Random Thoughts for a New Year's Eve

In about 45 minutes we'll welcome 2015.  Don't you think it's time to drop the "two thousand" in the date?  Say it with me, people:  Twenty Fifteen!  Twenty Fifteen!  Twenty Fifteen!  Thank you.

We make a big deal about the arrival of a new year, but it's really just the arrival of another day.  I'm glad God doesn't give us more than one day at a time or more than one moment, for that matter.  I can't handle more than that.

Is it true that those people in Times Square have to stand there for endless hours without toilet facilities?  Enough said.

New Year's Eve television was better when ESPN used to feature daredevils jumping over and through stuff on motorcycles.  

Going to bed before midnight tonight is a sign that you are officially old, whatever your age.  I cannot explain why this is true, but I am certain of it.

  

One day I want to go to a New Year's Eve party wearing the kind of party dress you see on the red carpet.  Maybe I'll throw it myself but Mr. Pettit will have to get the night off first.

Whatever 2015 (Twenty Fifteen!) holds I plan to keep dancing---sometimes literally, other times metaphorically.  Music speaks to me when words fail.

Thank you, dear readers, for your support in 2014.  May the new year bring you joy, peace and purpose.

Happy New Year!

Just Enough Christmas

At first I placed Santa Claus behind the tree.

Santa always returns to his home under the tree after each ornament has found its proper place.  He's never lacking for company; this year his posse includes Raggedy Ann and Andy, a bear masquerading as Santa and small pillows decorated with the hand prints of our sons.  My Santa has been with me a long time; I can't remember a Christmas without him.

But the years have not been kind to him.  Everything that was once white about him---his beard, the fur on his suit, his boots---is gray, as if he has spent the last fifty-odd years climbing down chimneys in all the places I've lived, from one coast to another.  The hand that once held a bottle of Coca-Cola is empty and the safety pin that holds his black belt together has rusted.

When the time came for Santa's annual appearance this year I decided he was simply too shabby to assume his usual position of prominence.  The ladies from church were coming over for brunch and my sad Santa didn't fit my holiday vision.  I couldn't bear to return him to the storage tote, so I placed him behind the tree, peeking out from the branches.

Mr. Pettit observed my deliberations and insisted that Santa return to his rightful place.  What if he does look the worse for wear?  I can't remember my husband's exact words, but I think the gist of his comments was that this well-worn toy, this relic of my childhood, shouldn't be hidden away.

I think the impulse to hide my stuffed Santa reveals a little too much about my approach to the Christmas season.  I lose my perspective as I strive to create a perfectly joyous and perfectly beautiful Christmas.  When I'm in the throes of Yuletide mania I'm ruled by my to-do list, checking things off in the evening and adding more items in the morning.  I live in the "not enough" zone: Not enough time, not enough energy, not enough creativity.  I wrap up the cycle by berating myself for not placing enough emphasis on the reason for the celebration, Jesus's birthday.  Not enough, never enough.

My Santa Claus doll isn't perfect now, if he ever was.  I'm not either.  The weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas are special, not magical.  If I focus too much on trying to replicate a greeting card Christmas I'll miss the moments that bring real joy.

Today is Christmas Eve, a day when I usually spend a few minutes conducting a kind of postmortem on how I could have "done" Christmas differently by labeling Christmas cards in November or freezing cookies in October or creating a gift list spreadsheet in January. Not this year.

I'm not going cold turkey---I'll definitely review my Christmas-ing well before 2015 rolls in. But not today.  Today I'll give thanks for the shopper-to-shopper courtesy I've experienced (Yes, Virginia, it does exist), for the closeness I feel to my late mother when I make one of her holiday recipes, for Daddy's nearness when I find just the right gift, for the chance to share the Christmas story with preschoolers at church, for the moments I've shared with my family.

I'm most appreciative of the fact that Jesus welcomes me, scuffed and worn and quirky as I am, to His birthday party, just as He welcomed those scruffy shepherds and their smelly sheep two thousand years ago.

O holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin, and enter in, be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels the great glad tidings tell;
O come to us, abide with us, our Lord Emmanuel!
"O Little Town of Bethlehem"
Lyrics by Phillips Brooks.  Music by Lewis H. Redner

Merry Christmas!

Gratitude, Moment by Moment

At the Thanksgiving table I thank God for my family, my friends, my health and the thousand daily mercies that accompany my waking and sleeping.  Gratitude wells up like a hidden spring as I consider all I have been given.  Sometimes tears follow.

Like many of you I try to maintain an appreciative spirit every day in every situation.  That's easy to do when my granddaughter smiles at me or when I slice a tomato from my very own garden.  It's harder when I'm running late, the driver ahead of me on a two-lane road is traveling 20 miles per hour below the speed limit and I can't pass thanks to the double yellow line.  Or, more significantly, when I learn of a friend's illness or job loss.

Lately I've been giving thanks for people who travel on the periphery of my life and friendships that last for a season or only a moment:

The teachers, aides and office staff who greet me when I arrive for a substitute assignment and readily adopt me into their school family.

The lady in line with me at Hobby Lobby who points out a newly-opened check out line and encourages me to make a break for it.  As I place my greeting cards on the counter she smiles at me across the store, even as she continues to wait.

The couples Mr. Pettit and I meet through our travels, who share their life stories along with their dessert preferences as we gather for our nightly meal.

I think living in the moment enriches my life only when I use gratitude as my default mode, when I'm certain I'll find something to be thankful for in each moment, even if it's only the regularity of my own breathing.  

As I write this I thank God for waking me two hours before my alarm, giving me time to compose this column before I plunge into Thanksgiving Eve busyness.

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends!

A Hallmark Moment

I had a Hallmark moment at a traffic light last weekend.

I had just left Costco with my haul of economy-size groceries (you can never have too much hummus) and decided to avoid the "Christmas-is-only-six-weeks-away" traffic on the interstate. As I waited to turn left on the state road toward home I glanced up into my rearview mirror and spotted them. The Hallmark couple.

She was behind me and he was in the adjacent left-turn lane. Her open door caught my attention first, but then I realized she had dashed from her minivan to kiss the driver of the SUV beside her.  Just a quick smooch, then she jumped back into her car, giggling.

Well.

I make up stories about folks I see on the road all the time.   If I see a grumpy guy hunched over the wheel I guess that he's had a fight with his wife about going to her family reunion again when he'd rather go to the Outer Banks.  If a minivan with a luggage carrier on top and bicycles on the back passes by I wonder how the family inside is faring on their big road trip:  "I'm always in the wrong lane!" "She's looking at me!" "He's touching me!" "I asked you if you needed to go five minutes ago!"  But I've never had a story drop into my lap.

Once the light changed we all turned left: Hallmark Guy, Hallmark Girl, and I.  My observation of the couple must have affected my pressure on the gas pedal, because the minivan and the SUV moved ahead of me in short order.  I strained to see if either vehicle turned right or left but both traveled along together until they were out of sight.

What was that kiss about?  Both drivers were alone in their cars, so no passenger dares were involved.  I assume they knew each other, but what if they didn't?  Was I witnessing a Hallmark Channel movie come to life? Two strangers meet at a sample table inside Costco's frozen food aisle and fall in love by the time they reach the checkout.

I do love Hallmark Channel Christmas movies.  I don't care that they start airing even as the jack-o-lanterns grin. I can't resist the sweetness of the stories and the guaranteed happy endings.  And I love the romance.

Mr. Pettit, bless his heart, indulges me by enduring countless variations of "Boy meets girl at Christmastime, love begins to bloom, misunderstanding ensues, Santa arrives and true love wins." Since I wind up watching each movie multiple times he's developed a shorthand summary for each: "Is this the one where the woman bakes cookies?" "Oh, this is the one with Henry Winkler."

The one with Henry Winkler (also known as "the Fonz"---we'll wait if you need to check Google) is my favorite:  The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.  It contains the two pivotal elements required for a Hallmark Channel Christmas movie: Attractive actors and a completely unbelievable storyline.

Here you go: Cute Guy helps out Beautiful Woman's uncle (Henry Winkler) when he flies out to visit her. Uncle persuades BW to let CG crash at her house when CG's flight is cancelled due to weather. BW falls for CG as he teaches her how to cook, hangs lights on her house and fights an ill-tempered toy store owner over BW's Christmas gift for her son. BW is torn between CG and her fiancé, Big Money Dude, until she sees BMD's true colors and goes racing after CG as he prepares to fly out of her life.  She catches him, of course.

What's not to like?

I'm a news junkie. I read our local paper and The Washington Post daily, watch cable news and visit news websites. I think it's an important to stay informed about local, state, national and international events.

But news, with few exceptions, is bad. And even when dictators are taking a break, terrorists are lying low and the economy isn't sputtering the challenges facing my friends and family weigh heavy on my mind.

So sometimes (okay, maybe a little more often than that) I go down the rabbit hole into Happy Christmas Fantasy Land.  I settle in and watch Santa playing matchmaker, angels playing matchmaker, the Fonz playing matchmaker and even cats (yes, cats) playing matchmaker.  As the final credits roll I float back up into reality and resume my Serious Work.

And the kissing couple at the traffic light? I haven't come up with their story yet, but I think the Hallmark Channel has a pitch coming its way.

All rights to Hallmark Channel and its programming are owned by Crown Media Family Networks.

Waiting for Rain

"God guards those who turn to him.  The pounding you feel does not suggest his distance, but proves his nearness.  Trust his sovereignty.  Hasn't he earned your trust?"
Come Thirsty: No Heart Too Dry for His Touch by Max Lucado

I am a work in progress.  I'm sure all of you, dear readers, have realized this by now.  I go back and forth over the fence between the woman God created me to be and the slothful soul who'd rather play computer solitaire and eat waffle fries.  For instance, sometimes I write regularly with single-minded determination and other times I'm as focused as a cloud.  Since I haven't written here in about a month you can guess on which side of that equation I've been residing.

I'm always seeking out assistance in this journey and that's why I started attending a Bible study for women at our church over a month ago.  We've been reading and discussing the Max Lucado book quoted above.  I've learned as much from my classmates as from the text.

Last week we talked about two chapters: "Angels Watching Over You" and "With God as Your Guardian."  In the latter chapter Lucado deals with the ancient quandary of how to hold fast to your faith in a loving Creator even as His creation seems to be turning against you.  Illness.  Unemployment.  Homelessness.  Children gone astray.  Spouses simply gone.

Lucado maintains that such struggles strengthen our faith, just as a silversmith's endless hammering brings out the beauty in an ingot of silver.  He summarizes his illustration with the quote above.  When one woman mentioned it the second sentence jumped out at me, even though I had underlined it earlier:  "The pounding you feel does not suggest his distance, but proves his nearness."

If we're not being pounded does that mean God is distant?

Is it bad for things to be good?

The consensus of the group was that I shouldn't worry about it because trouble is surely on the way.  Don't fret because you'll feel the strike of the silversmith's hammer soon enough.

But I don't want to endure good times; I want to enjoy them.

I agree that just as muscles grow when challenged by resistance our faith grows when challenged by adversity.  Bad news sharpens focus and clarifies perspective.  And we might as well look for a silver lining, since here on planet Earth things go wrong on a regular basis.  As Jesus said, “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”  John 16:33 (NIV)

As a Christ follower I give thanks every day that He has overcome the world, that in Him my life has an unchanging, eternal center.  But I don't think acknowledging the world's woes means we have to walk under an umbrella on a sunny day.  I don't want to be Eeyore, the gloomy little donkey created by A. A. Milne.

Rather, I think living in the moment requires that I receive what God is offering with open hands.  He might reveal something wondrous, like a butterfly landing on my cap or a granddaughter landing in my life.  Or He might allow something dark to enter my world, such as illness or loss.  Walking with Jesus means accepting His plan, one moment at a time.


I'm a work in progress, traveling toward a destination described by Paul:

"I rejoiced greatly in the Lord that at last you renewed your concern for me. Indeed, you were concerned, but you had no opportunity to show it. I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances.  I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.  I can do all this through him who gives me strength." Philippians 4:10-13 (NIV)

Sticks and Stones

There's no place to hide.

I settled into my recliner with my coffee Saturday morning to watch "College GameDay" on ESPN.  I might not watch many actual games in the course of an autumn Saturday but I enjoy listening to Desmond, Chris, Lee, Kirk and Company as they preview the coming attractions.  All the elements of great storytelling are on display: The price of hubris, the rewards of persistence, the player or coach who overcame a terrible injury or illness or who lost a loved one to same, the relationship between a team and its steadfast fans.

But the lead story Saturday wasn't inspiring or thought-provoking or even mildly entertaining.  Instead it was an unwelcome reminder that we're becoming a nation of potty-mouths.

Let me introduce you to our latest exhibit: Jameis Winston, Heisman Trophy winner and quarterback for the Florida State Seminoles. Mr. Winston was suspended for his team's game against Clemson University on Saturday because a few days earlier he jumped up on a table on campus and said a bad thing.  A very bad thing.  Something so bad I can't even figure out how to allude to it without feeling dirty.  If you're a curious soul like me you can consult Mr. Google for the details.

I was disgusted by Mr. Winston's comments, but I was flabbergasted when the ESPN pundits said the offensive statement is found in a viral video that's making the rounds on college campuses.  Oh, and it wouldn't have been so bad if he had confined his verbal trash to the locker room, among his "brothers."  Really, college students talk like this all the time.

Lord, have mercy.

As this story percolated in my brain I remembered an encounter Mr. Pettit and I witnessed at a local Target store about a month ago.  We were studying handheld carpet cleaners (yes, our lives are that exciting) when a little girl, about 5 years old, appeared at the end of a nearby aisle, stopped, then walked back the way she came.

A few moments later we heard a woman's voice:  "What the hell's wrong with you?  It's like you're on speed.  Jesus!"  The woman and little girl moved on to another aisle as Mr. Pettit and I stared at each other in stunned silence.

The way her rebuke was delivered was as shocking to us as the words themselves.  We did not hear the tired, exasperated, frustrated voice of an adult pushed to her limits by a willful child.  Had we concluded this woman was having a horrendous day we would not have condoned her harsh statement but we would have understood its origin, much as we understand the crimes of passion that fill the news.

Instead her voice was cold, devoid of emotion, leading us to believe she serves up cruel words to this little girl on a regular basis, maybe every day, maybe all day.  How can we expect this child to grow up healthy and whole on such a diet?

In the rush to express ourselves, to be "real," many seem to have forgotten that words have power.  I remember watching the nightly news during the height of the Vietnam War---I was a news junkie even as a child---and after a while I became desensitized to the casualty reports every night.  The numbers stopped representing people and were merely a tally, just like a board game.

The words we choose seep into our subconscious, whether we're busy building others up or tearing them down.  Using language that demeans others inflicts immediate damage and in the long term desensitizes us to the humanity of our fellow citizens.   I get the impression we're not supposed to pass judgment on anything anymore, since none of us is without flaws.  But our kindergarten teachers were right: Using bad words is a bad thing.

This column has left me a bit depressed, so I'll close with a verse from the Bible about the proper use of language:

Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.
Proverbs 16:24
     

Here Comes the Sun

Today's my birthday.  Every July I look back over the months (and years) that have passed.  As I prepared for mowing last week I revisited springtime at Columbia College in Columbia, South Carolina, where I spent my freshman and sophomore years.  I thought about the first warm days of April and the ritual of "laying out."

Between the heat and humidity Columbia can rival the surface of the sun for discomfort in the summer.  Even the Palmetto bugs---cockroaches the size of kittens---stop skittering and their antennae droop.  But April is fine and perfect for building that valuable base tan.

For back in those days the sun was my ally, not my enemy.  Yes, my children, my friends and I danced like happy honeybees to the roof of one of the dormitories to put us that much closer to the object of our affection.  We'd spread out our beach towels and pour on oil to facilitate our roasting.  The more health-conscious among us would break out suntan lotion with SPF of 8.  ("Suntan lotion"---Another case where word choice tells the story.)

We would lie there as long as we could stand it, carefully switching sides at regular intervals in order to achieve even cooking.  Even we English majors called this procedure "laying out" with total disregard for the proper use of "lie" and "lay."  Perhaps the term referred to our laying the beach towels on the roof, although I think that interpretation is somewhat generous.

Fast forward to 2014.  Mr. Pettit and I are blessed with a spacious lawn; it's like the National Mall without the monuments.  I tried driving our zero-turn-radius riding mower once, but I had trouble coordinating the movement of the two steering handles---I wound up carving ocean waves in the grass.

The husband said he was sure I would get the hang of it, but I didn't want to sign up for another learning curve.  So on grass-cutting days I steer the push mower through the tight places where the riding mower can't travel.

Getting ready for duty takes about as long as the job itself.  Put on appropriate attire:  A pair of black-fading-to-gray shorts and an old T shirt.  The shirt I tie-dyed with some fifth graders several years ago and the 50th Flying Training Squadron tee with the hole in the neck seam are always good choices.

Pull hair back.  Slather thick white sunscreen, SPF 50, over face and neck until I resemble a ghost.  Pour a thinner liquid, SPF 30, over arms and legs.  Rub in well, being sure to cover those easy-to-miss spots, like the back of the knees and the ankles.

Slide on sunglasses to protect my eyeballs and slap on a hat.  Sometimes I go with my green microfiber hat with the flap in back to cover my neck, just in case I missed a spot with the sunscreen.  More often, I choose my Navy hat (in honor of Daddy's service) since it works better with the headphones that provide ear protection and a way to listen to the radio or iPod over the noise of the mower.  (This is where I have arrived: I consider those headphones one of the best presents Mr. Pettit has given me in the past ten years.)   Turn on headphones and fit them over the hat.  Once I pull on my gloves I'm ready to spring into action.

As I wrangle the mower through the ditch by the road I sometimes wonder what folks are thinking as they drive by.  I'm a child of the South, so one sentence comes to mind:  "Bless her heart."

What's really scary is that I don't care.

That's not to say I'd show up at church on Sunday morning in this get-up.  I wouldn't even run to the grocery store for a loaf of bread.  The women I grew up around did not leave the house without makeup and proper attire.  To do so would be as bad as having someone leave your home hungry.  It is not done.  My Colombian daughter-in-law says her culture is the same; they even have an expression for it: "Ante todo el glamour."  Beauty before everything.

Beauty certainly took center stage as my friends and I baked atop a dormitory all those years ago.  I recently came across some handwritten pages from my sophomore year.  Apparently I had been asked to examine my values and vision for my future as part of a Bible study I was attending.  After reading that draft I'm surprised I sought out the sun, since I was clearly the center of the solar system.

I wish I could go back in time and thump myself on the head.

I suppose self-absorption is a common affliction among the young.  However, I think I, the spoiled baby of the family, had an especially acute case.  As I've grown older I've slowly realized that people are not spending much time worrying about what I'm doing, what I'm thinking or what I'm wearing.   The folks speeding by me on our country road probably spend more effort trying not to hit me as I mow (thank you) than noticing my poor fashion choices.  Realizing the world does not revolve around you is incredibly liberating.  I've distilled this revelation into four words:

It's not about me.

As a Christian I take that motto a step further:  It's not about me;  it's about Jesus. Bet you didn't see that coming when you started this column.  But I try to be transparent with you, dear readers, and this is where my thoughts have taken me.  It's not so surprising, really, since only the Creator of the sun and the grass deserves credit for bringing me through another year to another year, day by day.

Thank You, God, for another birthday. 

Life, Love, and Lyrics

“Isn’t She Lovely” by Stevie Wonder was the first song that came to mind that Saturday afternoon.

I categorize places by food. (Columbus, Mississippi: Little Dooey’s Barbecue. Minot, North Dakota: Planet Pizza.)  But I tag memories with music.  I remember my mother singing “Toora, Loora, Loora” over me when I was four or five, trying to get me to sleep.  Ever the strong-willed child I’d put my finger over her lips and say, “No more ‘Toora Loora’!”

When I hear “Joy to the World” by Three Dog Night I find myself in a darkened bus with my fellow middle schoolers, rolling down the highway on a class trip, singing as loud as we can.  ”Jeremiah was a bullfrog. He was a good friend of mine…” 

“Mountain of Love” by Charley Pride returns me to a car traveling across Texas, heading to Mr. Pettit’s first Air Force assignment.  We had never listened to country music, but only the sounds of Nashville could be found on the radio dial as we crossed from the tree-lined highways of the Ark-La-Tex to the high desert of Lubbock.

The songs of Fred Rogers filled our home in our sons’ early years.  “You Are Special” and “It’s Such a Good Feeling” summed up the love and hope and dreams we carried for our little boys.

“Something That We Do” by Clint Black has been on my internal playlist for around three years now, ever since the marriage of Younger Son.  The lyrics of that song describe marriage at its most authentic and lasting, not the gauzy easy romance promised in the movies. 

There's no request too big or small
We give ourselves, we give our all
Love isn't someplace that we fall
It's something that we do.

As of June 14, 2014, Stevie Wonder’s song about his baby girl is no longer confined to my freshman year at Columbia College.  It has moved well into the 21^st century and marks the moment when we saw our granddaughter for the first time.  We stood at the nursery window like children at a toy store, straining for a view of Little Miss as a nurse tended to her.  Our princess was crying, her arms outstretched and quivering, overwhelmed by the size and brightness of her new world.  The nurse soothed her by wrapping her as tightly as a mummy in a blanket and then brought her to the window, where we saw this newest member of our family face to sweet face for the first time.  That’s when I heard Stevie singing in my head:

  

Isn't she lovely? Isn't she wonderful?
Isn't she precious?

Less than one minute old
I never thought through love
We'd be making one as lovely as she
But isn't she lovely made from love?

Too soon it was time to go home.  As we traveled north through the Shenandoah Valley we listened to a satellite radio show devoted to cowboy music.  (Mr. Pettit and I have eclectic musical tastes.)  “Red River Valley” came on and I started singing along.

From this valley they say you are going.

We will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile,

For they say you are taking the sunshine

That has brightened our pathway a while.

The words take me to the back seat of my parents’ car, heading home from a visit to both grandmothers in North Carolina.  Daddy is singing as he drives.  He often does, and his repertoire includes “Red River Valley,” “Cattle Call,” “Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley” and a hundred original creations.  The dark woods on either side of the road don’t seem so threatening here in the dim glow of the dashboard light, listening to Daddy sing.

Daddy’s been gone for 25 years, Mama for 17.  I remember them these days with more laughter than tears, but as I sang along to “Red River Valley” the tears came.

The intensity of longing for my parents surprised me.  I wanted them to meet their great-granddaughter.  I wanted to share the beauty of this day.  I wanted to tell them that all is well.

My sadness passed when I realized I was encircled by blessing.  Parents, husband, children and now a grandchild:  A circle of love extending into heaven and back again.  As I write this I recall a song I heard for the first time in a Bible Study Fellowship class in Montgomery, Alabama:

“Great is Thy faithfulness!” “Great is Thy faithfulness!“
  Morning by morning new mercies I see;
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided—
    “Great is Thy faithfulness,” Lord, unto me!

Amen.

Song Credits:

“Toora, Loora, Loora”:  James Royce Shannon

“Joy to the World”:  Hoyt Axton

“Mountain of Love”:  Harold Dorman

“You Are Special” and “It’s Such a Good Feeling”:  Fred Rogers

“Something That We Do": Clint Black and Skip Ewing

“Isn’t She Lovely”:  Stevie Wonder

“Red River Valley”:  Folk Song

“Great Is Thy Faithfulness”:  Thomas Obediah Chisholm and William Marion Runyan

Going the Distance, Fifteen Minutes at a Time

 “…We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness…We do earnestly repent, And are heartily sorry for these our misdoings; The remembrance of them is grievous unto us; The burden of them is intolerable.”  Book of Common Prayer, 1928 edition

“I decide to do good, but I don’t really do it; I decide not to do bad, but then I do it anyway.”  Romans 7:19 (The Message)

I don’t know what it says about me and my misdoings, but the undone gets to me every time.  Not that the other side of the slate is clean---I might never be an inmate at Shawshank but I’ve still got a rap sheet known by the Almighty---but it’s what I’ve failed to do that’s likely to come to mind when the hour is late and the house is still and I can’t sleep.  The comfort I didn’t offer, the patience I didn’t show, the promise I didn’t keep. 

The stories I didn’t write.

I thought about inviting you, dear reader, to share my sackcloth and ashes.  To ask you if there is something you feel called to do, that you feel you were born to do, that is going undone, day after day.  But I realized I was trying to ease my own guilt by implying yours, so I’ll keep this discussion confined to my shortcomings.

Maybe guilt isn’t the best word to use here.  I resolved to put guilt and regret aside in my first column of 2014, “My Undo List.”  I’ve finally learned that once I’ve acknowledged a mistake, asked for forgiveness and tried to set things right I should let go and move on.  I’m working on that.  But keeping that boogeyman at bay doesn’t let me off the hook.   I still have to face the good I don’t do.

Let’s cut to the chase.  I should write but I don’t.   I’ve justified my inaction by saying I don’t know what to write, but recently I had an epiphany:  Ideas don’t lead to writing.  Writing leads to ideas.

I recalled my writing journey, from the creative writing assignments in college to my first job as a very junior reporter for our local newspaper to the columns and reports written for volunteer groups to letters to the editor to the work you’ve read on this blog.  In most of those cases I sat down and wrote because I had to, whether because of a class requirement, a commitment I had to honor, or an issue about which I felt strongly.  Sentences sidled up to me, slowly and surely, as I pressed one key after another.

This realization was confirmed by no less than the great writer of westerns Louis L’Amour:  “Start writing, no matter what.  The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.”  Teacher, children’s book author and blogger Martin Tiller posted that quote on Facebook recently.  I became acquainted with Martin through his parents, friends of mine, and I’ve had the pleasure of proofreading a couple of his books.  (Martin’s stories about Kevin, a boy with a big imagination, can be found on Amazon.com.I recommend them highly.)

In the December 26, 2013 edition of his blog, “Digital Tiller: The 21^st Century Is No Longer the Future,” (http://martintiller.com) Martin described how he manages to fit writing into his life.   He introduced me to the power of 15 minutes a day:

During a normal day I teach 5th grade.  That alone is enough.  Lesson plans, meetings, parent conferences, grading.  You know, teaching.
Then there is family time.  I have a two year old in the house.  I want to spend as much time as possible with her during this time.  So I do.
But if I set a goal of 15 minutes a day I can get stuff done.  Not blazing fast.  But stuff gets done.  And that’s the goal.  Get stuff done.

Martin went on to say that he can write about 250 words in 15 minutes and he often writes for longer than that.   But 15 minutes is his goal and now I’m claiming it as mine.

I had always believed that being a “real” writer meant getting up at dawn and writing for two hours before work every day.  I figured if I couldn’t rev myself up for that level of commitment I might as well do nothing.  At least that was my excuse, silly as it was.  

But Martin’s essay has given me an attainable goal and I’m reaching it, on most days anyway.  My writing speed is glacial at this point, but I’m writing.

Back in my late teens and early twenties I wasn’t sure if I’d win a Pulitzer Prize for journalism, poetry or fiction, but I was certain I’d do something great.

Now I’m simply trying to do good.  And that’s enough.

Lost at Sea

I saw Noah today and I know legions are waiting for my take on this film.  Maybe not legions, but at least a dozen.  Okay, maybe two friends who aren’t wrapped up in the season premiere of “Game of Thrones” but still don’t want to do anything productive.  So, here you go…

SPOILER ALERT!  You don’t need one if you’ve read the story of Noah and his ark in the Bible.  Well, that’s not exactly true.  The movie has a guy and his family, a big boat designed to haul animals, and a flood that wipes the planet clean.  The resemblance to the Old Testament account ends there.

I learned the following from the two hours and 18 minutes I spent with Russell Crowe and company:

·         The SyFy Channel took the idea for that classic film Rock Monster from the Bible.  (Haven’t seen Rock Monster?  You obviously don’t spend enough Saturday nights at home.)  It turns out pre-Flood Earth played host to creatures that looked like chunks of broken concrete stuck together.  They’re pretty grumpy and would be no fun at a picnic.

·           People back then had a really cool energy source, glowing rocks (no relation to the aforementioned creatures) called zophar.  Strike them and they glow and burn and can be used to create a Molotov cocktail in a pinch.  Noah uses several for that purpose when he has to destroy the raft belonging to his eldest son and pregnant daughter-in-law who have to escape the ark because Noah has sworn to kill their child if it’s a girl because he believes God wants all humanity to be exterminated and a girl could become a mother.  (Are you with me so far?)  After the raft burns Jack Bauer, Chuck Norris, Moses and St. Paul sidle up to the ark on an inflatable boat, packing AK-47s, bandoliers of extra ammo and a party-size bag of Cheetos.  They tie up Noah with a sleeping boa constrictor and proceed to flirt with Mrs. Noah, who looks like Jennifer Connelly.

Alright, nothing I said after “Are you with me so far?” was in the movie.  But it should have been.

·         Now I know why there are no unicorns.  I suspect they were eaten by a stowaway named Tubal-Cain, a greasy looking refugee from the Mad Max movies.  Come to think of it, I’ve never been so close to becoming a vegetarian as I was while watching Noah.  Those characters had no table manners whatsoever, not to mention cooking skills.
 

·         The Genesis account does tell us that Noah commemorated his arrival on dry land by getting drunk and “nekkid.”  (In South Carolina, the land of my raising, “nekkid” refers to nudity that’s up to no good.)  However, the Bible does not mention that Noah looked like Nick Nolte in his DUI arrest photo, only worse.  Want to dissuade your teenagers from drinking?  Make them watch Noah downing gallons of wine.  I don’t think a drunken grizzly would look as sloppy.

We never hear from God directly in this movie, but I like to think it gave Him a few laughs.  When you’re faced with the problems of billions 24/7 you deserve some comic relief.  I can hear Him saying:

“Oh My Me, it’s the Rock Monster!”

 

Full Circle

I can’t remember to whom the shoe belonged.

The white ankle boot, size 4E, presides over my dresser.   The sole has a few miles (or yards) on it but is in passable condition.  When I study the leather upper I see the path of a shoe polish bottle’s foam tip---I can still picture Mr. Pettit carefully erasing days of wear, the shoe perched on the tips of his fingers.    “Stride Rite” is barely visible on the insole, almost worn away by a small perpetual motion machine. 

Even the story of how this piece of footwear came to rest on my dresser is unclear to me now.  I recall coming across it as I sorted through our sons’ things, probably after a move.  We moved ten times during Mr. Pettit’s Air Force career and each new home seemed to demand sorting and organizing, giving away and throwing out.   

Maybe I tossed the little boot’s companion or perhaps it was lost in an earlier move.  All I can remember is a sudden impulse to set apart this bit of my boys’ ancient history.  And so it sits in a place of honor, next to the jewelry box my husband bought during a deployment in England and the comb and mirror Daddy gave me after a business trip to Puerto Rico.  It’s my life told by a succession of things:  Daughter to wife to mother. 

It used to bother me that I didn’t know if the shoe belonged to Older or Younger Son.  But now I’m glad its ownership is uncertain, for it represents all the steps taken by my little boys.  Like that moment when crawling and standing aren’t good enough and our round-faced child resembles Frankenstein’s Creature, fresh off the scientist’s operating table:  Foot up, wait for it, wait for it, foot down.  The foot is down and he is still up!  Let’s see if he can do it again:  Other foot is up, wait, yes, that foot is on the floor!  Quick, write it on the baby calendar:  First steps. 

Of course, we soon learned that a baby on the move is akin to a monkey on the loose.  No object is uninteresting to a young human and the more dangerous the better.  Mr. Pettit and I became a Secret Service detail of two, sweeping each new location for possible threats.  Brick hearth and a rectangular coffee table at nine o’clock.  Open electrical outlet at your six.  Uh-oh, check out the crystal vase on the end table.  We‘ve got a situation here…
 

Regrets sneak up and clobber me occasionally, but I don’t spend much time looking over my shoulder.  We have photo albums (remember them?) lined up on our bookshelves, filled with pictures of each son’s first moments:  First bath, first Christmas, first haircut, first day of kindergarten.  I’m glad we have these illustrated histories, but I’ve learned that if I linger with these shadows I start to pine for my little boys, and they are long gone. 

I’m floating down a river, carried forward by the current.  Since I can’t reverse course I might as well enjoy the scenery around me.   I put the little shoe back in its usual spot atop a craft-stick box.   I’m grateful for the little boy who wore it (whether it was Older or Younger Son) and for the good man who took his place.  I’m grateful for the moments represented by the shoe, the jewelry box and the comb and mirror. 

And I'm grateful for the gift of hope, as I wonder what will be added to my dresser display in the months and years to come.  For this summer I’ll take on a new role:  Grandmother.

Satisfaction guaranteed...

Let the snow come, the flakes slipping from the sky as I sleep.  I shall shovel and I shall sing.

Spring and summer in the garden are about hope and wishes.  I bury the roots of tender plants in rich soil, give them the recommended allowance of water and sun and wait.

Sorry, these seats are taken...

Sometimes I am rewarded with glossy foliage and bountiful blooms.  Other times I’m left with yellow leaves and skeletal bushes.  Friends talk about canning tomatoes and making salsa.  I dream of slicing one beautiful red fruit for my ham sandwich.

But snow never disappoints.  The snow blower
can't reach every spot so I go forth with my trio of shovels:  The pusher, the scooper, and the scraper.  And I know I will return to the house victorious.

Tuck in the ear buds, scroll to the “Classical” playlist, hit “Shuffle,” and slip the iPod into my jacket pocket.  “Moonlight Sonata”:  Scoop, lift (always with the legs), toss.  “Fur Elise”:  Scoop, lift, toss.  Pachelbel’s “Canon in D”:  Scoop, lift, toss. 

I’ve cleared a path around the mailbox and newspaper holders, scraped lingering ice on the driveway and uncovered the edges of the sidewalk when I stop to rest on our front steps.  I decide I’ve had enough “adagio” and need an infusion of music from within the last hundred years.  Scroll to “Songs,” hit “Shuffle,” and wait to see what the machine will choose for me.

“I Want You Back” by The Jackson 5 begins, and I scoop, lift, and toss to the beat of young Michael’s vocals.  “Lundu” by The Chieftains reminds me that St. Patrick’s Day is on the way and that I wish I could step dance.   The Pussycat Dolls invite me to “Sway”---I like Dean Martin’s version better, but that might be my own cattiness speaking.

Time for lunch.  There’s a bit more clearing to do, but I know I’ll finish my task before day’s end.  Snow never disappoints.  The flakes fall and wait for us to push them aside.

Spring is coming.  And then I will wait.  And hope. 

Just chillin'

Dear Citizens of Long Beach, California,

In a recent visit to the U.S. News and World Report website I noticed that your fair city (well, actually your entire state) topped a list of 10 retirement locations with year-round nice weather.

How can you stand it?

When I checked the Weather Channel website today our corner of Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley came in at 32 degrees while y’all were sitting at a balmy 60.  Call me a season-ist, but that’s just not right.  Sixty degrees Fahrenheit belongs in March or April, not January.

Don’t get me wrong.  You have a lovely city.  The Queen Mary is a classic beauty and even your new airport terminal is a pleasant place to pass the time.  Who can complain about an open-air waiting area, complete with palm trees swaying in the warm breeze?

It must be paradise, except it’s not.  Not for me, anyway.

I don’t wear the same clothes every day.  I’ll never get a tattoo because I don’t want to be stuck with a permanent accessory.  Sometimes I’ll switch back and forth between two books because neither can hold my attention.

I want to use all 64 crayons in the box. 

Living in a place with four seasons means the weather never wears out its welcome.   I’ve lived in Louisiana where summer drags out from April to October and in North Dakota where winter lingers from October to May.  In our little part of the Commonwealth each season has the good manners to move on right before you decide you’re tired of it.  Fall, in fact, always departs before I’m ready to say goodbye.

Another thing---what do you talk about when the weather’s perfect all the time?  Earlier this week something called the polar vortex rode into town, threw us all into a walk-in freezer and slammed the door.  And as we shivered together we swapped stories with people in the check-out line and at work and at church.  “Cold enough for you?”  “Did your power go out?”  “I hear it’s going to warm up to 30 tomorrow---I guess I'll wear shorts."

We squeeze every drop of excitement out of every weather event, especially those of the winter variety.  We watched Mr. Vortex approach with dreadful glee, wrapped ourselves up in fleece and pulled on our mittens when he arrived, and discussed his visit extensively after he returned to the North Pole.  What do you get excited about?  "Harriet, I hear the temperature’s gonna drop to 50 tonight---I better go buy some more bread and milk.”  I suppose if I lived in California I’d complain about the taxes, but that same old song would wear thin fast.

I hope I haven’t hurt your feelings.  Many would consider your temperate climate ideal and I’m sure I’ll visit your city again.
 

But I wouldn’t want to live there.

Sincerely,
Rita Pettit