I really, really don't like cooking. I’d rather clean a one thousand toilets than cook one meal. Seriously.

I dread the question, “What’s for dinner?”

My mom always found it appalling that I made so little effort to have a nice dinner prepared for Bob when he got home from work. Which made me feel awful. 

It wasn't until this past year that I finally admitted to Bob that, really, there's not much that makes me happier than for him to come home with a full belly. 

Why did it take me 35 years to come out and say that? The admission resulted in him saying he really doesn't mind picking something up that’s easy to make or is all ready made.   That it's no big deal--at all!

When Bob and I were first married and on a road trip, he never thought of stopping to get something to eat and I’d never say outright when I was hungry. Before passive-aggressive became such a buzz word, I think I must have been the queen of passive-aggressiveness. 

For example, rather than coming out and simply saying I'd like to stop and eat somewhere, I'd see a sign for McDonalds. “Oh, look...there’s a McDonalds at the next exit.” Bob would zoom by the exit.

I’d see another sign, “There’s a Cracker Barrel at the next exit.” We’d zoom by that exit, too.

This would go on for miles. But it wouldn’t happen today. I don't have any problem telling him when I feel like getting off the freeway and eating--because God for forbid I ever feel a pang of hunger.

As a child, the only time I experienced hunger was when my mom made split pea soup for dinner. As much as my parents thought it was pure theatrics, the soup literally made me gag. As soon as I smelled it cooking, I knew I’d be sitting at the kitchen table for hours trying to eat a few bites.

“There are children starving in Africa, you know.”  Well, is there anyway we could get this to them? Because nothing would make me happier.

The vast majority of Americans haven't a clue what it means to be hungry. 

I’ve had passengers who act like their entire world is caving in because they didn’t get their first choice of an entree. Some petulantly slap their tray table back up and refuse to eat at all. Little do they know just how happy that makes me, because I eat everything that comes down the pike (that's prepared by someone else).

I don't think I'll ever learn to enjoy cooking, but admitting to Bob how much I dread hearing him ask me what's for dinner and learning how good he is with stopping and picking something up has made all the difference--I don't need to feel like a terrible wife for not preparing dinner. It's okay that it's not my thing.

What a load off it's been to shed my passive-aggressiveness and instead communicate clearly, without fear of hurt feelings or misconceptions.

Another one of my dad's oft repeated phrases, "Say what you mean and mean what you say. There's no need to beat around the bush."

If only I would have taken more of my dad's words of wisdom to heart earlier. But there's no time like the present. 

"For the Present is the point at which time touches eternity." --C.S. Lewis

I planned to write a blog commemorating our 35th anniversary last week, about how much we’ve learned about giving grace and showing mercy.

We’ve been together long enough to finish each other’s sentences. Goodness, most of the time we can even read each other’s minds.

But there is one aspect of our makeup that is miles apart from the other: Bob doesn’t think I take life seriously enough and I think he takes it too seriously. 

I’ll admit that I’m not always on the ball, that I skip nonchalantly through life a lot like Mr Magoo--barely escaping one disaster after another. I'm laid back about pretty much everything— my personal safety, germs (I’m an avid fan of the 5 second rule), finances, aches, pains, sicknesses, whatever is— I always think it’ll all work out. Turns out, sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t.

Bob thinks my happy-go-lucky attitude is taking years off of his life. I think if anything is taking years off of his life, it’s his predisposition to jump to the worst possible scenario.

“No, Bob, I do not think your headache means you have a brain tumor, and that you have only days to live.”

But, to be fair, it’s not just Bob—Caitlin and Dane think I live my life with my head in the clouds half the time, too. 

Case in point, my visit to DC right before Christmas.

Our little Brooks was in the hospital receiving breathing treatments every two hours. It was pitiful. As soon as Brooks saw the medical staff coming he’d wave his little hands, saying, “All done, all done.” Unfortunately, they weren’t “all done,” not even close.

In the meantime, I went with Caitlin to Maisie’s pediatrician’s appointment. We weren't parked in a legal spot, so I waited in the car ready to move at the first sight of a cop.

Caitlin came out from the appointment crying hysterically, “We have to take Maisie straight to the ER. The doctor thinks she may have whooping cough.”

My heart broke for Caitlin, I rubbed her back, “Everything is going to be alright, sweetheart.”

“But you always say everything is going to be alright!” 

Apparently these oft repeated words have lost any ability whatsoever to offer comfort.

What she didn’t know was that I was having difficulty swallowing down my own sobs. Watching my sweet Caitlin in such a state of terror and hearing the words “whooping cough” had constricted my throat and chest so much that I struggled to breathe normally. Can you imagine what it would have done to Caitlin if her lackadaisical mother, who always thinks everything is going to be alright, went to pieces?

I didn’t try to talk, I just sat there…Please God, please God, please God….

Though the following days were nothing short of nightmarish for Caitlin and Cam, eventually everything was alright. Praise God.

Fast forward to last night.

Because Brooks is absolutely fascinated with Brett, the last few days I’ve FaceTimed them just as Brett’s school bus arrives so Brooks can watch him get off the bus. Brooks finds this fairly interesting, but what he really likes is watching the garage door opening and closing. I show my hand pressing the button, and then pan to the door slowly opening.

“Press again!” he insists (over and over). 

I was telling Bob about how fascinated Brooks is with pressing the “magic" button that opens and closes the garage door. 

“I don’t think that’s a smart thing to teach him. He’s going to run off one day, find a garage and get stuck in it.”

What?? Some days it’s a real struggle to follow Bob’s doomsday train of thought.

Instead of scoffing at what I found patently ridiculous, I went the sermonizing route instead.

“You know what, babe?” I asked seriously. “God’s grace is way bigger than a killjoy.”

As soon as the words were out, I found them hilarious. 

Even though my words could have been more tactful, and the name calling wasn’t necessary, I do think it was a good sermon point.

Think of the marvels we enjoy because someone saw possibility instead of doom. Electricity, cars, airplanes, roller coasters, surf boards…the list is endless.

And the Bible is full of characters who witnessed marvels by shutting down those voices of doom. Really, really amazing things…a parted sea, a walk on the water, walls crumbling, the dead coming back to life... and on and on.

But anyway, here we are, 35 years of marriage later proving that Mr Magoo and Eeyore actually make a pretty darn good match. Who knew?

I debated about making a New Year’s resolution this year. I’ve never, ever resolved to do or not do something and prevailed. Last year I resolved to do something simple, what I perceived to be very do-able: I would eat one apple a day. I actually like apples, and learned there’s a lot of truth behind the old saying, “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” I think I ate a total of eight apples in 2019. Just 357 days shy of being a successful resoluter.

In spite my less than stellar track record, I did decide to make a resolution this year because, well, it’s the start of a new decade, for heaven’s sake! So instead of do-ableness, I’m going for broadness. I’m resolving not to be a sluggard. That way, if I accomplish just one non-sluggardly activity a day, I’ll be a first-time successful resoluter. If I take a shower, Boo-Yah! Success!

I’m teasing. I’m not going to make it quite that easy.

I just listened to a podcast about sluggards. The book of Proverbs has a lot to say about the sad state a sluggardly person will find themselves in if they don’t mend their ways. A literally sad state. Sluggards aren’t a happy group of individuals. 

When we were teenagers, my dad would come home from work, look pointedly at us, and say, “Please tell me you did more than just sit around all day and sop up air. You’re here to contribute!”

We would sit there, mute. Looking down in shame for being the sluggards that we were. 

No one in my family can hear the word “contribute” without thinking of my dad. The need to contribute was drummed into us. I’m not sure about my other siblings, but another word that reminds me of my dad is “ingrate.” Sitting around all day sopping up air and being an ingrate was the epitome of a useless human being.

I remember my mom once scolding us for being lazy ingrates—never showing any appreciation for how hard our dad was working to bring home the bacon.

But back to the sad sluggards. For reasons I can’t put my finger on, 2019 was full of some really low days for me. I wouldn't describe it as full blown depression, but rather a nagging longing for things to be different. Not the healthy, God given longing for the day when our world will be restored to its pre-fallen state, but for my own personal circumstances to be different.

I’d never made the connection between sadness and sluggardliness. I know the correlation between ingratitude and sadness is indisputable and on those bleak days of mine, I did do my best to count my blessings and name them one by one, but the despondency persisted.

In Proverbs, the sluggard is shown in stark contrast to the diligent worker. But the diligent worker isn’t just working to make his own life better, he’s working to make life better for everybody.

As I listened, I was reminded of my dad’s wise admonition: Be grateful contributors. He knew we would find fulfillment not in self-centered work meant to gratify our own desires, but by doing work that is beneficial to all of society.

And I believe that’s where I fell short in 2019. Even on the days that I wasn’t being a sad little sluggard, the only non-sluggardly things I did were not contributing to the needs of others, but rather only what was beneficial to myself (like exercising, for instance).

So instead of being a sluggard, I’m resolving to be a diligent worker. Perhaps just reaching out and doing just one non-sluggardly thing for someone other than myself.

It’s a fresh start, a new decade and a new resolution to say goodbye to the sluggard and hello to the diligent, grateful, and hopefully happier contributor.

Happy New Year!

There was a certain sports show my family used to watch together back in the 70’s. I thought the show opened with the words, “…the thrill of victory and the humiliation of defeat.” But, a quick Google search told me I was wrong, it was the agony of defeat, not the humiliation of defeat. But for me personally, the humiliation of defeat is much more fitting.

I was born smack dab in the middle of two athletic brothers. I tried and failed at everything that came so easily to them. I’ve knocked out teeth, been stitched up and split my head open more times than I can count. If I ever go bald, a patchwork of stitch-marks and odd bumps will tell the story of a whole lot of humiliating defeats. Still, in spite of my older brother telling me that I “had to be the most uncoordinated person on the face of the planet,” I never gave up—determined to experience my own “thrill of victory.”

When we were little we belonged to a swim club. There were three diving boards: high, medium, and low. Almost from the first day we joined, my brothers were diving off the high dive. They progressed on to all sorts of impressive, daring dives…worthy of any diving team.

It wasn’t until the end of that first summer that I mustered up the courage to take the ultimate challenge; dive off the high dive. I climbed the steps to the top, walked carefully to the end of the board and froze, paralyzed with fear. Kids in line behind me started to get impatient, “Come on! Hurry up! Jump already!”

My brothers felt sorry for me. “You don’t have to dive, Laurie. Just jump. It’s easy.”

But I didn’t want to just jump, I wanted to prove to my brothers and others that I could dive off of it—just like them. I took a deep breath and stepped off the board. Unfortunately, mid-air I decided to turn my jump into a dive. What it turned into was a half dive, half belly-smacker. Honestly, my first thought was that I’d somehow managed to hit the cement. How could entering mere water hurt that bad? My brothers were bent over laughing. It was a tricky dive alright, and it was all I could do to keep from crying.

The medium board offered the most bounce and was used the most. My younger brother did a dive where he would stand at the end of the board, and with his back facing the water, he would bounce up high in the air and enter the water cleanly in front of the board. I told him I wanted to try it and he was more than willing to coach me, “Just jump up high, push off with your toes and dive forward.”

It sounded easy enough. I walked to the end of the board, turned around, my heels slightly off the board, got a good bounce and dove…right into the diving board. Humiliatingly enough, my body stayed on the board. I didn’t want the pitying attention I was drawing. I didn’t even pick my head up; I just did a slow roll off the board, plopped into the water, and swam nonchalantly over to the ladder. Move on friends, nothing to see here. 

My brother was genuinely concerned, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Of course! It barely hurt at all,” I lied. Just another humiliating defeat.

Sadly, I never did feel the “thrill of victory.” Not in anything that required a modicum of coordination, anyway.

But the only victory that really matters was won for me. Over 2000 years ago, Jesus came into this world in the most humble, vulnerable form of all—a precious, little baby. Jesus allowed Himself to be mutilated, tortured and killed for a world full of sinners like me, but death could not keep Him, and eventually it won’t keep us either.

“In a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, the trump will sound, the dead will rise and and our dying bodies will be transformed into bodies that will never die, and in this prophecy will be fulfilled: Death will be swallowed up in victory.” (1 Corinthians 15:52-55, paraphrased by me).

                                                                        

I’m currently reading a devotional called, “Imagine Heaven.” It’s a compilation of hundreds of true stories about people who got “glimpses” of Heaven after having near death experiences (NDEs). 

There are astonishing commonalities in each of their stories. As I’ve read them, I’ve come to believe I had my own NDE when I was just seven years old.

I always thought it was just a wonderful dream. Not too long ago, I even asked my mom, “Don’t you think it’s odd that I can still remember that dream I had when I was a little?” 

It was the winter of 1969, we’d just gotten our first a big snowfall and my little brother Craig (who was only five at the time) and I couldn't wait to get out and play in it. After my mom bundled us up in snowsuits, mittens, scarves and hats, she sent us out to brave the elements.

We trekked our way over to a small ice-covered pond and I ran and slid across it. I broke through the ice and was completely submerged. 

When I bobbed up, I screamed for Craig to help me. He did his best to pull me out—me screaming at him to pull harder and him crying so hard the snot and tears began freezing across his face. 

“I’m trying, I can’t pull any harder,” he wailed. “I can’t do it. We need Dad.”

As he took off running for home, I begged him not to leave me. My wet mittened hands clutched the edge of the ice. I knew it would only be a matter of minutes before I wouldn’t be able to hold on any longer.

Craig barged into the house so out of breath and sobbing so hysterically that my parents had a hard time making out what he was saying. “Laurie is drowning!” 

My dad ran out in his bare feet and found me curled up beside the hole I'd fallen through. Nothing but a guardian angel could have lifted me out of that pond—weighed down as I was with my sopping wet snow clothing. My time on earth wasn't done.

Ever since my mom left this world, I’ve often expressed a desire to get just a teensy glimpse of her in heaven…it’s what prompted my best friend to buy me this particular devotional.

In my dream (that I can still remember with astonishing detail), our family was on vacation. I don't know where we were, or how we got there, but it was bright and warm and we ran up and down vibrant hills of green and marveled at all the brightly colored flowers. We couldn’t stop laughing. How did we even find this place? We were all getting along so well--we loved each other too much to get aggravated about anything (so NOT the norm on our family vacations, when just breathing on each other could cause extreme aggravation).

Not too long before my mom died, she and I both read a book about a little boy who claimed he’d been in heaven. His family became convinced it was true when he told them things he couldn’t have known any other way.

When I asked my mom if she’d liked the book, she answered that she did, but that one little detail “didn’t sit well” with her.

“The wings!” I said, before she could even voice it—which was exactly what she was about to say. Our like-mindedness cracked me up.

Neither me nor my mom liked the idea of having wings (my shoulders slump forward just thinking about them). I can only imagine them being pesky and cumbersome—making it hard to do anything (other than flying, of course).

Obviously, I know if I do have wings in heaven, I will be tickled pink— thrilled to be soaring all over the place. But right now, in my earthly body, I don’t care a whit about flying, and the visual of wings attached to me kind of freaks me out.

All this to say, my conviction that I experienced my own NDE could not come at a better time. The remembrance of the brightness, beauty, love, and laughter now fills me with expectant joy. I truly believe my “dream” was the little glimpse of heaven I’ve been longing for—and, I am happy to say, we did NOT have wings.

I attend a weekly Bible study, and quite some time ago one of the lessons left me feeling especially convicted. 

Our teacher started the lecture saying, “Dealing with Jesus is always a good deal.”

The lesson focussed on two individuals who were forever changed by their faith in Jesus.

One of them was a man named Jairus who came to Jesus and begged Him to come heal his sick little daughter. The other one we only know as the “bleeding woman.” 

Back then, the woman’s condition would have left her ostracized from society—forced to live a lonesome, isolated life. She believed Jesus could heal her, and so she bravely joined the throngs and fought her way through to get close enough to touch the hem of Jesus’ garment and was immediately healed! She could return home a new woman.

But Jesus didn’t allow her an anonymous escape. He stopped and asked who had touched His clothing. Imagine her dismay! She knelt trembling before Him, admitting it was she. Jesus reached out and touched her and called her Daughter! Imagine going from trembling fear to unthinkable joy. Not only did He touch her, He looked in her eyes, used an endearment and proclaimed to all that it was her great faith that healed her. 

The woman came expecting only to be healed but got a relationship with Jesus as well because, “dealing with Jesus is always a good deal.”

In the meantime, Jairus was growing increasingly impatient. Why wasn’t Jesus dropping everything to come heal his little girl? He continued to plead with Jesus to come quickly—before it was too late.

When Jesus finally followed Jairus home, they came upon a heart wrenching scene—while Jesus had tarried, the little girl had died. Non-plussed, Jesus told them to stop wailing, the little girl wasn’t dead, she was only sleeping and they laughed at Him. But Jesus took her little hand, saying, “My child get up.” And she did!

Jairus expected a healing, but got a resurrection! Because, “dealing with Jesus is always a good deal.”

At the end of the lecture she posed a question, “Is there something Jesus is asking you to give up in exchange for a better deal?”

My face felt hot and I heard an almost audible voice: “Boxes of wine.”

There are few things I look more forward to than getting Brett settled in for the night, popping up a bag of popcorn, pouring myself a glass of wine and settling in with a good book. I’m especially eager to get to this part of my evening when I’ve stumbled upon a real page turner. It’s my little slice of Heaven. The problem is, I buy boxed wine, making it difficult to ascertain how many glasses I’m drinking. And deep down, I knew it was getting out of hand.

On the way home, I debated whether or not to tell Bob about my conviction—because I’m not a huge fan of accountability (especially when it’s Bob the one holding me accountable). But in the end, I did tell him. 

He responded with a little too much enthusiasm for my taste, so I quickly added, “Actually, it may have just been a hot flash and I’ll probably backslide.”

“It wasn’t and you won’t,” Bob answered.

And he was right, it wasn’t and I haven’t— and it has been a good deal. There are few things I fear more than ignoring the voice of the Spirit. I heard it once said that “there’s no softer pillow than a clear conscience.” 

An absence of fear and a clear conscience—I’d say that’s a pretty good deal.

As far back as I can remember, it was my mom I sought to please the most. I couldn’t stand for her to be disappointed in me. I sought her wisdom and favor in every action and every decision I ever made—big or small.

I never doubted her unconditional love, never doubted that she delighted in my company every bit as much as I delighted in hers. We were so much alike. We had the same sense of humor and would laugh until our sides hurt. We both loved to read, and spent hours reading together.

She could always sense when I was feeling down. She was good at calling me out for being too caught up in this present world rather than the eternal, or on my outward appearance rather than what I was like on the inside.

When my parents moved to Florida, I still talked to my mom everyday. We’d laugh just as much as ever and I’d seek her advice on everything from cooking to child-rearing. 

Because I’d never met two people more madly in love than my parents were, I couldn't imagine either one of them living without the other, so when my dad died of a sudden heart attack just shy of my mom’s fifty-eighth birthday, I thought the strong, fun-loving mother I’d always known was gone forever. Thankfully, she was too other-cantered to allow her overwhelming grief lessen her attentiveness and love for her four children. Fortunately, my brother, Craig, also lived in Florida, so at least she wasn't alone. 

When Craig died in a tragic accident less than two years after losing my dad, my mom surprised us again with her strength, resilience and great faith in the face of her horrific grief.

After Craig’s death, my mom came to live with us in Michigan. Sadly, if not for the appalling double loss of my beloved father and brother, there is no way she would have moved in with us just when I needed her most. At the time of Craig’s death I was pregnant with my son, Brett. We knew Brett was going to born with “issues,” but nothing could have prepared us for the severity of his disabilities. 

I can’t imagine going through those first days, months and years of Brett’s life without my mom by my side. She was with me from the day Brett took his first breath until the day she took her last. 

When my mom first became ill, I was filled with fear and anxiety. I didn't want to live in a world without her in it. Many nights, that awful, elephant-on-my-chest anxiety would keep me awake. I’d beg God to heal her—no one would be able to fill the void she’d leave in my life.

Giving up on sleep, I’d get up and grab my Bible, and look up familiar verses. “You are my refuge and my strength, an ever present help in trouble.” (Psalm 46). “Lord, You have searched me and You know me…how precious to me are Your thoughts, O God!” (Psalm 139).

And suddenly it struck me! I’d made my mom my refuge and my strength, she was my ever-present help in the unfortunate circumstances I found myself in. Her thoughts had become more precious to me than God’s!

I think back on those nights now and believe God used those nights to alter my thinking, gently assuring me I would okay because HE is my refuge and my strength. HE is my ever-present help and will never leave me or forsake me.

It’s been exactly two years since I had to say goodbye to her and I still ache to hear her assuring words of wisdom. I still break down and cry because I so desperately want to ask her to pray for me, to tell her about the things that are weighing me down. In these times I ask myself, “What would she say to me?” And I can almost hear her voice, “Don’t be sad, honey. Let go of regrets. Rejoice that I have a new glorified body and am no longer suffering."

I’ve struggled all day today to keep my tears at bay. How could it be that I’ve lived two whole years without her? I grieve her loss more than ever, but I do take comfort in knowing Jesus will wipe every tear from our eyes, that there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain. Hallejujah! (Revelation 21:4)