I’ve been feeling very dispirited these past few months. It’s no wonder—I’ve been ruminating too much on things I can’t do anything about—news about unfathomable grief, the seemingly unending rage and this "plague" that’s keeping me away from my  grandbabies. 

This "plague" that is making it more and more difficult to be pleasant at work. Everyone, passengers and flight attendants alike, have VERY different views on how to handle the non-compliant passengers. Some passengers deplane angry at me, wanting my name to write a letter of complaint because they saw me walk right by a passenger without a mask on and did nothing about it! I'm not used to studying faces as I walk through doing a "cabin check." I look for people not buckled in, for belongings not stowed correctly, for ensuring exit rows are briefed and bins are closed. So undoubtedly, I DO miss those non-compliant passengers. Then there are passengers who mumble about the stupidity of it all. Then there are flight attendants who want to toss people off if they even hesitate to pull their mask over their nose. Removing passengers results in delays and more grumpiness. I'm just really feeling over it.

For reasons I can’t explain, writing often lifts me out of my melancholy. The problem is, I haven’t felt like writing, and haven’t written a single word in months. When I got up this morning, I determined I would not step away from my computer until I wrote at least one sentence. 

But I sat, and I sat, and I sat. 

Just me and my mouse, alone in the house. 

My mind remained blank, as my spirits sank. 

No matter how hard I tried, I could find nothing inside. 

All I could do was to sit, sit, sit; and I did not like it, not one little bit. 

Then a strange buzz made me jump, and brought me out of my slump. 

My own sad face appeared on the screen, 

But soon was replaced with a precious human being.

Oh, how I thank God for the innovation of FaceTime! Of course, the little human being was my two-year old grandson, Brooks. Hence my lame attempt to emulate Dr. Suess (with a little outright plagiarism).

I hate to brag, but I think my Brooks is the most brilliant toddler I’ve ever met. He has a vocabulary that rivals children twice his age. I’m mesmerized by him. And lucky for me, he loves to talk. I hang on to every precious word. 

He enthusiastically tells me what he’s having for lunch, about how he lost his mask while jogging with Mama, but then…they found it! I read him a few books before Caitlin suggests maybe they should tell Nana good-bye because she might have things to do. 

“No! I don’t want to say goodbye to Nana.” He proceeds to “take me” into another room to show me all the trucks and toys “the cousins” gave him. I love how he refers to them as the cousins rather than my cousins.

He tells me he’s going to put me in a basket while he plays. It’s a black basket, I can’t see anything.

“Get me out of here! I don’t like being in this basket. It’s too dark in here.” I jokingly whine.

“You’re not in the basket, Nana. You’re in your house.” He has no patience with nonsensical talk.

I hear Maisie crying. “Why is Maisie crying?” 

“Because she wants to nurse some more.” He answers matter-of-factly.

For whatever reason, he absolutely loves watching me push the button to open and close the garage door. It’s usually the first thing he asks me to do. I act like I can’t find the button.

“It’s right above the ladder,” he patiently tells me.

Caitlin and Cam shared a story about Brooks and his night time prayers. 

“What are you thankful for, Brooks?” Cam asked.

“Jesus,” he sweetly answered.

“Awww, that’s wonderful Brooks. What else are you thankful for?”

“Goliath.” (I need the laughing until you’re crying emoji here)

His mean Nana would have been tempted to say, “You mean you’re thankful that David killed Goliath and cut off his head.” Actually, I’d leave out the severed head part. When I was a little girl, I remember reading that gruesome little detail and being horrified by it.

Before this providential FaceTime call, all I could do was to sit, sit, sit, sit, and I did not like it, not one little bit. Then that call came in and lifted my spirits, and lo and behold, I was able to write a few lyrics.

Thank you, Jesus!

Today’s parents must think it’s a minor miracle that we survived growing up in the 60’s. We didn't have car seats, helmets, floaties, sunscreen, or childproof caps. 

Instead of relying on electric outlet covers to keep us from poking knives or forks into them or fancy gadgets to keep us out of cupboards, we were told if we did, we’d either die instantly or be "smacked into the middle of next week." 

Obviously, we took the warnings seriously, because here we are, alive and well and buying up every possible gadget to keep our children and grandchildren from any harm. 

I can’t remember it ever being suggested that we wear a seat belt. Maybe our cars didn’t have seat belts. But the backseat was total mayhem. Whining or fighting got the "hand" reaching back and indiscriminately slapping everything in range. Today, kids ride in the car buckled into their own personal thrones, replete with cup holders and personal dvd players.

It was common to be left in the car while our moms went inside the mall, after all, they’d only be gone a few minutes. We tried keeping ourselves occupied—crouching down in the seats until a person walked behind us and then laying on the horn, laughing hysterically when they jumped out of their skins. Yelling out to other kids waiting in cars nearby, pretending to light cigarettes with the lighter, making up games to play—but it all got old pretty quickly. By the time our moms came out (looking like they could use a third arm to carry all the shopping bags) we'd be hot, sweaty messes. Today, what amazes me most is that we never once thought about stepping one foot out of that car.

Every time we went to the mall, we begged my mom to let us go in with her. We promised to be good. But alas, my brothers weren’t good at “being good.” They routinely knocked over displays, hid in the center of racks, raised the hackles of every clerk until my poor nerve-wracked mom would end up hustling us back to the car without accomplishing a thing.

Westland Mall used to have a giant bird cage. When my mom shopped there, Jeff and I begged to go in with her. We promised to stay at the cage and watch the birds the whole time.

“Can you promise not to let Craig get out of your sight?”

“Yes!” Jeff and I promised. 

And, like I’ve said, my mom knew I took my job of keeping an eye on Craig very seriously and she knew Jeff would never think of wandering off by himself. Besides, at five and three, Craig and I were each other's favorite playmates.

“Please, Mumma. We promise we won’t let Craig get away.”

We could tell when we were breaking her down. She sighed in resignation, “I guess. I only need to go into one store, so I’ll be quick.”

We couldn’t scramble out of the car fast enough. I took Craig’s little hand firmly in mine, “You have to stay right by us, okay?”

He agreed, trotting obediently beside me. 

“Don’t forget to keep a close eye on Craig,” my mom warned one last time before leaving us.

We stayed right there at the bird cage—pointing out the different birds, climbing up on the ledge, chasing each other around it--so happy to be in the mall rather than in the car.

And just as my mom promised, she was only gone a few minutes. 

“See, mumma? We stayed right here.”

My mom's eyes scanned the area, “Where’s Craig?”

I was positive he was on the other side of the cage. But he wasn’t.

“He has to be right around here,” Jeff assured her. “He was right here.”

We started calling for him, my mom getting more panicked by the second. She started crying, and when we found a mall cop she struggled through her tears to describe Craig…curly brown hair, brown eyes, a brown and white striped shirt. I can picture him to this day.

“Don’t you worry Ma’am. We’ll find him. Any minute now, someone will find a little guy crying for his mama, and bring him to us.”

“No! He won’t be crying,” my mom insisted. She knew Craig, he would be happily strolling around the mall, without a care in the world.

This time, it did take a long time to find him. My mom couldn’t stop crying, praying and mumbling to herself how she should have known better.

Jeff and I couldn’t fathom how he’d gotten away from us. 

After what seemed like an eternity, we found him acting as the elevator boy at Hudson’s. Happily pushing the buttons to get his passengers up and down from the restaurant.

It irked my mom that not a single person found it odd that a three-year-old child would be riding up and down the elevator by himself. Not a one asking him where his mother was.

But no one had, and once again my mom knelt down and clutched Craig tightly against her, sobbing in relief. And of course, per the usual, Craig started crying, too, “What are we crying about Mumma?”

We didn’t lose Craig again, that is not until 34 years later, when he left his mortal body and entered into the presence of the Lord.

“We live by faith, not by sight. We are confident, I say, and would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord.”   2 Cor. 5:7-8

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)