I've never cared about cars--other than preferring not to drive a nice one. I have a knack for getting them scraped up and dented up in no time, or rather (as I have to constantly remind Bob), I have a knack for parking next to people that scrape and dent up my car in no time. It's so much less stressful to buy one already dented up.

Even though Bob has sold cars for 30 plus years, I've never picked out a car for myself. Before Bob bought my last car, I asked him what color it was (not that it mattered). He said it wasn't a color, per se, just brownish/grayish/greenish. After driving it for a few months, I could name the color: road dust. It was brilliant. It didn't matter if it was filthy or freshly washed, it looked the same.

I have a freakish fear of going through car washes. I slowly lurch up there, not quite trusting that the guy impatiently beckoning me in has my wheels lined up properly. I'm squirrelly about putting it in neutral at exactly the right time (I've been screamed at several times). I'm petrified I'll touch the steering wheel and get off the tracks and get stuck in there and then I get all worked up about the precise point I need to put it back in drive and squeal out of there in time to not get hit by the car behind me. All that anguish is not worth a clean car, so "road dust" is now my number one color choice.

Unfortunately, we reached a point with Brett that I could no longer lift him to put him in the car. We needed a van that could accomodate his wheelchair. Bob spent hours, upon hours looking for one. I was horrified by the prices and I hated the thought of giving up my beloved road dust colored car. Bob was willing to drive hundreds of miles to find an affordable van that would suit our needs but ended up not having to go anywhere at all. I could fill a page with the miraculous details of how God brought us the perfect van practically to our doorstep.

The first time I drove my God given van to work, it was cold and windy.  After hauling out my luggage and heading to the bus stop, I heard the ominous click that signaled the door was opening and the ramp was being deployed. There is no stopping the process once it starts, so I had to stand there and watch the door slowly open, the ramp slowly spring out and then slowly lower itself to the ground. Bob told me the ramp would only work when the van was running and the button was pushed from the inside, so I got back in, started it up and hit the button to reverse the process. After I impatiently waited for it to sloooowwwly tuck itself back in and the door to click shut, I gathered my bags and headed back to the stop.

When I reached the stop, I (thankfully) looked back at the van and saw (to my horror) that the process had started again, the ramp was already springing out. Now I was running late and numb from the cold and I wanted to kick the sides in of this despicable, crazy, not road dust colored van.

When I finally made my check in, I was frustrated and freezing. I could hardly wait to tell Bob how little he knew about how the ramp worked and to hear how very, very sorry he felt for me.

I was a little ashamed at my level of animosity towards the van. What had happened to my gratitude? It was then that I realized what an absolute gift it was that I hadn't parked next to someone. In all my years of trying to find the closest spot in the employee lot, I'm pretty sure I have never parked next to an empty spot.

How much worse it would have been had that ramp popped out and bashed in the windows of the car next to me (twice!). The rest of the day I whispered prayers of gratitude for that empty spot, definitely a God thing. And, I'm happy to say, my gratitude for the van has returned as well. It has been a wonderful thing not to be marooned at home with Brett--and I am very, very grateful.

I remember thinking that having a child with severe disabilities would be one of the worst things that could ever happen to a person. I remember sitting in the cry room at church watching a couple that sat back there with their grown son.

The son was very animated and loudly asked the same questions over and over. When the singing began he would leap up, joyously clapping and belting out any word he might recognize, usually just "Jesus."  I felt sick for them.

Today, as I sit back in that same cry room with Brett, I think what I wouldn't give to see that joy on Brett's face, to see him leap up and loudly sing out Jesus' name.

Recently we had about a dozen special needs passengers on board. One fifty-ish man was particularly thrilled to be on an airplane. He excitedly grasped my hand and asked me how I was. Pre-Brett I would have been uncomfortable, not wanting him to touch me and doing my best not to make eye contact. That day I was filled with genuine affection for him. His uninhibited joy and friendliness was contagious. I didn't even mind that he asked me 20 times if we were almost to Detroit. When one of the women asked me for a seat belt extension for her friend, she made it seem like a good thing. She was proud of her friend for managing to grow big enough to need an extension. Good job!

Having Brett has had the same effect on Bob. One day one of his customers mentioned that his wife was waiting in the the car with their mentally impaired grown daughter. Bob encouraged him to bring them in. The daughter was non-verbal, just sat there letting out a few whoops now and then. Bob said when he looked at her he was overwhelmed with love for her and impulsively told her parents that he loved them. They sat in stunned silence...who expects their car salesman to tell them he loves them?

After they had signed all the paperwork and left, the man returned to the showroom, hugged Bob and told him he loved him too. I love that story. I love that through loving and caring for Brett, God has changed us...our perspective and our hearts. I love seeing that what these special people may lack in ability, God has compensated for with an abundance of joy.

I can't remember a time when I haven't wanted to lose ten pounds. Looking back, I've only been ten pounds lighter during times of intense grief, extreme anxiety or have had teeth pulled. Evidently, that's when I've shopped the most too, as my closet is full of clothes I could only fit into if I lost ten pounds.

When I meet people who have successfully lost weight, I am always eager to know how they did it. Eat less and exercise more? Oh well, never mind.

But do I really think I would be happier if I weighed less?  The question made me think about what really makes one happy. I listened to a Tim Keller sermon about it and he said happiness is never, ever found by directly seeking it; it is always a by-product of seeking something more than happiness.

The word "blessed" in the Bible is generally defined as happy. The Bible doesn't say "blessed are those who seek after blessedness."  It says, "blessed [happy] are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness... for they will be filled."  Other verses tell us "not to worry about tomorrow, but to seek after His kingdom and His righteousness and all will be added."

Being filled, lacking nothing and being worry-free sounds like the picture of contentment to me. Yet how difficult it is to stay focused on doing the right thing, when there are so many wrong things everywhere we look.

Ironically enough, the times I've been most focused on (or seeking after) thinness, I've gained weight. As soon as I resolve to eat less, food is all I can think about. If I decide to follow particular food "rules," I become so obsessed with the rules that it robs me of the God-given enjoyment of eating.

As shallow as it is, I can see the parallels. It's all about what we set our minds on.  Happiness is a by-product of making right choices, God's kingdom choices...like honesty, selflessness and gratitude.
We're always better served when we focus on loving more rather than sinning less. 

"Focus on heaven and get earth thrown in. Focus on earth and get neither."
                                                                                                               C.S. Lewis

As a Christian, I don't believe in chance. Not chance meetings, chance friendships, chance tragedies. I don't believe anything happens just "by chance." If it's not divinely orchestrated by God it is at the very least allowed by Him.

Midway through December I felt myself falling into my usual Christmas funk. I'm not sure what brings it on, but I think it's seeing all the children, their very palpable excitement--about Santa coming, the Christmas presents, the days off from school.  I miss the bribing for good behavior, "You don't want a lump of coal in your stocking, do you?"

I see and watch all this, and I can't help but miss that magical time when the kids were little, and I can't help but contrast it to Brett's total obliviousness. I think of how incredibly fun it would be to experience all that Christmas wonder again with Brett, not just as parents but with his two grown siblings as well. And I think if only Brett was a perfect, healthy little boy, the Season would once again be joyous for me.

I flew with Tammy about that time and, as God would have it, I shared a jumpseat with a flight attendant I'd never met before. We clicked. I shared more with her than I've felt comfortable sharing with friends I've known for years.

At the end of our three days together, with her eyes full of tears, she exclaimed how good God was! She said that He had known that I was exactly what she needed. She had been down too, and my vulnerability and willingness to share my stories had lifted her out of her funk. And miraculously, I realized she had done the same for me! God gave us those precious moments on the jumpseat to share our personal stories of pain, grace, mercy and forgiveness and we both were lifted up. It wasn't a "chance" encounter. Just as she acknowledged, God orchestrated that time together.

God is good. Always. Even when He allowed a gene to mutate in my unborn child, causing severe disabilities. Not that I don't ever question the reason for Brett's existence. Not that I can always see the goodness his life brings to this world. Not that I don't long for some responsiveness from him. But I choose to believe that God is good, "that in all things He works for the GOOD of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose." (Romans 8:28)

There are times when I really worry that I might be suffering from early onset of Alzheimer's.

The other day I showed up for work with my boots on the wrong feet. Of course I didn't have an easy time getting them on that morning, but I attributed it to abnormally swollen feet. I eat loads of popcorn most nights and I'm used to my feet being swollen in the morning.

As I walked through the concourse, I wondered how I had ever believed that they were comfortable boots. They were downright cruel! I was flying with Tammy and asked her if she thought my feet looked funny.

"Have you ever noticed how much my feet point out like that?" She surmised that maybe it was just the style of the boots.

The day was half over before I realized they were on the wrong feet, mostly because I started thinking how silly it was that they zipped up on the outside.

The other day I was frantically digging through my purse for my phone...while I talked on it! I think the best reason to keep a land line is the ability to call my cell phone when I can't find it. If I would have been home, I would undoubtedly have done this, only figuring out that I was on it when I saw "home" calling in. Scary.

I know the mere size of my purse has caused many unnecessary minor panic attacks. My constant, angst-filled digging through my cavernous purse drives Bob crazy. But I need that big purse. For one, I don't go anywhere without my "bag of tricks" (my make up bag), because you never know when I might "get in a fix."  Remember Felix the Cat? "Whenever he gets in a fix, he reaches into his bag of tricks?"

And heaven forbid I get stuck somewhere with nothing to do...consequently I always have reading material, paper to write on, pens, coupons to sort, my phone, gum, Advil, wallet, hair clips, hair spray, a comb and sometimes my iPad. It takes a mighty big purse to hold all that stuff.

It's been said that two of the most comforting words in the English language are "me too."  That's why it's important to share our stories. I love it when people can relate to what I'm saying, often because they have similar stories. I'm really hoping there are at least a few people out there that can give me a "me too," because it sure would do a lot to alleviate my fears.

I have to admit, I love Facebook. I especially love looking at the pictures. I've decided the only time I don't like Facebook is when an unflattering picture of me is posted (angry political rants aren't my favorite either).

A petite friend of mine posted a picture of us. In it I look like I'm from a different species. My head looks abnormally large (and tall), my teeth look like Chicklets and my wrinkles and age spots are way too evident. I wanted it off there.

Dane said it was simple enough, just un-tag myself. No can do. After trying everything, a red "remove" box appeared and with great relief, I clicked on it. A survey type questionnaire popped up, asking me why I wanted it removed. Are you kidding me??? I tried to skip through it, but it wouldn't advance without a response to each question.

After answering all the questions, a Facebook prepared private message appeared, "Dear [so and so], the picture you posted of me hurt my feelings, it made me feel sad and it embarrassed me. Would you please consider removing it?" Can you imagine??? I haven't gotten that big of a laugh out of something in a long time.

Embarrassment and vanity once kept me from buying a hilarious roller coaster picture/souvenir. Just thinking about that picture makes me laugh, so I can't imagine how much genuine laughter I've missed out on by not buying it.  In the photo, somehow (through terror and some bizarre muscle contractions) I was able to make my neck every bit as thick as my head. Gravity held my thin, yellowish hair straight up, coming to a perfect triangular point. I looked exactly like one of those Troll dolls that were popular at the time.

What am I afraid of anyway? That someone will think, "Well, I did think she was pretty...until I saw that picture of her.  Now, I realize she actually looks like a Troll (or a spotty Amazon woman)."

I know I'm not the only one who impatiently clicks through pictures until I land on one of myself, whereby I stop and intently study and critique every detail. No matter how good the picture is, if I look bad in it, it's a horrible picture.

Vanity is nothing new, but it is sad how much emphasis our world places on outer beauty. How sad to believe our worth is wrapped up in what we look like, rather than who we are! Obviously, this whole vanity thing is a crutch of mine...but I think I'm getting better, at least I am laughing at myself more, surely that's a step in the right direction.

Now, I'm thankful for that hideous picture. It's not only provided me lots of laughs, it's caused me to pause and think about what really matters, and why in the world I would care so much about having an ugly picture of me on Facebook. I'd still rather not see an ugly picture of me on Facebook, but then again, who would?

"The Lord does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart."  1 Samuel 16:7

More than most, I love being alone. Fortunately, my job provides oodles of time to myself.

A few weeks ago I was blessed with a long Ft. Lauderdale layover and enjoyed every minute of it...alone. All twenty-two hours of it. When we came to the airport the next day we discovered we were delayed a few hours. I decided to find a corner of the airport where I could be, you guessed it, alone.

I spotted a quiet corner and made a beeline for it. One solitary old man sat between the crowded area and the isolated area. As I made my way to my spot, he asked me if I was working his flight. I smiled politely and said "no," deciding I needed to find a seat far enough away from him that he wouldn't get any ideas about trying to strike up a conversation with me.

There was free Internet and I was looking forward to playing Words With Friends and checking my emails. Just as I was settling in, the man loudly asked me if I'd watch his bags for a minute. I thought, "you silly old coot, how in the world can I watch your bags from way over here?" I inexplicably said, "sure!"

I was concentrating on coming up with a good move on WordsWith Friends, and didn't notice when Security carted his bags away. When I noticed his bags were missing, I looked wildly around, hoping and praying the man had come back and I just hadn't seen him.

But no, there he was with Security accompanying him and his bags back to his seat. He sat down and didn't even look my way. Great, now I had to go and apologize to him. He was gracious and said it worked out fine, he had gone back to Security because he left something there and had intercepted them taking his bags away. Phew! I wished him a good day and set out to find a new spot. He asked me if I knew how long his flight would be delayed. I told him an agent would have to help him.

After I found my new spot, guilt nagged at me. I couldn't even enjoy my game. I felt I was meant to talk with this man. Who knew, maybe I was meant to share something with him that would change his eternal destiny! With this pious, lofty idea, I decided to go sit next to him and engage him in conversation. The subject of Jesus never came up.

He wasted no time filling me in on all the sad details of his life. He asked me if I knew the definition of insanity? I was proud of myself for knowing Einstein's definition: "doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result"? He tore right into detailing how "insane" he'd been, always expecting a different result from the people in his life. His girlfriend had been "duplicitous".

All his poker buddies had died. A close brother had died, but he had miraculously been able to be with him just hours beforehand. (I did try and insert a little "faith" talk in at this point). He said all the women in South Florida were only interested in money. He talked about one of his daughters, who sounded particularly selfish and obnoxious. He had me read their email exchanges, which left no doubt that she was selfish and obnoxious.

 I asked how old this daughter was? "Certainly not as old as you," he answered. Okay, I hated him. Note to self: start socking away money for a Lifestyle Lift. For well over an hour I listened to him talk about his life and his broken relationships. When it came time for me to leave, I felt dejected (and old).

Later I felt convicted. Was my life really all about me and my comfort? If I truly believe the Reason for the Hope that I have, shouldn't I be willing to sit within five feet of people that might need that Hope? Is it really so terrible to feel old and dejected if I made a lonely old man a little less lonely for an hour and a half?

I know there is a need for solitude, but God did not intend for us to live in isolation. His whole plan for spreading the Good News was through the testimony of His people. Please God, forgive me for life being so much about me...my comfort, my needs, my time...open my eyes to see those that might not want to be alone and give me the words to point them to You.

"Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to the reason for the hope that you have."  1 Peter 3:15