricted with emotion as I thought that in this particular moment in time, if Caitlin could choose her mom, she would pick me. She would pick me!! I was afraid to voice the thought lest I start sobbing and ruin it, but I will cherish that memory for the rest of my life.

After spending an incredible few days in Virginia with my daughter Caitlin, we ran into some nasty D.C. traffic on the way to the airport. I began to silently praying God would allow us to get there in time in spite of the dwindling odds.

One of the reasons we were running late was a totally out of character shopping spree. I've never cared a whit about shoes and purses. I never change purses, only buying a new one when my old one falls apart. I've never sprung for a nice one. It needs to be big, so it's actually more like a small carry on than a purse. To give you an idea of just how un-chic I am, on a cruise eleven years ago, I carried around my plastic satchel even while clothed in a beautiful sequined dress (I have pictures).

Shoes? Same thing. I find a sturdy, somewhat fashionable pair and replace them when they wear out. I had a ten dollar coupon for DSW that was about to expire. Conveniently, a DSW was on the way. I headed straight to the clearance racks and found so many shoes and boots I couldn't carry them all to the check out counter. Caitlin saw me struggling with my enormous stack and thought I was joking. The good news is, the receipt says I "saved" 500 dollars. The bad news is, now I needed to check a bag.

We arrived at the airport 30 minutes prior to departure. I checked a bag but was stilled loaded down like a pack mule. The Known Crew Member security line (which doesn't restrict the amount of liquids you can bring through) closed minutes before I got there...which meant my expensive wine would be confiscated. Oh well, at least it appeared my prayers of making the flight would be answered.

Sweating like a pig, I made it to the gate only to be told I didn't have a prayer of getting on. Not wasting any time, I bolted back to security to beg for the return of my confiscated items. I bought a cheap bag to put them in and checked it for the next flight. I had the jumpseat on that flight so I was guaranteed a seat.

It had been more than two weeks since I had seen or talked to my best friend Tammy (very unusual). I was desperately missing her. We had so much to catch up on, and it was going to be another two weeks before I could see her.

Out of more than 22,000 flight attendants, guess who was working the flight and sharing a jumpseat with me? Tammy. It was a miracle! I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the unexpected gift. A gift God had planned for me all along, with the bonus of a much needed workout (the flat out sprints I ran loaded down with heavy bags).

If God had answered my prayers and allowed me to get on that first flight I would have missed out on that precious time together. We talked and laughed incessantly for an hour and a half.

God didn't allow me to get on the first flight, because He had something so much better to give me.  A miraculous set of circumstances only He could have arranged. So you see, sometimes, we really can thank God for unanswered prayers.

For me, there's nothing quite as satisfying as a fountain Diet Coke from McDonalds. And who can pass up one dollar for any size drink? I feel like I'm getting it for free if I manage to cobble together enough loose change from the floor, ash tray and cup holder to pay for it.

The other day I went to a McDonalds that had two ordering lanes that merge together. I'm always amazed they don't get the orders confused. That day, a guy insisted on merging in front of me even though I knew I was ahead of him.  You Bozo! You're going to mess up their system! Sure enough, they didn't have my order right.

"I only ordered a large Diet Coke," I patiently corrected.

"Hmmm. I don't see it on the screen. Did you order it at the speaker?"

"Uh..." I had to think about it. "No. I'm sorry! I forgot that part." How embarrassing! I was the one messing up their system.

"Not a problem," the girl smiled. But it was a wee bit of a problem because she had to walk away from the pay window to explain it to the delivery window.

Now I was doubly embarrassed to dump my warm, sticky handful of pennies, nickels and dimes into her hand.

Still, she was gracious. Never stopped smiling. The delivery girl was just as pleasant. Even my, "It is diet, right??" didn't faze her. Nothing aggravates me more than taking that first sip and discovering it's regular. Ugh! I never have time to whirl back around. What I'm tempted to do is spike it into the ground.

Their kindness and patience touched me. It was only later that I thought they probably felt sorry for me.

It made me feel guilty about my own lack of patience. I can barely be civil to passengers who ask what we have.

I answer with a big sigh, "SodasJuicesCoffeeTeaBeerWine and Cocktails." Without a smile. To be honest, I often leave off the "tea" option because it requires retrieving from the galley.

Heaven forbid they ask what kind of soda/juice/cocktails.

I resolved to start answering that question graciously, with a big smile. I think I can do it--as long as it's only one passenger a day--after all, I'm pretty sure I was the ONLY customer that day who zoomed up to the pay window without ordering first.

I've always treasured my mom's laughter. My dad especially appreciated her bolstering ability to find humor in the most dire of circumstances. No matter the crisis, my mom would remind him of all the things they had to be grateful for...their health, their passionate love for each other, their children, and their Lord who promised to meet every need. Why, it would be positively un-Christian to let the calamities of this world steal their joy!

After my dad died suddenly of a massive heart attack, I feared I'd never hear her laugh again, convinced a "calamity" had been able to steal her joy after all. My mother was just shy of her 58th birthday, too young to be widowed.

After the funeral, I accompanied her back to Florida and stayed with her for eight days. The rawness and intensity of her grief alarmed me. I helplessly ached with her, incapable of consoling her.

I'd always spent hours on the phone with my mom, never running out of things to say. I couldn't wait to regale her with the latest stories, eager to hear her predictable laughter. Now it didn't feel appropriate to relay a funny story--would it ever? Everything I thought to say seemed trivial, meaningless, or worse, make it glaringly obvious that my life would be mostly returning to normal, while hers never would--just one lonely, sad day after another. For the first time in my life, I didn't know what to say to her. If I had that time back, I would allow her to grieve. I would encourage her to relive every memory she had of my dad, and I would have done the same. My dad was a very funny man, there would have been laughter in the midst of our tears.

My mom always made an effort to look nice for my dad. A half hour or so before he'd be expected home from work, she'd fix her hair, put on a little make-up and change into something pretty. My handsome dad would stroll in from work and say she sure was "a sight for sore eyes."

When Mom and I returned to the empty condo after the funeral, we didn't bathe, wash our hair or get out of our pajamas for days. It seemed pointless and somehow irreverent to get gussied up without Dad there to tell us that we were a "sight for sore eyes."

One day, in an attempt to distract her from the horror of my dad's absence, I suggested we play a game of Scrabble. It was a mistake. A few moves into it, she shoved herself away from the table, ran into the kitchen and leaned over the sink, sobbing.

"I can't stand it! I can't stand it! I CAN'T STAND IT!"  she wailed, louder and more desperate each time.

As I put my arms around her, trying to hold her shaking, sobbing body, something in me snapped. I was terrified. I had lost my dad, and now I feared I was losing my mom too. I started shaking and crying right along with her.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I don't know what to do," I sobbed, frantic. "I. Don't. Know. What.To. Do."

At that moment, her pain became secondary to mine. She had always been the comforter, it had been her role. I never had to play it, and it was obvious I didn't know how to play it. She turned to comfort me.

"Oh, Honey," she said softly. "I'm sorry. I'm going be alright, it's just going to take time."

We continued to cry and hold each other and the frantic fear that felt like a vice around my heart loosened a little. I was still desperate to relieve her pain, but at least I wasn't fearing for her sanity.

The next few years brought more loss. Unimaginable heartache. My brother, Craig, was the only reason my mom stayed in Florida. After he died tragically in an airplane crash, she came to Michigan to live with me. All the heartache God had allowed, had brought my mom to me just when I needed her most.

Long after we decided we were done having children, I inconceivably became pregnant with our son Brett. From the beginning we were told there were problems. We were advised to terminate the pregnancy. Of course, I wanted to believer God would make our baby perfect and prove the doctors wrong, but deep down I never believed that was His plan, so I thought I was prepared for the bad news. And yet, after Brett's birth, the reality of just how severe his disabilities were was staggering. We were told he would probably never respond to us in any way, that he he would never walk or talk, and would more than likely be blind. He wouldn't be able to do anything on his own and we would be caring for him the rest of our lives.

Those first few weeks after we brought Brett home from the hospital are 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 from a syringe on the hour, every hour. The seemingly impossible, frustrating job of trying to keep the oxygen tubes in his tiny nostrils.

When we brought him home they provided us with a "mother tank" of oxygen that had a 50 foot cord attached to it so 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 "pull" on an imaginary oxygen cord. I burst out laughing. What made it especially funny was that I had caught myself doing the same thing. We had both gotten so used to that cord that long after it was gone we were still "pulling" the air of an imaginary cord. It was ridiculous and we laughed until we cried.

The aspect of my mom I feared losing the most hadn't been lost after all. In spite of all the horrific heartache, her endearing capacity to find joy in the midst of heartache remained. Her ability to appreciate funny stories and laugh heartily returned. Her unrelenting gratitude and her certainty of a Heavenly reunion gave her the strength and joy to persevere, and it provided me a much needed example of what deep faith in our sovereign Lord can accomplish.

"Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope." Romans 5:3-4

Five Things I Learned at My First Writer's Conference

1.) I need to get over myself. I had hoped by the time I reached my 50's I would have developed a little more personality--capable of engaging strangers and honestly sharing my struggles and dreams. Didn't happen.

2.) I needed my friend with me. She is engaging and willing to be vulnerable. She likes to sit in the front row, while I feel a small knot of anxiety when there aren't any seats left in the back row. (We compromised and sat in the middle.)  At dinner, one of the featured writers (gulp!) sat at our table. Unintimidated, my friend got everyone at the table to share their writing dream. Even I shyly admitted I wanted to finish writing my hokey romance novel. As soon as we finished eating, my friend excused herself to connect with another writer. She left me on my own! There are two subjects I try to avoid: church and my job. Church, because I don't go to church. My job, because the same two questions are invariably asked: "what is your normal route?" and "what is your favorite layover city?" Las Vegas comes to mind as my favorite city, because I love the hotel and they pick us up and drop us off at the airplane. No going through security or waiting at the curb. If Bismarck offered the same service, Bismarck would be my favorite city. In Christian circles, not going to church and citing Las Vegas as your favorite layover are not endearing admissions.

3.) There are literally thousands of talented writers, filled to the brim with personality, wit and connections. Everyone has a story, and most can not only write it well, but they can tell it well too. At times, I felt woefully inadequate and was tempted to "throw in the towel."

4.) Not new, but repeated by every single speaker, "Show, don't tell."  Example of telling: "She was nervous." Showing: "She sweated profusely and sat there like a mute stooge." (Obviously, I didn't have to dig very deep for that one.)

5.) To expect failure. The most successful people have also failed the most. Nothing worth attaining comes easy; writing is hard work. "The difference between a successful person and others is not a lack of strength, not a lack of knowledge, but rather in a lack of will." --Vincent T. Lombardi

In the last few years I've spent way too much time and money in my least favorite place in the world: the dentist's chair.

When we were little, I swear the only time my brothers ever picked up a toothbrush was the day of our dentist appointments. Yet, they never had cavities. I was religious about brushing my teeth, and had a cavity every visit.

The dentist's office my mom took us to had a big pirate's treasure chest full of toys. You would have thought they would have taken pity on me and let me pick out two toys. For crying out loud, I was the one keeping them in business. More often than not, the toys from the treasure chest didn't last through the day. Jeff and Craig usually chose wooden paddles with bouncy balls on strings stapled to them. Which meant I spent the ride home dodging and flinching from the balls whizzing around the car.

One of the worst spankings I ever got was courtesy of one of those paddles. I had witnessed one of my brothers get hit by a ball right where it hurts the most. The theatrics that followed were impressive, the drop to the knees, the moaning and howling. I thought it was ridiculously over the top, but worth remembering...maybe the next time I got in a fight with one of them, a well placed kick would ensure an easy, quick victory. I employed this tactic exactly once, hence the paddling. I remember my mom asking me if I knew how bad that hurt them? Yes, I knew. I wanted to answer, "Well, duh!!! Do you think they know much a punch in the stomach hurts me?" But I knew better.

Of course, it wasn't enough that my teeth were riddled with cavities. They had to grow in all snaggletoothed, too. Nowadays, when kids have too many teeth to line up nicely, they wear expanders. Back when I had to have braces, they just pulled four perfectly good teeth to make room. They were probably the only cavity-free teeth I had. I could really use those teeth now.

Years later, it turns out all that vociferous (but useless) brushing caused gum recession. Now, if I smile big, air is painful. And, as if they didn't have enough torturous little tools, now they have one that blasts concentrated puffs of air on the sensitive areas.

Things haven't changed, I still can't go to the dentist without receiving bad news. Only now it's more expensive. I'd like to think it's all a scam, but no, they have the evidence on film. Films that require placing razor edged pieces of cardboard in my mouth to bite down on.

Root canals are the latest money suckers. Since I'm not feeling any pain, I'm skeptical that they're really necessary. At which point a little fear mongering is in order: "The last thing you want to experience while you're flying is an abscessed tooth." After the root canal is done, a crown is needed.  I remember the sticker shock of that--does the "crown" have real diamonds and rubies in it or what? Maybe I would forgo it. That's when they bring the mirror out and show you what the root canal has left: a little, gray, pointed fang. No one would opt out of covering that baby up.

Okay. Enough whining. No one likes a whiner. I just needed to vent a little. I'll just try and be thankful that I'm not a toothless whiner--yet.

As long as I can remember, I've wanted to be just like my mom. I've been inspired by her selfless love, how she has risen above her own considerable grief to offer comfort and encouragement.

Her hard earned wisdom has guided me through many difficult days. When I'm experiencing especially down days, I tend to avoid people (except poor Bob, of course). Because really, who wants to be around a downer? But my mom is always able to get to the nitty-gritty of my sadness and literally set me back on track to right thinking. Thinking that takes the focus off of myself and on to all I have to be grateful for and the importance of living in the present. Life is short, carpe diem!

Sadly, not only am I not as selfless as she is, I don't laugh as easily either. But she thinks I'm funny and her laugh is contagious, so consequently, we've spent my entire life laughing together. I talk to her pretty much every day and every day we find something to laugh about.

When I was in high school she asked me to trim the back of her hair. She's always been one to save money by cutting her own hair. I took the scissors and began snipping. I cut it unevenly and after numerous attempts to get it even, it ended up much shorter than she wanted. Which made her mad. Which hurt my feelings.

I asked her what had made her think I knew how to cut hair in the first place? She said I certainly didn't hesitate to grab the scissors and tear into it like I knew what I was doing. In moments, the anger and hurt turned into uproarious laughter. I don't think I would have been laughing had she done that hatchet job on me...but that's the difference.

The other day, I was telling her about a girl I met who named all five of her children after U.S. presidents. There was Kennedy, Reagan, Madison, Jackson and...? I couldn't think of the last one. She offered up several suggestions, trying to jog my memory.

"No, no...I know it was a conservative president."

"Hmmm..." my mom hesitated a minute. "Was it Bush?"

Of course, we erupted in laughter at the cruel absurdity of naming a child "Bush".

I can't imagine a life that doesn't include my mom and her daily doses of wisdom and laughter.  She is my biggest fan and my dearest friend, and I love her with all my heart.