Brett was born with hydrocephalus, or water on the brain. He was born five weeks early, yet his head was already larger than the average newborn’s. But he looked perfect to me. His head continued to grow in such tiny increments, that if I hadn’t been daily measuring it, I wouldn’t have noticed. I got so used to the size of his head, that I remember looking around and thinking that one pin-headed baby was being born after another.

At five weeks old, he underwent brain surgery to put a shunt in to drain the water from his brain. By then, I would guess his head was about the size of an average three or four-year old’s. Yet still, in my eyes, he looked normal. When I’d take him out, I’d think, why, if it weren’t for his blindness, people wouldn’t think there was a thing wrong with him. He’s beautiful.

We didn’t take any pictures of him during those first months after his surgery, so when I recently looked at a picture that my sister-in-law had taken, my heart hurt for him. My sweet baby, with that enormous head. How could I have ever thought he looked normal?

Not long ago, I watched a movie about Barnum & Bailey’s Circus. It featured the side shows, the ‘freaks of nature” who were roped into joining the circus to get paid to get laughed at and mocked. 

Grown adults and children flocked to buy tickets to gawk at the bearded lady, the fattest woman on earth, the tiniest man, the tallest man, the werewolf man and the like. 

With a heavy heart I thought of the parents of those side show people, wondering if, like me, they’d gotten so used to how their child looked that they didn’t see them as any different than any other child. I thought of how heartbreaking it would be to see your child being made fun of. It occurred to me that my little Brett could have been a side show.

I, quite accidentally, discovered that a sense of what is “normal” is learned as early as the first few weeks of a baby’s life.

After Caitlin was born we were given a booklet that detailed her expected development. At one week she should be able to do such and such, at two weeks this, and so on. I became obsessed with that booklet, testing her, making sure she was reaching all the milestones. 

Putting away laundry one day, I happened to notice an old Mr. T mask that Bob had worn to a Halloween party. Curious to see how Caitlin would react, I put it on and knelt down to talk to her. I got my face about the distance the booklet estimated she could bring into focus, “Hey precious,” I said softly through the mask.

She let out a scream different from anything I'd heard before or since. I immediately ripped the rubber mask off my head (practically scalping myself in the process).

Bob heard the scream and came tearing in from the other room. Knowing he wouldn't understand my "experiment," I stuffed the mask underneath me and sat on it. 

“What made her scream like that?”

I looked stumped, “I have no idea,” I lied. 

I must have looked awkward holding Caitlin, trying to comfort her while keeping my bottom firmly planted on Mr. T. Unfortunately, Bob spotted a little tuft of his mohawk and demanded to know what it was. I held it up, acting baffled. What in the world?

"I can't believe you would actually want to scare a newborn baby! What is wrong with you?"

"It was an experiment…and, it turns out she’s exceptional!” Then I tried for humor, “But she may be a little racist.”

Bob was not amused—he was furious. He took Caitlin from me and left me sitting there. Whatever. An innocent experiment ruined our day.

Before children learn to disguise their faces to hide what they’re thinking or feeling, their  reactions to people like Brett run the gamut—from giggling, to pity, to fear. 

When Brett was in the hospital, my father-in-law taped these words on his bassinet, “...I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” Psalm:139:14

I don’t know why God knit Brett together in my womb the way He did, but I know he will be receiving a glorious, new body in Heaven, where nobody will look at him with anything but admiration and love. What a glorious day that will be!

I’ve never been more thankful for my job than I am today. It’s the only reason I’m able to see the kids as much as I do. I've ALWAYS been over-the-top thankful for the ability to fly for free and visit my family members frequently. They are spread across the country and we would never be able to afford monthly, or even bi-monthly, visits if not for my flying benefits. And now that I have grandchildren…Oh. My. Word! I can’t get enough of them. 

I’ve lived my whole life blissfully unconcerned about germs, so it has taken real discipline on my part to be very mindful of arriving to Caitlin’s as germ-free as humanly possible. Me! Who used to think arriving clean was a feat.

Back in December, when Caitlin and I came home from the hospital with Maisie, she (understandably!) wanted me to strip down and jump in the shower. She laundered every scrap of my clothing. Unfortunately, she shrunk my pants. I could have handled going home looking like the seams were about to burst open, but four inches too short? I looked ridiculous. Fortunately, I was able to squeeze myself into a pair of Caitlin’s. They were as tight as a drum, but only two inches too short, so I looked a tad less dorky in them than I did in the germ-free “floods” that emerged from the dryer. 

Every visit I grow more in awe of what a wonderful mother Caitlin is. It’s certainly not from following my lead. It’s only by the grace of God that Caitlin and Dane made it safely to adulthood.

Caitlin makes Brooks healthy, homemade meals, using organic, wholesome food, with lots of vitamin packed vegetables. Contrast that to Caitlin and Dane’s standard fare—Chuck E. Cheese and McDonald’s.

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

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

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

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

Surely there isn’t a child on the planet who eats healthier than Brooks! He absolutely loves vegetables. The only teensy problem is is that vegetables aren’t very calorie dense, so he’s not gaining as much weight as they’d like.

When Bob and I were visiting last weekend, Caitlin and Cam told us a funny story about some of the pitfalls of Brooks’ ultra healthy cravings.

In their desire to get more calories in him they pleaded with him to eat a bowl of Puffkin’s for breakfast. He would have none of it, demanding carrots instead.

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

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

Watching Caitlin’s due diligence in every aspect of her mothering, I can’t help but compare it to my own mothering and how far I fell short. But by God’s glorious grace, the kids grew up not only with strong, healthy bodies but they both love the Lord with all their heart and nothing, nothing gives me more joy than knowing that.

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

                                 

                                                  “Grace, grace, God's grace,

                                        Grace that will pardon and cleanse within;

                                                    Grace, grace, God's Grace,   

                                          Grace that is greater than all our sin."                                                                       

   

Oh, the comfort of knowing God’s grace is greater than all my mistakes and shortcomings. It is only through Him that I’ve achieved any thing at all.

As I was watching the Super Bowl last Sunday, I was struck by what one of the commentators said: “Football is the only major sport where a player can become a highly successful athlete without ever touching the ball.” 

Winning a football game requires every player to play his own specific role with excellence. If just one position isn’t played well it can cost them the game.

If not for great offensive linemen (the ones most likely not to touch the football), the best quarterbacks are vulnerable to having hundreds of pounds breaking through the line and annihilating them. Without those talented offensive linemen, the best wide receivers wouldn’t get the chance to make spectacular catches that make the highlight reels nor would you see running backs juking and powering their way through mammoth sized players for impressive rushing yards. In fact, over the course of 54 years of Super Bowls, not one offensive lineman has ever won the Most Valued Player award. They may not share the limelight or win the MVP awards, but without them there wouldn’t be any superstars.

Just as there is no “going it alone” in football, there is no “going it alone” in the Church either. Each of us has been given specific gifts, but we all share the same goal—to add to His kingdom and build up the Church. Some gifts put people in the limelight, while others work behind the scenes to make that limelight possible

We all have God-given dreams and gifts. Often I’ve ignored His prompts to follow my dreams. Insecurities, fear of failure and criticism have held me back. But what I see as a failure, God may be using for good in ways I can’t see--may never see. If my heart and motives are right, I have to believe my strivings will be used to accomplish His purpose. 

It’s only recently that I’ve been convicted to not “go it alone” or sit on the sidelines but rather to trust God to train me to develop the gifts He gave me before the creation of the world to do good works, both in the Church and in the world around me.

“Just as each of us has one body, with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to the others.”  Romans 12:4-5

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