On this day over two thousand and twenty years ago, Jesus faced the agony of His crucifixion. He pleaded with the Father, asking Him if there was any other way to fulfill God's promise of eternal life for those who believed in Him. But there wasn't. Jesus was and is the only Way. Though reviled and rejected, He redeemed and reconciled.   

My mom was not afraid to die, but she was afraid of dying alone. It struck me today that even Jesus did not want to be alone in His last hours--He wanted His beloved disciples by His side. Deeply distressed and troubled, He told Peter, James and John that His soul was overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death and asked them to stay with Him (Mark 14:33-34). 

The Friday night before the Wednesday God took my mom home, I went to a wedding shower, a party. During that party she called and left me a voicemail. Her sweet, weak voice left this message: "Hi sweetheart, I really hate to ask you, but can you come be with me?"

It was loud and my phone was deep in the cavern of my purse. I never heard it ringing. I never looked at it to see if anyone had called. When I got home, I left my phone in my purse. Caitlin and Cam flew in late for Caitlin's baby shower. I finished some last minute things that needed to be done for the baby shower the following morning and went to bed.

While at the shower, I heard my phone ringing and dug it out of my purse to answer it. It was my mom's friend Glady, she needed me to come over right away, my mom was too weak to get up to use the bathroom and Glady wasn't strong enough to help her. I got there in time to help her, but my mom never regained enough strength to walk on her own again.

It wasn't until the day after we buried my mom in her plot next to my dad and brother, that someone called and left me a voicemail. That's when I saw I had an unread voicemail from my mom. What?? Imagine the heartache I felt, hearing those sweet, pitiful words--that dear voice I've longed to hear every single day since she died. How it hurts to know she left this world feeling disillusioned about me. Thinking I cared more about having a good time at a party than soaking up every precious minute I had left with her (although I really didn't believe she'd be gone so soon). She died believing I'd coldly brushed off her plea for my company. I failed her when she needed me most. I was selfish, it was always more about me needing her than her needing me. She was always better at consoling than being consoled. Why didn't she tell me she'd called and left a message? How I wish she'd given me the chance to tell her I never got that call. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, missing my mom, my chest tightening at the remembrance of how inattentive I'd been in those last days, aching for a do-over, for just those few days back to love on her like she deserved. 

Today, I think about how Peter must have felt when he let Jesus down. Not only did he not stay awake with Him, a few hours later he claimed he didn't even know who Jesus was.

I know my mom would hate to see me holding on to these painful regrets. She never wanted to see me sad, she always put all of us first, never asked anything of us, just loved us unconditionally. 

Today is Good Friday, the day Jesus died to take away all my shame, so why do I still let shame haunt me? It's not how my Lord wants me or any other Christian to feel or act. It's callously tossing away the freedom Jesus paid such a high cost to give me. It's self-centeredness, and being God-centered is the only way to be set free from shame and regrets. "Praise be to God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In His great mercy He has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead." (1 Peter 1:3)

    God sent His son, they called Him Jesus

He came to love, heal and forgive 

He lived and died to buy my pardon 

An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives

Because He lives I can face tomorrow 

Because He lives all fear is gone

because I know He holds the future 

And life is worth the living, just because He lives

                                                      

What a bizarre world we’re living in, with all this silly canceling. Goodness! Dr. Suess, Peter Pan, Winnie the Pooh? And the list keeps growing. Cartoons are meant to be innocent, nonsensical humor, not analyzed for their depth and symbolism. Personally, I’ve never liked watching cartoons. Never even cracked a smile. But my brothers loved them, they couldn’t wait to watch Saturday morning cartoons. I found them aggravating. Would it really be so bad if Wile E. Coyote caught the Road Runner just once? But what does that say about me? That I want evil to triumph over good once in a while? Of course not, because they’re not real. That’s the whole point. Do you think children would be laughing if a real coyote was being blown up every whipstitch? Of course not.

Cartoons may have not been not my thing, but Dr. Suess books were, and still are. All of them. Mostly because I love reading things that rhyme. I’m either too uncultured or too stupid to appreciate the beauty and symbolism of classic poetry. “Ode to a Grecian Urn?" Does it rhyme? No. Canceled.

I pray all this absurdity ends soon, that instead of kowtowing and making apologies (that are never accepted anyway) people will start pointing it out for the nonsense it is. 

People are hurting in these unprecedented times. They’ve lost jobs, homes and loved ones. They’re living in isolation and fear. And yet, we are still a compassionate nation. I’ve read many inspiring stories about people reaching out, meeting needs and raising money to help small businesses stay afloat. Yet these aren’t our headlines, no, apparently it's more important to report why libraries need to be purged of Dr. Suess.

There is real evil all around us. All this digging into old cartoons and childrens' books are just a sleight of hand to make us look away from what's really happening. The Bible warns us about calling good evil and evil good (Isaiah 5:20). Jesus didn't leave us without telling us what the last days would look like. He said there will be an increase in natural disasters, earthquakes and famines. Even if everyone on the planet drove an electric car and nary an airplane could be found in the sky, the climate would still change because "God has the whole world in His hands...the wind and the rain...the little bitty baby....you and me sister..." 

God has blessed this country beyond measure, but we are moving further and further from Him. Can you imagine how much it would hurt us to see our own children engaged in such divisiveness and rage? How much more it must hurt our Heavenly Father to see His children acting like this. I pray in the coming days we will take to heart Paul’s admonishment to, “make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace.” (Ephesians 4:3). Our country needs unity and love like never before.

          God bless America, land that I love

           Stand beside her and guide her

                  Through the night with the light from above.

                                                      

When this pandemic started and we were told to stay six feet apart, I figured at least the days of having grocery carts rammed painfully into the back of my ankles were over. But I was wrong. I thought every shopper would stay on their dot, but they do not. Of course, there are those militant shoppers who make it their business to enforce the six foot rule—making everyone else scramble guiltily back into place. 

I especially notice the struggle to stay six feet apart at work. We tell the passengers before we land that we’re going to give them special instructions about our new deplaning process. After we taxi to the gate and the seatbelt sign is turned off, we tell them to please stay seated until the row ahead of them has retrieved their belongings and are six feet in front of them. That’s what we say, but evidently this is what they hear: “Everyone, please arise immediately! Quickly grab your luggage even if it means reaching over people ahead of you. Bunch together as closely as possible. If the deplaning process slows down, crane your neck to see who’s to blame and then sigh loudly, blow out a big puff out of your germ filled lungs, and announce you "have a tight connection.”

Why are we so prone to drift off our dots and bunch together? Because were created to engage with one another and it’s nigh on impossible while wearing a mask and standing six feet apart. We were never meant to live in isolation. In San Francisco, three times as many people have died this year from drug overdoses than from Covid.

When my Papa was alive he was convinced Christ would return for us in his life time. He passionately studied his Bible and what it said about the Lord’s return. I hear his voice when I read the words, “For the Lord Himself will come down from heaven….and we will be caught up together in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And we will be with the Lord forever.” (1 Thessalonians 4:16-17)  

Now, I’m convinced that Jesus will return in my lifetime. If I’m right, there couldn’t be a worse time to be isolated from each other…from even attending church together. Time is of the essence and we need to grasp every opportunity to point to Jesus, who humbly came down from glory as a babe in a manger, to save a weary world from suffering and sin... to rescue us from our fear-filled days and give comfort from within.

As we celebrate Jesus’ first coming, I’m praying for boldness to reach out to others. Jesus proclaimed He is, “The way the truth and the life.” (John 14:6) He’s the only way to eternal life and to not share that would be equivalent to having the cure for cancer and not sharing it. Jesus is the cure the whole world needs.

As we celebrate His birth today, I pray all of you will embrace the fearlessness that trusting in Him offers. Merry Christmas!

Last week on one of my layovers, I woke up in the middle of the night. I often have trouble getting back to sleep but have found that listening to a podcast helps keep my mind from jumping from one upsetting subject to another. I chose to listen to a sermon by Alistair Begg. He was preaching about Joseph. Joseph is in the dungeon along with Pharaoh’s cupbearer and baker. They want him to interpret their dreams. Joseph tells the cupbearer that his dream means he will be set free in three days. After hearing that joyous interpretation, the baker is eager to find out what his dream means. At this point, Pastor Begg pauses and asks, “Can you imagine how dreadful it must have been for Joseph to tell the baker what his dream meant? That instead of being set free in three days, Pharaoh was going to have his head cut off, hang him on a tree and that birds will eat away at him?” (I must have drifted off at this point, because I can’t remember any more of the sermon)

                                                         *   *   *

Someone is knocking on my door, I get up to see who it is. He looks familiar so I open the door. He says he is a friend of Dane’s. He is holding a clear box. In the box are a handful of orange Advil tablets, several boxes of Junior Mints, and some mice. My hair stands on end when I see the mice. I can’t even look at them. I tell him if any of the mice get out of the box I might literally die from terror. He ignores me and walks across the room and dumps everything out of the box. I jump up on the bed and start shrieking. My screaming makes them all hustle back to the box. The appallingly speedy mice dart in first, the boxes of Junior Mints scoot back and the Advil tablets hop back. When they they’re all back in the box, the man puts the lid back on it.

 I am dumbfounded, “I had no idea Advil tablets could jump like that!” (Apparently, the scooting boxes of Junior Mints didn’t strike me as unusual). 

 “See?” the man says, “They are way more afraid of you. They’d rather be safe in their box than get screamed at.”

Then he just stands there looking at me. I wonder if he expects me to pay him for his little “magic” show? Or maybe just tip him? After a few minutes of awkward silence, he finally leaves. 

                                                    *   *   *

Half awake, I realize the man in the dream looked familiar because it was Charlie Kirk. Fully awake, I think it’s hilarious. I often have weird dreams, especially after I go back to sleep. I always think I’ll remember them, but I never do. So I got up, grabbed my journal and wrote it all down, I even wrote down what I thought it might mean.

Today, for whatever reason, I decided to get that journal out of my suitcase and read what I’d written. After I finished reading it, I decided it wasn't hilarious after all, but it did make me want to verify the story about the baker’s ghastly demise. I grabbed my Bible, found the story, and sure enough, that’s exactly how it went down with the poor baker. 

Underneath the words “possible interpretation“ I wrote: “Maybe it means we’ve been led to believe we’re better off locked up in our houses than being about our Father’s business—convincing a troubled, fear-filled world that our time is in His hands.”

I’m tempted to leave off the rest of my “interpretation.” It’s a little cheesy, but because it’s the only part that did made me kind of laugh, I’ll share it. I wrote, “Maybe the Advil represents Christians as healers and the Junior Mints as comforters? And the mice? Nothing but sheep dressed in wolves clothing!!! Not innocent little creatures but rather rabid imposters scaring us into immobility.” 

These are disheartening, dark days in America. I keep reminding myself that light ALWAYS overcomes darkness and I pray daily that the light of truth will expose the lies. I think our country is either on the precipice of a great revival, or the days ahead are going to get darker and Christ’s return is imminent. Either way, “God has not given us a spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” (2 Timothy 1:7) And what does God require of us? To seek justice, love mercy and walk humbly. (Micah 6:8) We can, and must, proceed in faith without fear-- resting in the assurance that our times are indeed in God’s loving hands.

“All the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be.” Psalms 139:16

 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?”