One of my earliest memories was being tasked with the job of keeping an eye on my little brother, Craig. When he was two and I was four, my mom told me I did a better job of watching him than my older brother, Jeff, who was six. It made me feel like such a big girl, and I took the job seriously.

We had a fenced in backyard, and as soon as I’d spot Craig trying to climb the fence to make his escape, I’d run in and let my mom know. For the most part, I remember us playing in the sandbox. Me making houses and Craig carving out roads for his cars and trucks.

But there were two times I slipped up, I got distracted and he got away. The details surrounding both episodes remain crystal clear in my memory.

The first one was the summer we spent at Higgins Lake. We were having a house built in Romeo and we rented a camper while we waited for it to get finished. I turned five that summer and Craig would turn three in September.

We were playing in the sand by the water. One minute Craig was playing beside me and the next he was gone.

“Where’s Craig?” my mom looked up from her book and asked me.

I looked up from where we were building sand castles. “I don’t know. He was right here,” I patted the sand next to me.

My mom started panicking. She started running back and forth along the water’s edge, calling out his name and pleading with God to let her find him.

I started crying, “I’m sorry Mumma. I didn’t see him get up.”

“Oh honey, it’s not your fault,” she said through tears. She kept up her pleading, “Please Jesus, please Jesus. Please let me find him.”

But still, I felt like it was my fault. I was so good at watching him. Why didn’t he say something when he got up? He always wanted me to go in the water with him. Everyone on the beach joined in the search. They looked everywhere. In the camper, on the grounds around the camper, in the public restrooms.

I’d never seen my mom so beside herself. It scared me.

It seemed like hours slipped by, but it couldn’t have been very long before Craig sauntered out of the public restroom, completely oblivious to the fact that he was the reason for all the joy and relief his sudden appearance brought.

“Some guy walked right in on me!” he said indignantly.

We’d looked in the restrooms, but his little legs didn’t hang down long enough for us to spot them under the stalls and he didn’t know how to latch the door.

My mom knelt down, clutched him tightly against her chest and sobbed her heart out.

Craig started crying too. “Why are we crying, Mumma?”

That story was repeated often as we grew up. The thing was, whenever Craig caught my mom crying, he’d tune up and cry with her, “Why are we crying Mumma?”

What a gift it is that God doesn’t allow us to see what the future holds, because Craig did end up being taken from us way too soon. My mom outlived him by more than fifteen years. It’s not supposed to happen that way.

She would often talk about driving along with Craig standing beside her on the bench seat of our car. His left arm draped over her shoulder, head pressed against her and sucking his right thumb. How inconceivable that seems now—being so unmindful of the danger of driving with your toddler standing next to you.

She remembered those days with such nostalgia—having Craig all to herself for those few years before he had to join us at school. Every time Craig’s name came up in the last few years of my mom’s life, her eyes would well up and she’d softly whisper, “Why are we crying Mumma?”

“However, I say to you, love your enemies and bless the one who curses you, do something wonderful for the one who hates you, and respond to the very ones who persecute you by praying for them...what reward do you deserve if you only love the lovable?” Matthew 5:44-46 (TPT)

All my life I’ve been told politics and religion are taboo subjects— because, heaven forbid, someone might get offended. As Christians we are commanded to spread the good news, not stay silent lest people find Jesus offensive. 

As citizens of the United States of America, we the people get to choose who leads our country and who enacts laws meant to keep us safe and preserve our freedoms. 

Maybe if civil dialogue about politics and religion hadn’t been verboten for so many years, it wouldn’t be as volatile as it is now. Regardless of our political disagreements, maybe we would treat each other with kindness rather than scorn.

After all, we do have a choice in the matter. We can choose not to be offended. We can choose to be open-minded. Maybe if we’re willing to listen, we’ll be enlightened, maybe we’ll see things differently. But not in this environment. Not when we’re shouting each other down.

My job as a flight attendant brings dozens of people into my life that I may only talk to one time. Most people are under the impression that we fly with the same people all the time. That surely we must know so and so because they also fly for Delta. There are some flight attendants who routinely fly together, but I'm not one of them. I fly a variety of trips--one day trips, two day trips, three day trips, International and Domestic trips. Because of this I may fly with a person once and then not see them again for another ten years or so - or maybe never again. I pray for boldness to share my faith, especially my story about Brett. I can usually sense if my opinions or convictions will result in vitriolic tension, and I speak and act accordingly. I certainly believe in the high calling to be a peace maker. 

Recently I had a political conversation with a flight attendant about an issue our country is deeply divided on—he is passionately for it and I am passionately against it. But I listened, and I gained a new perspective and I chose not to be offended.

It started with the question, “When did you find out your son was going to be born with severe disabilities?” 

“Almost from the moment I found out I was pregnant.”

“Then why did you still have him?”

“Because I don’t think it’s up to me to decide to stop a beating heart. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself. Besides, doctors aren’t always right. Maybe God would perform a miracle—maybe he would be born perfect, in spite of their dire predictions."

“Did you really think they might be wrong?”

“No. Deep down I never did,” I admitted. “Some people told me that maybe I didn’t have enough faith.” 

“Did you ever think it might have been a selfish decision on your part? That just because you didn’t want to ‘live with’ it, that, after you’re gone, your other children and the rest of society will be left to take care of him?” 

I never had thought about it that way (not that it would have changed my mind), but he suggested it in the nicest possible way. His words were gentle. He wanted me to see how others might see it, to help me understand why they might choose differently. 

And honestly, it kind of knocked me off my high horse of moral superiority. I’m not qualified to judge others. Only God is. 

It also opened up the door to share my faith.

“I don’t think Brett is a mistake or just a sad story. I think he’s part of a bigger story that God is using for good. I know he’s changed our lives for good. And someday he’ll be perfect in heaven.” 

Did our conversation result in him becoming a Christian? No. Did he change my mind about abortion? No. I still think every life, regardless of how flawed they are, is sacred. And I believe it begins at conception. 

But we did manage to talk about politics and religion without turning it into a shouting match. We didn’t “un-friend” each other just because we don’t agree on politics or religion. 

I loved the book, “Un-off-end-able” by Brant Hanson. A line that really resonating with me stated, “Refusing to be offended by others is a powerful door-opener to actual relationships.” Amen to that.

Admittedly, becoming unoffendable is an ongoing struggle for me. But this book by Brant Hanson convinced me of our need to get there, that in fact, we can choose it, one day, one minute at a time.

As soon as I found out I was pregnant with my first child, I started talking about names. Who knew coming up with a name could be so stressful? Or that Bob would have such strong, unbending opinions about it?

"I love the name Brooke Ellen--don't you think it has a melodious ring to it?”

I barely got the words out before Bob answered, "I hate it." 

We didn’t butt heads so much with boy’s names. I only cared that it be one syllable. But I continued to throw out one girl's name after another. He didn't like any of them, nor could he come up with a name he did like. I think he was so convinced we were having a boy, that he stopped caring. So when I suggested Emily Ann, he said he was good with it.  

We dutifully signed up for Lamaze classes. What cruel wacko came up with that absurd idea? How much unnecessary torture has been endured because some masochistic liar claimed that different breathing combinations could make natural childbirth a pleasant experience?

I remember the Lamaze instructor having our husbands, or "coaches" as she insisted on calling them, pinch us with increasing pressure-- so we could practice "breathing" through the pain. I'm embarrassed now that I joined the herd mentality that bought into that claptrap.

Throughout all my pregnancies, I had an unspoken fear that there would be something wrong with the baby. I don’t know where the fear stemmed from, but I couldn’t shake it. I remember thinking, who am I to deserve a perfect baby? I think back and wonder if God was preparing me for my third pregnancy when we would know from the very beginning that indeed something was very wrong with the baby.

Because this first baby was in no hurry to make his or her appearance, we had to go the inducement route. I only realized after my second child was born, what a doubly tortuous “route” this was.

It didn’t seem so bad at first but it slowly built up to the most excruciating pain I'd ever felt. Of course Bob, the “coach,” was right there with me, telling me how much easier it would be if I would just breathe the way "we'd" practiced. I hated the Coach. 

To top it off, my brilliant doctor had estimated the baby to be around seven pounds, instead, without the aid of any pain medication, I gave birth to a baby girl weighing in at just under ten pounds.

In spite of the horrific pain, I decided there could be no greater joy than giving birth. The awe and instantaneous surge of love was overwhelming. And whether Bob thought he was ready for a baby or not, with her first breath he loved our baby girl with everything he had in him.

My whole family had spent the day at the hospital, so while I was getting “repaired,” they flocked to the nursery to get their first peek at Emily Ann.

My younger brother, Craig, came in to see me first, “She’s a moose!” he laughed, “she’s twice the size of all the other babies in there.”

I didn’t know it at the time, but my mom told me later that Craig left my room and headed straight to the nursing station—insisting something was wrong with me because my whole body was shaking violently. That shaking lasted for hours and was soon accompanied with a burning fever. I ended up staying in the hospital for a week, so many antibiotics pumping through my veins that every pore seeped out the smell of them. 

When Bob came back the day after Emily Ann was born, he had our “Baby Names” book with him. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stand the name Emily. I think it sounds like a grandma’s name.”

Almost delirious with pain and fever, I didn’t care. “Fine, pick whatever name you want.”

He thumbed through the pages and came up with Caitlin. I loved it. I had plenty of time to come up with a middle name and since I’d always loved the name Suzanne, that’s what we settled on—Caitlin Suzanne. It’s a beautiful name and it fit her to a tee.

Several years ago I was fondly recalling the day Bob first told me he loved me—hands down, one of the happiest days of my life. 

Feeling a little nostalgic, I turned and asked Bob, “Hey, babe, if you could choose just one day to re-live, which day would you choose?”

He doesn't like questions like this. They make him skittish. I think he thinks I have a "right" answer in mind and if he comes up with the "wrong" one, I’ll be a beast about it.

But I persisted and he finally came up with a day he wanted to relive: Our wedding day. Which happened to be the wrong answer.  [reasons detailed in another part of my memoir]

“Is that really the day you’d want to live all over again?” I asked, clearly disappointed.

He said he only chose it because he would go back and change everything about it so it would be a wonderful memory for both of us.

I told him part of the “rules” of choosing, was that you couldn't change anything, you had to go back and relive it exactly as it was. I asked him to come up with another day. He wouldn’t. He didn’t want to risk coming up with another wrong answer.

“Well,” I huffed. “It only took me about two minutes to choose what day I’d like to live all over again. It was the day you told me you loved me.” 

“That's only because you’re better at remembering stuff. I knew I shouldn’t have tried to come up with a day. I knew I’d somehow pick the wrong one.”

I had to admit he had a point. He does have a terrible memory. And, of course, I would tuck his little admission of a terrible memory away--to pull out for future use.

                                                           * * * 

It was forty-two years ago. I was sixteen and I could hardly believe that Bob Staples was telling me he loved me, of all the girls who had a thing for him (and there were many), he loved me! 

It probably wasn't such a stellar day for him. His avowal of love was met with total silence on my part. Because I was an immature, nervous goof, I couldn't get a single word out. Finally, I just embarrassingly buried my face in his neck.

Months and months later, I finally mustered up the courage to tell him I loved him, too. (Even though I'd been hopelessly in love with him for years.)

                                                          * * *

The social anxiety I experienced as a teenager lasted well into my twenties. In fact, I still experience it today. But it was especially awful as a teenager.

If I had the attention of more than a few people, or was called on in class, my neck and chest would get blotchy, my face would turn beet red and my underarms would perspire so much I could feel the water dripping down my sides. Mercifully, body odor didn't accompany the copious sweating. I tried every antiperspirant on the market but nothing worked to turn off my underarm faucets. 

I used to cut washrags into little half moon shapes, safety pin them together and then pin them under the arms of all my shirts and sweaters.

The first Thanksgiving after Bob told me he loved me, he wanted me to spend Thanksgiving Day with his family. 

Bob, his mom and his cousin all celebrate their birthdays on Thanksgiving. Bob had bought a present for his mom and signed my name on the card, too.

After she opened it, she got up, walked over to Bob and thanked him with a kiss. When I realized she was going to come over and thank me with a kiss too, I got all flustered, silently telling myself, it’s gonna be okay, all you have to do is say you’re welcome, just say you’re welcome.

What came out of my mouth? “Buh-bye.”

The room erupted in laughter and I did my best to laugh with them. But tears of embarrassment threatened instead. 

“Awww,” Bob said after seeing my face. He pulled me against him and I half buried my face into his shoulder and managed to hold it together.

Yup, an anxiety ridden little goof.

Quite some time ago, I decided to take on the Herculean task of writing a memoir. You’d think, during our mandatory stay at home orders, I’d have spent the time writing like a fiend. But you would be wrong. 

Every night Bob and I are shocked that another day has flown by. You’d think the days would be crawling by with nothing to do but stay home and take care of Brett.

And every night I go to bed berating myself for not accomplishing one earthly thing. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I did start reading books about how to write a memoir. What it should include and not include, how it should have a singular theme (not just a collection of stories), how many words it needs to be (at least 80,000) and on and on. It’s all been very disheartening, and I’ve been tempted to throw in the towel, or at least not call it a memoir. I’m not disciplined enough. Goodness, I can’t even stick to my goal of writing a short blog once a week.

But a few things have kept me from abandoning my dream of writing, maybe not a memoir...but something. One has been the encouragement from friends. Another came from a writer we met during our week at Joni & Friends. She interviewed us for an article. And, lo and behold, Joni & Friends used our story for one of their brochures. Very cool. When I told her how much I loved to write and was thinking about writing a memoir she said, “Do it! Your story needs to be told. And when you finish it, I’d be happy to proofread it for you.” You’d think that would have lit a fire under my fanny. But no, almost a year later and I’m still in the pondering stage.   

A singular theme? At least 80,000 words?!? Not a collection of stories? I can accept the first two, but I don’t agree with it not being a collection of stories. Life is a collection of stories. Stories about wrong turns, embarrassing moments, unexpected characters, heartbreaking loss and unspeakable joy. All of it used by God to mold me more and more into the image of His son.

Even though I’ve spent infinitely more time laughing with Bob than crying, when I sat down to write about our first year of marriage I couldn’t think of a single funny moment. I wrote down the first story that popped into my mind. It didn’t shed Bob in the best light. Not surprisingly, when I read it to him, he didn’t like it. Here’s how our conversation went, verbatim.

“Well, jeez! I thought you were going to write about redemption. About Brett and the difference he’s made in our lives.” 

“It is about redemption! It’s about what monsters we were and how God is making us less and less monstrous every day. It was just by chance that one of your monster moments came to mind first.”

How’s that for eloquence? Maybe I can entitle it, “A Treatise on Becoming Less Monstrous.”

“And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you [us], will continue His work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.”  Philippians 1:6 (NLT)

Children as young as five are learning about things I didn’t learn about until at least high school. The sweet window of a child’s innocence keeps getting smaller and smaller. 

There’s no denying modern technology hastens the loss of their innocence, but now that millions of children are being homeschooled for the first time, I wonder if might stave it off a bit longer. What parent doesn’t want to shield their child from this world’s ugliness as long as they can?

I remember my first day of high school. I was thirteen. Our homeroom teacher started with an ice-breaker question. She asked us (in alphabetical order) to describe ourselves with an adjective starting with the first letter of our last name. 

I was the first “H.” My maiden name was Huber, the last name of the girl sitting next to me was Huebler. “I’m going to use ‘happy,’” she whispered. “So think of something different for yourself.”

And honestly, I did try to think of something different, but my turn came around too soon and I froze up and quietly answered, “Happy. I’m happy.”

I got a murderous glance from Huebler, forcing her to think fast for a different adjective. “Horror,” she finally answered. “I am a horror.” 

The room erupted in laughter. Boys asked for her phone number

I couldn’t fathom why she got the response she did.

At dinner that night, I asked my parents, “Why would people laugh at me if I described myself as a ‘horror?’”

My older brother howled. 

My parents looked on the verge of laughter, too. But they knew I was genuinely clueless and finally answered, “Because a whore is a woman of ill-repute.”

Ill-repute? What in the heck was a woman of ill-repute?

My dad asked, “What would make you even think of describing yourself that way?”

I told them what had happened in homeroom, how we had to use an adjective that started with the first letter of our last name to describe ourselves. How I stole the adjective from the girl next to me. How everyone laughed at her when she said she was a horror. That boys started asking her for her phone number.

They ended up having to explain what a “woman of ill-repute” was, and I was sorry I asked. It made me feel sick and sad. It made me sick that all those boys were asking for her phone number and sad to think there were girls out there who did that stuff to get them that awful moniker. 

A chunk of innocence lost, and as I got older more and more of that innocence got chipped away.

Remember the Sunday school song, “Be careful little eyes you see.. little ears what you hear…little hands what you do…little feet where you go…little heart whom you trust?” Once something is seen, heard, said, or done, it can’t be undone. Guilt and shame can immobilize us, but the “Father up above…looking down in love” provided a way to wash away that guilt and shame— His name is Jesus. “Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” John 1:29

                          “With His blood Has has saved me, with His power He has raised me—

                                    To God be the glory, for the things He has done.”

                                                                                                              —from “My Tribute”

I think one of the saddest consequences of the original sin was the introduction of self-consciousness. When Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit they went from joyfully flitting around the Garden of Eden to being mortified they were naked. How sad to go from having a completely free conscience to being shamefully self-conscious.

The curse of self-consciousness has had a greater hold on me than most. I’ve always admired those who display the least self-awareness. How freeing not to care what other people think! As a teenager, I remember a man at church who belted out hymns with total abandon—in spite of the fact that he had a terrible, tone deaf voice. People like him—who care more about what God thinks than what people think—don’t allow criticism or derision deter them in the least.

Sadly, I haven’t been too successful at not caring what other people think of me. It’s held me back from speaking up boldly about my faith and reaching out to others for fear of being rejected.

My entire family is (or was) musically gifted, with me being the sole exception. Maybe, had I not been so self-conscious, I could have learned to play something or sing in key (but I highly doubt it, as I think it’s a God given gift). I can actually pinpoint the exact moment in time when even the idea of trying to acquire an ear for music was put to rest. 

I was a teenager and we were driving home from church one Easter Sunday. I remember feeling overwhelmed with love for Jesus and what He did for us, the sweet hymns we’d sung still resonating in my mind. And then, inexplicably, I screeched out, "He could have called 10,000 angels!" 

The car literally rocked with laughter. I wasn't at all surprised that my brothers were laughing at me— but my mom was doubled over with laughter, too. Shockingly enough, even my dad was laughing. I don’t remember my dad ever laughing at me. I immediately started crying. But even my tears didn't serve to stifle my mom's laughter. When she was finally able to catch her breath, she tried to assure me (amid fresh bouts of laughter) that it wasn't that it was bad singing, it was just the incredibly high notes I’d hit that had spawned all the hilarity. Whatever. I haven't tried to belt out a note since. 

In a recent sermon (lots of time to listen to sermons these days), the pastor said that self-consciousness is really just a pre-occupation with me, myself and I. Ouch!

Eugene Peterson defined worship as interrupting our preoccupation with ourselves. The less self-conscious we become the more God-conscious we become. It’s the reason worship feels so good—feels so right. (I couldn’t find the exact quote, but that’s the gist of it). 

In these unprecedented times we need an awareness of God’s presence more than ever. And I’m seeing it! So many inspiring stories of people shrugging off their “me, myself and I” attitude and leaning in to reach out to others in any way they can. 

Another silver lining is seeing the humor people are finding in these "lock down" days. There are dozens of examples, but one of my favorites was, “And just like that, prayer and spanking are back in schools.” 

I was blessed to grow up in a family who found humor in even the worst of circumstances—because we know the God who holds our future. And let’s face it—knowing there’s a happy ending allows us to live our story with a lot more levity and laughter.