The minute we learned Caitlin was in labor with our first grandchild, Bob and I hopped on a flight to New York. We rushed to the hospital in downtown Manhattan—arriving the very minute Brooks was born. 

It would be several hours before we actually got to see him because mom and dad needed plenty of skin on skin time. I was biting at the bit to see that baby, ready to strip down myself if necessary. The minute we did get the green light, I literally ran down the hall and wept with Caitlin over the miracle of a perfect baby boy. 

A scant 23 months later, we were once again ready to drop everything and fly to Washington DC to welcome our new granddaughter into the world. I bid 15 days off in a row, praying each morning that that would be the day. Alas, the fifteenth day came and went with no news of her impending arrival and I had to return to work. I’d chosen the trip because it had a layover in Phoenix (to see Dane) and one in Washington (to see Caitlin).

The morning we left Phoenix to head to Washington, I received a text that Caitlin was heading to the hospital. In mere hours, I would be there! My heart surged with gratitude. Thank you, Lord, for Your divine, perfect orchestration!

This time I didn’t arrive at the hospital the minute Maisie arrived, by I did get to hold her within hours of her birth--to marvel over the miracle of another beautiful, healthy grandchild.

I shared in an earlier post about the harrowing days we experienced when I returned to DC ten days later, but I didn't mention Brooks’ reaction to me when I peeked my head around the curtain at the hospital. The big, wide grin he gave me was the highlight of my week, ok, maybe month. 

Not unexpectedly, Brooks hasn’t been thrilled about sharing the limelight with Maisie. On my last visit, every time I picked her up he told me to put her back down.

I don’t think Brooks knows quite what to make of his rambunctious Nana. As soon as I get there I tell him I want to ride “Buck,” his rocking horse. Buck is literally about a foot tall and two feet wide. If I was tech savvy, I would insert a picture of his mini rocking horse. Never-the-less, I manage to wedge myself onto him.

“Yee-haw! Giddy-up Buck!”

Brooks stands there grinning in wonder that a grown-up can really have that much fun riding Buck.

I chase him endlessly around the house, often popping my head around corners and scaring him, making him scream and laugh at the same time. I’m not sure who laughs the hardest, but I’m pretty sure it’s me.

I whip the throws off the back of their sofas and make a fort—forgetting how much fun it is getting in and out, in and out, and in and out of a fort.

Caitlin wisely bought Brooks a baby of his own. She sent a video of him taking care of his baby. He aggressively smacks his back before making a loud burping noise. He tries giving him a pacifier, but quickly decide’s it’s not cutting it and so lifts his shirt and holds the baby's mouth against his belly button for milk. He’s pretty patient to hold him there long enough for his baby to get his fill.

When we FaceTime with him he sings songs and hymns—he knows every word! Perfect pitch and rhythm. After our enthusiastic applause, he’ll sing them again and again. 

Though I’d give anything to live close and see them more, I am over-the-top grateful for a job that allows me to fly in for the day and laugh uproariously with Brooks and snuggle, stare in awe, and take in the heavenly, newborn scent of Maisie.

“Children’s children are a crown to the aged…” Proverbs 17:6

As a little girl, I found some Bible stories very unsettling. I even questioned the story of Adam and Eve.

“But they didn’t die! God said if they ate the fruit, ‘they would surely die.’”

“Well, they eventually died,” my Sunday school teacher patiently answered. 

There’s a horrifying picture seared in my mind from one of our Sunday school pamphlets that shows drowning people screaming to be hoisted up into the ark. 

“Why didn’t they reach down and help those people?”

“Because they didn’t believe God when He said it would rain.”

“But they believed it when they saw it. I think those people in the ark were mean.” 

I don’t remember getting a response for that one.

Then there was the tower of Babel. As a little girl I thought it was a fine idea to try and build a tower tall enough to get to Heaven. But God got so mad, He made it so the people couldn’t understand each other anymore.  

Of course, per the usual, I questioned the harshness. “They couldn't talk? They could only babble just because they built the tower?”

I’m sure I must have been a thorn in my Sunday school teachers' sides. They probably never got through a single story without me jumping in with my questions and unsolicited opinions.

I was reminded of the story of the Tower of Babel when I flew with Maria, an immigrant from Mexico. She still speaks with a heavy accent and I struggled at times to understand her. It frustrated her, and it reminded me of God’s punishment for the tower builders.

When I told her about Brett, she said, “God will use him.”

And I asked her if she was a Christian. She said she was and shared her miraculous testimony with me.

When she first arrived in the United States, Maria didn’t speak any English. Though there were some fellow Mexican immigrants in her neighborhood, most of her neighbors only spoke English. 

She told me of a terrible, snowy Christmas Eve shortly after they arrived in the United States. She and her husband had gotten into such a terrible flight that the police were called. She didn’t understand what the police were saying, but somehow came to the conclusion that they would both go to jail if one of them didn’t leave. She told her husband to leave, and the policemen left. 

Her anger and frustration wouldn't allow her to sit still so she grabbed a snow shovel and shoveled until her strength ran out. She had shoveled not only her own driveway and sidewalk but many of her neighbors' as well.

One of them came out to thank her, and seeing her tears, asked her to come to church with them. Maria understood enough English to understand their invitation,  “Yes. I come with you.”

She asked her sister, who knew a little more English than she did, to come with her. When they walked into the church, they were shocked.

Maria told me, “I never see church like this—loud music, drums, dancing and hands waving in air. What? I say. This can’t be church! I look at my sister and we start to laugh, but then I tell her be quiet. It will hurt my friends. For them, it is church. Then the music stop and the man got up.” 

Maria paused, her eyes filling with tears as she remembered. “I understand every word he say. It was a miracle. It like he speaking in Spanish! He say how much Jesus loves me. My tears, they keep coming down my face. When he stop talking, he says to come. I cannot stay in my seat. The man pray with me. I understand him praying to God, too. And now I have a relationship.”

I got goosebumps as she talked. 

“I thought I was Christian, but I only know God, now I know Jesus. You know?”

“Yes, I do know,” I answered. ”Wow. That’s amazing! Jesus allowed you to miraculously understand English, just when you needed Him most. I don’t have an exciting story like you do. I learned about Jesus and the Bible when I was little. But nothing is more important to me than knowing He's in control."

It is our personal stories that inspire and connect us. God gave me the gift of Maria’s story to remind me He is still the God of miracles, and I came hope filled with gratitude for His faithfulness to meet us where we are.

“Now there were those staying in Jerusalem God-fearing Jews from every nation under heaven…a crowd came together in bewilderment, because each one heard their own language being spoken. Utterly amazed, they asked, ‘How is it that each of us hears them in our native language?’” Acts 2:5-8

Many of our layover cities are looking more and more like third world countries. The amount of homeless people in big cities is growing exponentially.

For the most part, I scurry past them, doing my level best not to make eye contact. The rationale for not giving resound in my head…they’ll just spend the money on booze and drugs. 

But the few times I have given, I’ve always walked away feeling I should have given more. Why didn’t I? The little I gave was nothing compared what I am able to give. 

Most of those I’ve given to are offering all they have to offer—their God-given ability to make beautiful music. Recently, a gifted saxophonist was playing his heart out and my friend and I walked right by him…until he starting playing “Hail to the Victor." My friend graduated from U of M and was wearing a Michigan sweatshirt. She retraced her steps and put a twenty dollar bill in his instrument case. “God bless you!” He replied with enthusiasm.

We have a flight attendant who, after checking into her room, goes and finds the nearest Subway, buys a dozen or so subs and passes them out to the homeless. As the story goes, one homeless man took one and beaned her in the face with it. But that incident hasn't deterred her. 

Sadly, if my generosity provoked an angry, violent response like that it would have put the kibosh to the whole endeavor. Which shows me my giving is not only not sacrificial but is also given with the expectancy of gratitude as well. 

In reality, I’ve only experienced one bad incident with a beggar. My daughter, Caitlin, and I were blessed to visit the city of Florence and while we waited in line to visit the Duomo, Caitlin stepped out of line to get a gelato. A young woman carrying a plastic cup inexplicably picked me out of the long line to beg for money. I tried to look away and ignore her but she was persistent, getting up in my face, speaking urgently in Italian and shaking her cup right under my nose. I only had a ten euro bill in my purse and we needed it to get into the Duomo. I tried, but obviously failed, to communicate to her that my daughter would be back soon with some change to give her. She angrily grabbed my hand and gave the top of it a hard, twisty pinch. It hurt like the dickens.

Caitlin also had an experience with a beggar while we were in Florence. She had gotten up early one morning to visit some churches. On the steps of one of them sat an old, blind woman with a plastic cup. Caitlin put a few coins in her cup and the woman took Caitlin's hand and held it to her cheek before gently kissing the top of it. It brought tears to Caitlin's eyes. A kiss for Caitlin; a vicious, twisty skin pinch for me.

As a child, I remember my dad always opening his wallet and giving to beggars. We were aghast. “Dad! They’re only going to spend it on beer. You shouldn't give them money.”

His answer was always the same, “Who am I to judge? I don’t know how they’ll spend it. All I know is I have it, and they don’t.”

I’ve been convicted be think more like my dad. I don’t how homeless people got there or how they’re going to spend the money. All I know is I have it, and they don’t. And that’s going to have to be enough for me.

“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” Hebrews 13:2 (KJV)

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).