“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your paths.”  Proverbs 3:5-6

Navigational tools have made paper maps almost obsolete. Relics to be framed and hung on walls. Finding a place is as easy as tapping the correct address into our devices, sitting back and listening to the lady tell us exactly when and where to turn, and ta-da—we arrive at our destination. Although I do remember one occasion when the “lady” led me on a wild goose chase and I ended up on a road nowhere near my intended destination. I was shocked! She’d never failed me before! Maybe I hadn’t listened closely enough—but no, I was sure I’d hadn't heard her say anything about “calculating a reroute.”

As a flight attendant, “reroute” is a dreaded word. Just when you think you’re on your way to a warm Miami layover, crew scheduling calls and (likely due to some weather issues) you’re informed you’ve been rerouted and will now be laying over in Fargo. After all, airlines aren’t concerned about getting their flight attendants to their nice layovers but rather ensuring that our passengers get to their paid destinations. Of course, the crew enjoying YOUR layover in Miami rather than THEIR own in Fargo—well, their reroute was a bonanza.

Several years after we decided we weren’t going to have any more children, God arranged a reroute that would stretch us physically, emotionally and spiritually. I became pregnant with our son, Brett, who was born with severe disabilities. 

After his birth I tormented myself with the thought that Brett might be my punishment for making one too many wrong turns. Was he born the way he was because I’d drowned out the still, small voice of the Spirit who had continually prodded me to calculate a reroute? That I'd stubbornly  stayed on the route I thought would make me happiest? Willfully choosing wrong turns rather than trusting and obeying the perfect navigational tool of His word? His voice to "continue on the route" becoming so quiet that soon I couldn't hear it all and become hopelessly lost in despair and guilt.

I remember telling my mom I thought Brett might be my punishment—that I didn’t deserve a healthy baby. I’ll never forget her response, “My goodness! If it was about deserving, no one would have a healthy baby.”

Now I look back and realize how wrong I’d been to think of Brett as a punishment. Today I see him as a special gift with a unique purpose. I take comfort in knowing Brett is God’s perfect plan for us— he is not the result of a “wrong turn.” As we “continue on the route” to our final destination, I know God will supply us with everything we need. I can trust Him to navigate us through the physical, emotional and spiritual trials we will continue to encounter along the journey. And when we are finally Home, we will discover that all our troubles were “achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.” (2 Corinthians 4:17) 

A few weeks ago I had lunch with some of my cousins, one of which I hadn’t seen since I was a little girl--what a gift it was to catch up! Our common bond was my Gramma Huber and in the days following our lunch, memories of her flooded my mind.

She didn’t have an easy life. As a little girl, I remember thinking it wasn’t fair that my Grandma Cummins seemed to be living the life of Riley while my Gramma Huber struggled in every aspect of her life.  

I never knew my Grandfather Huber when he was well. I can only remember him sitting in his chair, unable to do anything on his own, relying on Gramma to meet his every need 24/7. 

My mom often said how much she wished I could have known my grandfather before he got sick. My mom’s parents had been close to my dad’s parents, so she knew and loved him well and thought he was one of the funniest people she’d ever met.

When my grandfather first started showing signs of his illness, he would wander out of the house, sometimes forgetting how to get home. After he wandered out one night, my gramma called my dad to come help her find him.

Shortly after my dad arrived, my grandfather strolled in.

My gramma tore into him, “Clifford! Where in the world have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you!”

“Tomcatting around,” he answered with a smile.

My dad roared with laughter. He loved that story. 

After my grandfather died, I spent many nights at Gramma’s house. It seemed she was always on a diet. I told her that once you're a Gramma you shouldn’t have to worry about your weight. 

“When I become a gramma, I’m gonna eat whatever I want and not care one whit how fat I get.”

She laughed, “Oh, you’ll care.” 

And, of course she was right.

I remember her sitting in her chair with a little mirror, plucking her whiskers.

“Why do you think you grew those whiskers?” I’d ask.

“Just wait. You’ll grow them, too.”

I highly doubted that. Not only was my other grandma living on easy street, I was sure she didn't have any whiskers either. It just wasn’t fair!

In spite of her tough life, my gramma laughed easily and often and I never doubted she delighted in my company, and I delighted in hers. She was a wonderful gramma and I have her to thank for raising my beloved dad to be the most loving husband and father a girl could ever ask for. I just wished I’d soaked up more of her hard earned wisdom, I wish I knew more about what made her the strong, faithful woman she was. 

I read a post on Facebook today that perfectly captures what I’m feeling today.

“When the elderly die, a library is lost and volumes of wisdom and knowledge are gone.”

Sad, but so powerfully true.

I’ve never been more thankful for my job than I am today. It’s the only 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. 

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 clean was a feat.

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 two 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. 

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.

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.

A few weeks ago I watched her as she prepared Brooks’ lunch. She began sautéing vegetables. I watched him, hungrily anticipating his meal.

“Mmmm, onions!”  It was palpable how eager he was to get at those onions.

As soon as she put some in his bowl, he slurped them down like my kids used to slurp down gummy worms. 

She slathered a generous amount of butter on warm toast and placed it on his plate, too, but nope, “More onions, please!”

Surely there isn’t a child on the planet who eats healthier than Brooks! 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.

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.

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.

“You can have carrots after you eat your Puffkin’s,” they promised.

 What I wouldn’t give to crave carrots and celery above all else.

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, nothing gives me more joy than knowing that.

I have to admit, as I’ve been writing, the words to this hymn have run on a constant loop in my mind:

                                 

                                                  “Grace, grace, God's grace,

                                        Grace that will pardon and cleanse within;

                                                    Grace, grace, God's Grace,   

                                          Grace that is greater than all our sin."                                                                      

   

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.

Bob and I rarely go to the movies. Mostly because I’m the harshest movie critic I know and I hate wasting money only to be let down or brought down. I tried making a list of all the movies I truly loved and I could only come up with about fifteen. But on the rare occasion I do like the movie, it’s worth every penny to see it at the movie theatre.  

I’d heard great things about a recently released movie and I couldn’t wait to go see it.

I hated it. I was let down and brought down. Maybe I’m just a sucker for happy endings--or at least a few laughs.

One of my all time favorite movies, The Sound of Music,  came out when I was only three years old. My parents took all of us to see it. It’s one of my few vivid childhood memories. I’ve read that the more emotion that is attached to a memory, the more likely it is that you’ll remember it. Which might explain why I’m able to remember it so clearly.

I sat mesmerized through the whole movie. When it ended, I cried, and cried and cried.

Rather alarmed, my parents tried their best to comfort me, “Honey, what’s the matter? It’s all good. They got away. They live here in America now. There’s nothing to cry about.”

Nevertheless, I could not get a grip and sniveled all the way home.

When my dad used to fly cross country trips he always brought us home gifts. Unique, thoughtful gifts. When I learned to read, he brought me home several books about the Von Trapps, because he remembered how much their story and that movie had affected me.

I devoured those books. I have to admit, I almost wished they hadn’t included their photos, because not a one of them was blessed with movie star good looks and sadly, it made me love them a little less.

I’ve thought about what triggers the strongest emotional reactions in me and decided it’s the sound of music (ha-ha). On the rare occasions I get to hear my cousin play her violin, I can’t help but cry because It evokes such sweet memories of growing up in a wonderful family.

The movie reels of my family’s lives here on earth have hardly been a string of happily-ever-after stories. But our faith in Jesus promises our stories don't end here--the best is yet to come--the happiest of all happy endings awaits us in Heaven. Hallelujah! 

On a flight a few weeks ago a family slowly made their way to their seats. The mother cradled a tiny newborn. Her husband and three more children lagged behind her. If I had to guess, the eldest was no more than five. They were all laden with backpacks. The husband nudged along a toddler, while carrying a beat-up old carseat and a vintage 1960’s pink, vinyl suitcase.

I watched the husband stow the suitcase and gently buckle the toddler into her carseat. He was strikingly good looking. At least she’d hit the jackpot when she snagged him. 

As soon as he made sure everyone was all set, he headed up the aisle to his own seat. A flight attendant touched his elbow and told him she was sure she could get someone to change seats with him so he could sit with his family.

“Thank you,” he answered, “but my family is sitting up front. I was just helping her out.”

A lump formed in my throat because nothing moves me like the kindness of strangers.

When we landed, it was after midnight. It had been a long, hard day and we were all eager to get off the airplane and head home. 

Ugh! It was going to take forever to get that family off. The children were fast asleep, with zero desire to move, much less have those heavy backpacks strapped back onto their little backs. 

Nevertheless, we had them up and ready in short order. One flight attendant retrieved the surprisingly heavy pink suitcase. I carried the carseat. Another carried the toddler. The little boys staggered down the aisle.

“We have a wheelchair ordered, right?” I asked. “Because their stroller isn’t going to cut it.”

“We don’t have a stroller,” bemoaned one of the little boys.

What?? Are you kidding me??

The wheelchair was waiting and we loaded it down as best we could. But two backpacks and the car seat were still left for the little boys to handle. They put the backpacks in the carseat, then took opposite sides of it to carry it. They had to put it down every few minutes, to rest between picking it up again.

I caught up with the guy pushing the wheelchair, “Can you please order another wheelchair?”

“Everyone else is gone for the night.” 

That figures. That poor family.

The tram showed up just then, and with a sigh of relief we slipped in right before the doors closed. 

It wasn’t until the next day that I realized I’d missed the chance to exhibit the kindness of a stranger. Big time. I felt sick. Who knows what blessing I’d missed out on if only I’d chosen to go the extra mile. Maybe I could have learned her story, encouraged her. How could I have left those little boys to carry those heavy backpacks and that car seat on their own? 

Even as I write, my heart hurts. Live and learn. How often have I heard those words from my mom? Too many to count. 

I pray I did learn this time. Please God, open my eyes to see those who need someone to go the extra mile with them. But I won’t see them if I don’t slow down. 

Dallas Willard’s advice for all of us is: “Ruthlessly eliminate hurry from your life.” 

I doubt anyone needs to heed that advice more than I do.

When I’m in a funk, I don’t write, in fact I don’t do much of anything at all. I plod through the motions of taking care of Brett and do the bare minimum to keep the house in some semblance of order. Sometimes I don’t shower for days at a time (poor Bob).

But I decided today I WOULD write, because I find writing therapeutic. The only question remains: what to write ABOUT.

I thought about the different gifts God’s given us, or our “strong suits” as my mom used to say. A few years ago a man was doing some painting for her; he was there several days. He wasn’t inclined to engage in conversation, but she felt obligated to at least try. “So, how is your day going?" she asked him with a smile.

“It’s going the same as it was the last time you asked me!”

Exchanging pleasantries obviously wasn’t one of his strong suits. My mom had a difficult time not laughing out loud because not being easily offended and having a great sense of humor were some of her strong suits.

I thought about Bob, what an awesome salesman he is—he could sell sand at the beach. I learned long ago I’d be destitute if I had to rely on selling anything to anyone.

Years ago I ridiculously decided to partake in our subdivision-wide garage sale. I hauled out tables and things to hang clothes on and painstakingly put a price tag on every item. 

I felt a little anxious as the “shoppers” strolled around, picked up items and snorted at the price. I tried not to feel insulted. I surmised exchanging pleasantries (or even making eye contact) are not strong suits for garage sale shoppers. I think they think if they make any connection at all they won’t feel emboldened to offer a penny for an item I put a two dollar sticker on. 

Just as I think another rude shopper is leaving empty handed, she holds up an item I’d priced at five dollars. “Will you take ten cents for this?” 

“Sure!” I act like I think it’s a generous offer and decide to close up shop and call the Salvation Army.

I tally up the all the hours I spent preparing for the garage sale and figured I made about two cents an hour. I counted up my “haul”--a whopping two dollars! But hey, that’s almost enough to buy two large Diet Cokes at McDonalds. Cha-Ching!!

It's funny how the same sight and sound can evoke such starkly different emotions. I'm sure in war-torn countries, the roar of a fighter jet must fill people with terror and make them instinctively want to run for cover. Conversely, there's hardly a sound in the world that makes my heart swell with pride and comforts me like the familiar roar of a fighter jet. 

My dad was a fighter pilot and for a few fortunate years we lived close enough to his base that he could surprise us with personal fly overs. We’d hear the roar of his jet and excitedly run out to watch him. He’d fly upside down close enough for us to see his face, he’d twirl straight up into the sky, then come flying straight down, before finally arcing up and away and back to the base. With all those awe inspiring maneuvers it’s no surprise that the sight and sound of a fighter jet fills me with such nostalgia for my dad and an astonishing burst of love for our country.

As a flight attendant I've taken the for granted the ability to fly for free, traveling all over the country and visiting my family as often as I please. People have often commented that an airplane is probably the last place I want to be on my days tell off. Oh, how wrong they are! I've never lost the thrill of getting on an airplane and flying around the world. Regardless of how often  I've been bumped off flights and had to find creative ways to reach my destination, I STILL love it.

But twenty-one years ago I gave birth to Brett, a severely impaired baby boy and it put an abrupt halt to last minute travel adventures. Brett is blind and will never walk or talk. He is completely dependent on us. His many health issues made last minute trips to see family impossible. Regardless of how many miles away they lived, I never had to miss birthdays or family get- togethers. I could be there in a few short hours. Oh, how I missed it!

When he was four-years old, and I could still lift him, I decided I'd take him with me to visit my family in Florida. All was good until about an half hour into the flight when he developed a hideous case of diarrhea. It oozed out of his diaper, soiling both his clothes and my clothes. I struggled to get him into the lavatory to try and clean us up, but even if he’d been able to stand on his own, I wouldn't have been able to do much. We reeked. I felt horrible for the passengers seated around us. 

It occurred to me that it’d be a lovely time to experience a slow decompression. The oxygen masks would drop, people could put them around their nose and mouth, breathe normally, know that they are getting oxygen even if the bag does not inflate and best of all…get relief from the pungent stench emanating from us.

Not knowing what else to do, I held Brett with his poor tummy ache and stared out the window. Telling myself this would surely go down as one of the worst days of my life, I suddenly spotted a fighter jet right below us. It was so close! I watched it until it arced gracefully up, out and away. I thought of my dad and even whispered, "Dad?" 

Just thinking about how sorry my dad would feel for me opened up the flood gates and tears of self pity streamed down my face. My dad died before he knew anything about Brett. I don't really think my dad can see me—isn’t he now exempt from pain and sorrow? And wouldn't it make him sad to see me? Sad to see his little grandson? 

Still, the glimpse of that fighter jet flitting through the sky comforted me, made me think that whether my earthly father can see me or not, my Heavenly Father does see me, and He won't let anything overwhelm me. I am in His tender care—always and forever. The pure conviction of God's personal love for me at that moment gave me a rush of joy that's difficult to describe. Sadly, I don't often feel that depth of joy. But the joy was real and it was enough to assure me I wasn't alone. 

 There is no doubt in my mind that God placed that fighter jet in our air space that day. A tangent reminder that He is with me, He loves me and is plenty capable of providing miraculous signs to spur me on in times of despair.