Fringe Benefits

I told myself I shouldn't eat the cupcake.

Thanksgiving was approaching, and I knew I'd have to face a thousand edible temptations between that holiday and Christmas. And I also knew I'd wind up succumbing to at least a few of them. (Okay, maybe more than a few. But not most. Well, maybe somewhere between a few and most. But definitely not all.)

So I said no to the cupcake.

I was substituting in second grade that afternoon and the teacher across the hall, Mrs. M., had made Food Network-worthy chocolate cupcakes for a fellow teacher's birthday. When I declined the treat at lunch, Mrs. R., the birthday girl, insisted I take one. "But what if you fly up to heaven tomorrow?" she asked. "You will have missed out on a cupcake for no good reason."

I appreciated her logic, but I was resolute. No cupcake for me.

Mrs. M. said she would be in a meeting while all the second-graders were in Resource (P.E., Art, Music, or Library) but I was welcome to come in to her classroom and take a cupcake if I changed my mind.

I took advantage of the Resource time to look at my lesson plans for the rest of the afternoon and begin my note to the absent teacher about how things had gone. But I finished quickly and I was left with nothing to do but sit and think.

About the cupcakes behind the locked door across the hall.

And I gave in.

As soon as I lifted the lid of the cake carrier the rich, chocolaty scent took me back to every birthday cake Mama ever made for me. If I were a stronger person I would have been satisfied to breathe in that sweetness.

But I'm not.

I took the cupcake back to my classroom and ate it slowly, savoring the moist chocolate cake and the swirly buttery frosting. I've had those fancy cupcakes that folks stand in line for and this one was far superior. Although I did not fly up to heaven the next day I still don't regret consuming that treat. It was that good.

A few days later I spent the afternoon filling in for a P.E. teacher.  I was told that another P.E. teacher would be present, so I'd be on hand to help with crowd control. (And when you're working with 40 or so five- and six-year-olds at a time, crowd control is essential.)

A multicolored parachute was spread out on the gym floor---it looked like a rainbow had circled back on itself and fallen to Earth. After Ms. B. laid down the ground rules (such as no walking on or climbing under the parachute), the students took their places, two per colored wedge.

I shared a color with a young man who declined to participate. I can't remember why he was disgruntled, but his faux tears were plentiful. However, he inched forward once he decided that the cost of setting aside his anger was worth the benefit of making the parachute billow. Following Ms. B's instructions, we built from gentle waves to a tsunami.

Soon the cavernous space filled with laughter: The students', Ms. B.'s and mine. I couldn't have maintained my composure even if you had threatened to take away the Hallmark Channel. My joy was effervescent, bubbling up from my six-year-old self.

I write this during the lull between Christmas and New Year's Day, when I'm caught between the desire for one more night in the glow of my Christmas tree and the urge to lean into a new year with a tidy home and a fresh agenda. I love the holidays, but it's very easy for me to get so caught up in doing that I neglect being. My ongoing resolution---for this column and my life---is that I will become more proficient in savoring the sweetness of the moment, whether that involves a eating a chocolate cupcake, flapping a parachute, putting together a puzzle with my granddaughter or rocking my one-month-old grandson as he sleeps. Those aren't fringe benefits; they're the whole paycheck.

May your new year be filled with moments of light and joy.

Thank You Notes

"What are the magic words?"

I pose that question at least once each time I substitute in an elementary school classroom. And if I had to guess I'd say that 85% of the time the correct reply is given for the situation: "Please" or "Thank you."

I taught kindergarten for a couple of days last week. A young man walked up to me and announced in a gravelly, pack-a-day, I've-been-workin'-on-the-railroad voice that his shoe was untied. If I had been in a crabby mood I might have replied, "Yes, it is," and moved on to our math lesson. But since my patience was not hanging by a thread I asked for the magic words instead. He didn't know them but I remedied that. He seemed somewhat skeptical but maybe the fact that he walked away with nicely tied shoes provided good reinforcement.

Later that day we took a break for story time. The classroom teacher had a basket of books by her chair and I selected one titled Thank You, Thanksgiving by David Milgrim. It's a story about a little girl who's sent on an errand by her mother to the general store in town. Clearly we should classify this particular work as a fantasy because these days a mother is about as likely to ask her young child to fire up a circular saw in the garage as she is to send her off to town by herself.

As Little Miss toddles off through the snow on her mission she thanks her warm boots. In fact, her journey to the store becomes a litany of appreciation. When she hears birds singing in the park she says, "Thank you, music." She also thanks the park, some rabbits (although I couldn't figure out what for), a duck that picks up her scarf, the store, a hill where she does some sledding, pie with whipped cream and finally Thanksgiving itself.

I've developed a pretty good poker face, so as I closed the book I'm sure the children couldn't tell I was thinking "Huh?" I had just read a book with Thanksgiving in the title but the main character gave thanks only to animals, geographic features, inanimate objects and a holiday. Something buzzed on the periphery of my brain until it hit me: The little girl thanked things, not the people who made them possible. (Although I will concede that it was proper to thank that duck.) Don't thank the boots; thank your parents for buying them. Don't thank the store; thank the clerk who helped you. Don't thank the pie; thank the person who made it.

I had the feeling the author's purpose was to write a children's book about Thanksgiving without having to deal with the elephant in the room: Thanksgiving requires giving thanks to somebody. And while you can thank your mama for the pumpkin pie whom do you thank for good health? For a monarch butterfly? For autumn's last blaze of color on the mountainside?

I decided to ask my students whom they could thank on Thanksgiving. The responses came quickly:
"My mom."
"My dad."

"Okay, anyone else?"

"My brother."
"My sister."

Come on, come on. One of you knows. I'm sure of it.

"My family."
"My brother."

"Yes, someone said that. Can you think of someone else you can thank?"

Silence.


I didn't cross the line and give them the answer I longed to hear: God. I'm certain He put this impulse of gratitude in our hearts, knowing that eventually it would lead us to Him. Because there are some things no one else can claim credit for: The velvet of a newborn's skin, the joy of fellowship with a dear friend, the recovery from a serious illness. We can't help but run smack dab into the Creator of all things.

Thank you, God.

It Is Well

Today is Election Day in the United States.

It is likely that by tomorrow morning about half of those who voted will be elated.

The other half will be depressed. Those are the people I'd like to reach today. And I can't rule out the possibility that I'm giving myself a preemptive pep talk.

In church Sunday we sang the hymn "It Is Well With My Soul." Its lyrics were written in 1873 by a businessman named Horatio Spafford and were put to music by Philip Bliss in 1876.

Spafford didn't write his poem from a self-satisfied seat atop a mountain. He wrote it in the deepest of valleys, as he mourned the loss of his four daughters. His family had been traveling ahead of him to Europe when their ship was struck by another. His wife survived and sent him a telegram with this devastating news: "Saved alone."

As Spafford crossed the Atlantic to join her his ship's captain informed him when they arrived at the spot where his daughters had perished. He could have shaken his fist at God and launched volleys of bitter anger. And who would have blamed him? Instead, he wrote this:

When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
Refrain:
It is well, (it is well),
With my soul, (with my soul)
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Whatever happens tonight, I know that I can face tomorrow, thanks to the grace and mercy of Jesus Christ.

It is well.

Retreat. Refresh. Regroup.

What a difference a week makes.

The cornfield crackled as I walked by yesterday, the dead stalks bending in an October breeze. A scene of harvest and of endings. It made me think of the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania, a place of water and color, a place to find refreshment as our nation endures a brittle election season.

The scene below Cucumber Falls, Ohiopyle State Park

A week ago Mr. Pettit and I traveled there for our last camping trip of the year. It's time to put our trailer---affectionately called "Kermit" due to its frog decal---away for the winter.


We spent the first day of our trip exploring Ohiopyle State Park. We clambered over boulders and climbed up and down hillsides to watch the Youghiogheny River at work. 

We heard the water long before we saw it. And when our eyes could take in what our ears had perceived---the sunlight illuminating the mist as the torrent continued its relentless path through the mountains, trees thinned of leaves bearing witness---all of the stress of the 24-hour news cycle faded.

We let the autumnal sunshine bake into our bones as we listened to the music of the river, written by the Composer of all good things before time began.

The names of all those killed on September 11, 2001

The next day we turned our attention from natural wonders to man made tragedy. First we visited the Flight 93 National Memorial outside Shanksville. You know the story: The passengers and crew of United Airlines Flight 93 fought back against the terrorists who sought to use their plane as a missile against a target in Washington D.C. (most likely the U.S. Capitol). They died when the hijackers decided to crash the plane. 

We watched a loop of the television news coverage of the day: From the first reports of a plane hitting one of the World Trade Center towers, to the collapse of one tower, then another, to the terrible burning gash in the side of the Pentagon, to the blackened field in Pennsylvania. 

We saw artifacts from Flight 93's wreckage and portraits of the passengers and crew. Not only portraits, but spontaneous family photos, moments of joy frozen in time. 

A marble wall adjacent to the crash site honors the dead

There were boxes of tissues scattered throughout the exhibit---I've never seen tissues at any of the National Park Service sites we've visited before---but I didn't need any until I listened to the messages left on answering machines by two of the women aboard Flight 93. These weren't reenactments; they were the actual voices of people who knew they probably wouldn't see their loved ones again, not in this life anyway. Different women, different families, the same sentiment, over and over: "I love you."

The crash site itself is more than the scene of a battle between good and evil: It is the final resting place of all those aboard.  I was reminded of our visit to the USS Arizona in Pearl Harbor, where 1,177 sailors and Marines are entombed. A sense of reverence, even awe, settled on most of the visitors. We walked quietly along the wall separating us from the site and some left remembrances behind: A flag, some flowers, a note in a child's handwriting saying "I am ralesle sorey."

The viewing areas with railings are all that remain of the 72-foot-high dam

Around 45 minutes from the Flight 93 memorial is another National Park Service site: the Johnstown Flood National Memorial. On the afternoon of May 31, 1889, the South Fork Dam gave way, sending the 20 million tons of water contained in Lake Conemaugh rushing down the valley toward Johnstown, Pennsylvania. According to the Park Service brochure, the lake broke through the dam "at the velocity and depth of the Niagara River as it goes over the falls." More than 2,200 people were killed. Among the dead were 99 families.

The Park Service brochure says the owner of the dam, the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club, did not maintain it properly but over time the people of Johnstown and surrounding communities stopped worrying about it. One survivor, Victor Heiser, is quoted as saying, "The townspeople, like those who live in the shadow of Vesuvius, grew calloused to the possibility of danger." 

We packed a lot into a short stay: A day of restoration followed by a day of contemplation. And I returned home with a re-calibrated perspective. I still care about the outcome of this election, but I was reminded of the bigger picture. 

God made a beautiful world and He invites us to enjoy it. Pray for the strength to do what's right, even (and especially) in extreme circumstances. Never pass up the chance to tell your loved ones how you feel. And strive to appreciate each moment, because you never know when a flood, whether literal or metaphorical, will come roaring down the valley.

Remember

I watch the television coverage every year. And every time I cry.

Bells ring. Moments of silence are observed. And the names are read.

Name. After name. After name. Almost three thousand in all.

They ranged in age from two to 85. Some died quickly: Murdered with box cutters wielded by hijackers, incinerated as planes were used as piloted missiles or killed in a crash when they rushed the terrorists. Some were lost as they scrambled for safety. And some died as they ran headlong into the conflagration in order to save their fellow man.

It occurred to me this morning that the day will come when the names will not be read. When the footage of the planes crashing into the World Trade Center towers, the blazing gash in the Pentagon and the smoking debris in Pennsylvania will not be aired. It is likely that the time will come when the only recognition given to the events of September 11, 2001, will be a notation in a block on a calendar and a "This Day in History" item at the end of a newscast.

But even as I bemoaned the fact that we have a tendency to turn "Never Forget" into "Never Remember" I realized something else: The impact of those lost is not dependent on our collective memory.

Each person who died that day---and those who have died in the years since due to their service at Ground Zero and on the battlefield---left a legacy that will endure even if their names fade from history. A child, followed by a grandchild, then a great-grandchild, and on and on. Acts of valor which inspire acts of service, followed by even more acts of valor: A chain of selflessness. Even a gentle word shared at the perfect moment lingers in the soul, causing the recipient to pay that sweetness forward, magnifying the original kindness a hundred- or a thousand-fold.

On November 19, 1863, President Abraham Lincoln visited the site of the Battle of Gettysburg to dedicate part of the battlefield as a cemetery for those killed there. His words---now known as the Gettysburg Address---have thrummed in my mind today as we observe the 15th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks.

"But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate---we cannot consecrate---we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men living and dead who struggled here have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work that they have thus far so nobly carried on."

"It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work..." What a weighty and stirring mission, as relevant today as it was almost 153 years ago. I think of the passengers of Flight 93 who denied the terrorists a fourth victory and of the military members who have made the ultimate sacrifice on the field of battle. We must be resolute in completing their unfinished work.

But I think we can also honor the unfinished work of those who died simply because they went to work or chose to travel. In the last 15 years I have seen both of our sons graduate from high school and college and get married. I have looked through a glass and seen my newborn granddaughter. Yes, I have grown older---the laugh lines are a bit more pronounced and I can no longer eat fast food with impunity---but what a small price to pay for the joy of the 5,479 days those lost on September 11 have missed.

None of the survivors who take part in the mournful roll call each year ever talk about the stuff their loved one left behind---not the new car or the nice house or the lovely jewelry. They do talk about how that person made them feel and the hole in their lives that will never close completely.

It is for us, the living, to honor the lost by being fully present with our friends and family. It is for us, the living, to weave a legacy of love that can stand the test of time. It is for us, the living, to light a candle in the darkness.

As Todd Beamer, a passenger on Flight 93, said to his fellow passengers: "Let's roll."

On the Witness Stand

The following is an adaptation of the testimony I shared with my church on August 21, 2016. 
The top three definitions for "testimony" on Dictionary.com are:
1. "The statement or declaration of a witness under oath or affirmation, usually in court"
2. "Evidence in support of a fact or statement; proof"
3. "Open declaration or profession, as of faith"

I think all three definitions come into play when you testify about God's work in your life. You make an unspoken promise to tell the truth, you offer evidence of God's goodness and mercy and you declare your faith openly. 

But first you have to say a prayer and take a deep breath.

Good morning!

My unspoken prayer before I write or speak comes from the Psalms, and I don't want to go any further without sharing it. It's Psalm 19:14:

May the words of my mouth

and the meditation of my heart

be pleasing to you,

O Lord, my rock and my redeemer. (NLT)

When Jackie asked me to speak today I told her I'd have to pray about it. That wasn't a delaying tactic; I really wasn't sure if this was something I was supposed to do. I didn't feel any clear direction until one morning as I followed Mr. Pettit to Bill & Glenn's Tire and Auto to get new tires for his car.

The Church of Santo Spirito in Florence, Italy

Let me explain..As you can imagine, we moved several times during my husband's Air Force career: 10, to be exact. And most of those times, after the moving van left, I followed Mr. Pettit in my car.

Since we were always heading into unfamiliar territory, I didn't just follow him. I drafted behind him like Jimmy Johnson. I still remember driving away from the toll booths outside Chicago. As the road narrowed from several lanes to two or three I maneuvered this way and that to keep his bumper in sight. No, not just to keep it in sight, but to stay right behind him, with no one between us.

Mr. Pettit has a keen sense of situational awareness, so I knew that he was aware of my location at all times, and if we were separated he'd slow down or even pull over if necessary. I never worried that he'd leave me behind.   

All this came to mind the other day as I followed him to Bill & Glenn's. I knew how to get there, so there was no drafting involved that time. But I was struck by the parallel between those long road trips and this big journey I'm on: Life.

When I've kept my eyes on Jesus and followed Him closely, not allowing anything to come between us, I've felt a sense of peace utterly independent of circumstances.

But when I have become distracted by the "traffic" around me---whether good things or bad---that peace has gone missing. In good times I begin to feel shaky inside, wondering when the bubble will burst. And in bad times, well, I'm simply overwhelmed.

The thing is, Jesus always has me in his rear view mirror. No, that's not accurate. He's ahead of me, behind me and beside me. All the time. And when I start to panic and slide into despair, He always nudges me---okay, maybe sometimes He has to shove---and says "Hello! Remember Me? Take a breath and rest with Me for a while."  

My relationship with Jesus Christ began when I was a child. I was raised in a Christian home and was confirmed in the Methodist church. However, my spiritual home during adolescence was the Episcopal school I attended from sixth through 12th grades.

Every week we'd have two chapel services. I loved the cadence and the rich language of the liturgy used in the formal Holy Communion service while I enjoyed the music used in the contemporary gathering---songs like "Pass It On" and "I've Got That Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy Down in My Heart." I still read the 1928 version of the Book of Common Prayer during our Communion celebrations here.

I have to admit that a review of my Christian journey includes too many instances when I've seen God more as a kindly uncle than a sovereign Creator, when my attitude was "It's okay, God. I've got this. Go take care of someone who really needs Your help." And sooner or later I'd always feel that nudge---or shove.

God has often used fellow believers to get my attention and assure me of His Presence:

Like the Sunday School class we belonged to in Rock Hill, South Carolina, which encircled us with love and support as we worked through the decision for Mr. Pettit to join the Air Force.

Or the moving company representative who conducted the household inventory before we moved from Colorado to North Dakota. My mother had passed away about a year and a half prior to this and for some reason---I don't remember why---I was suddenly overcome by my longing for her and started crying. I was terribly embarrassed, of course, and apologized. And this man, whom I had never met before that day, told me I didn't need to be sorry. "That's the nature God gave you," he said.

I had been a crier since childhood and I had always been ashamed of my tears. But I knew---absolutely, completely knew---that God was using that man to tell me I was fine just the way I was.

And as I look out over this congregation today I see the faces of those who have shared a kind word or an encouraging note at the moment I needed it most.

Then there are the times when God has spoken to me without any intermediaries, when he has decided to give me a glimpse of just how mighty and glorious and sublime He is:

Like when I was sitting in a plane in Louisiana, waiting to take off for South Carolina to attend my father's funeral. I was given a moment of total clarity, of total certainty, that Daddy was in Heaven and all was well.

Then there was the moment in Older Son's wedding to his beloved in Colombia, when dozens of folks from across the Americas started singing "How Great Is Our God." Two friends of the bride had been translating the service for us through headsets, but no translation was necessary during that song. I was struck by the fact that no language barriers exist in the presence of God's majesty.

And I'll never forget our drive back from Richmond after the birth of our first grandchild. We were wishing our parents could see her and share in our joy when an old cowboy song, "Cattle Call," came on the radio. I think Daddy fancied himself a yodeler and he loved to sing the chorus of that song on car trips. My eyes started to fill with tears when suddenly I sensed we were all part of a vast circle, a continuum of God's love extending from our little granddaughter to her parents to us and on to our late parents.

I'm a work in progress, and just when I think I've got one issue worked out God chooses to show me another rough edge He wants to polish. For example, I didn't realize how insidious and dangerous my perfectionism was until the last 10 years or so. After all, what's wrong with wanting things done right?

But I've come to see that when I pursue perfection I'm fixing my eyes on myself and what I can do in my own power, not on Christ. Several years ago God made this clear to me as I put together a presentation for the church. And He gave me four words that I try to keep at the front of my mind at all times, but especially when I come before you:

It's not about me.

It's not about stringing together words in an artful way. It's not about whether I can make you laugh or make you cry. It's not about whether you agree with or approve of everything I say. And it's not about whether you like me.

It's all about Jesus Christ, my Savior and Lord. His words. His approval.

I'd like to close with this passage from Hebrews:

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us. We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith. Because of the joy awaiting him, he endured the cross, disregarding its shame. Now he is seated in the place of honor beside God's throne.

Hebrews 12:1-2 (NLT)

Thank you and God bless you.

Life, Well Played

I doubt if Miss Jeanette and Shag ever met, but I think they would have liked each other.

Shag worked at our local Costco. While he might have had a variety of duties I always saw him at the exit, checking receipts as customers left the building with multi-packs of toilet tissue, cases of beer, 10-pound packages of ground beef, reams of copy paper and 60-inch televisions.  On Sundays during the NFL season he'd wear a Miami Dolphins jersey, a devoted fan in spite of the team's fall from its undefeated glory days.

Shag and I never exchanged more than a dozen words: Just the simple courtesies about the weather and wishes for a good day. It's his smile that I remember. It was real, not something pasted on in accordance with a corporate directive. I'd leave that massive warehouse with the same feeling I imagine folks would have after shopping at the stores in Andy Taylor's Mayberry; I believe Shag actually cared whether I had a good day.

A memorial banner for Shag at Costco is filled with remembrances.

I noticed I wasn't singled out by Shag for special treatment, an observation confirmed by local reaction when he died in a traffic accident June 29. The next day The Northern Virginia Daily ran the headline "Community Mourns Death of Costco Worker" and a follow-up article in The Winchester Star on July 2 described calls for changes at the intersection where the accident happened, saying Shag's death "sent shockwaves of grief throughout the Winchester and Front Royal communities." A Facebook page, #belikeShag, was created to encourage "random acts of kindness" in his memory and a campaign to help support his family on YouCaring.com exceeded its $10,000 goal.

Shag was 66 when he died suddenly. Miss Jeanette---I almost always added the "Miss" to her name; it only seemed proper---slipped away last weekend at age 91. When Mr. Pettit and I joined our church she and her husband had already been members for over 40 years. But they didn't put us through a probationary period, forcing us to prove we were worthy of belonging. Instead they gave us a gracious welcome.

After her husband of 63 years passed away Miss Jeanette could have withdrawn from our fellowship and focused on her loss and the ailments of age. She did not. Every time we saw each other at a church dinner or during the worship service this tiny woman would grab my hand with a surprising strength and offer an enthusiastic greeting, as if years had passed since our last meeting.

Miss Jeanette was a woman of many titles: High school valedictorian, wife, mother, choir member, Sunday School teacher, and on and on. But it was her gift of encouragement that touched me most deeply. Four years ago The Winchester Star published an essay I had written about Vacation Bible School. Miss Jeanette, a veteran of many VBS sessions herself, sent me a note saying how much she enjoyed my column. I still have that card, and as I reread it tonight her closing glazed my eyes with tears: "I'm so proud of you and thank you for being my friend." Her kind words reveal more about her nature than mine.

In his poem "The Voiceless," Oliver Wendell Holmes gives a chilling picture of regret:

Alas for those that never sing,

But die with all their music in them!

Miss Jeanette and Shag did not leave this world still filled with their music; they shared it every day in a church and a store and countless other places. They did not hold high public office or sit in the boardrooms of Wall Street, but they made their moments count.

In Walden Henry David Thoreau wrote a gloomy description of men leading 'lives of quiet desperation." Miss Jeanette and Shag lived as examples of quiet inspiration.

When I grow up I want to be just like them.

Birthday Reflections

I've aged a year in a day.

It's funny when you think about it, how one day can add one year to your age. But don't get the idea that I've spent my birthday crying in my sweet tea, mourning the loss of my youth and taking stock of my regrets. Nope, I'm just happy to be here.

A few days ago I received an email from my high school's alumni director about the passing of a classmate who graduated the year after me. I started to say "a boy who graduated the year after me," because that's how I think of him: indeed, how I think of all of us.

His obituary said only that he had died suddenly. In the past I would have assumed he had been in an accident, since I rarely lost peers to natural causes, but now illness is becoming the primary culprit. Somewhere along the way we all grew older, and although I'll always think of my peers as 30-ish, our bodies say otherwise.

I thought of Mike as I ventured out into the July heat to water my flowers---apparently grown ups have to do chores even on their birthdays---and started to reflect on birthdays past and blessings present.

A party for my sixth birthday--that's me in the middle, chin in hand

The bright sky and oppressive heat reminded me of the birthday parties my best friend Emily and her parents used to throw for me back in elementary school. We July babies can always be assured of scorching temperatures on our birthdays and Aunt Duffie and Uncle Tom---in our family children always addressed close family friends as "Aunt" and "Uncle"---had a pool. Not only that, but Aunt Duffie had a sure-fire recipe for the most delicious homemade ice cream ever.

In the years since I've come across complicated ice cream recipes refined in test kitchens by experienced chefs. But I always go back to the faded recipe card for "Eagle Ice Cream" Aunt Duffie gave me when I married. A single taste takes me back to a sunburned nose and shriveled fingertips and unalloyed happiness.

On my 16th birthday Mr. Pettit gave me a gold watch. We had been dating for a couple of months and it wasn't real gold; that was a bit out of his budget at the time, to say the least. Today the watch rests comfortably in its case in my dresser drawer. It doesn't work anymore but I keep it because it was my first gift from the man with whom I've spent my entire adult life.

Two days after I turned 29 I gave birth to Younger Son. Mama and Daddy had come to visit so they could help out with Older Son. They suggested that Mr. Pettit and I go out for a birthday dinner date, but I insisted on bringing Older Son along. Maybe I wanted one more outing as the Three Musketeers before we became Four. Of course, once Younger Son was born we couldn't imagine a family circle that didn't include him.

I turned 40 in Bossier City, Louisiana, where Mr. Pettit was going through some training at Barksdale AFB. Our sons and I traveled from Colorado to the Venusian heat of the Ark-La-Tex for a short visit timed to coincide with the birthdays of the July babies.

The night of my birthday I thought of Daddy. He used to refer to me as "The Baby" and once asked if that bothered me. I told him he could call me Baby even when I was 40 years old. That birthday night it struck me that I had turned 40, but Daddy was gone.

Today I got a call from Younger Son's sweet wife. She told me that they had learned that their second child, due in November, is a healthy little boy. Best birthday gift ever, next to the birth of Younger Son.

I had planned to title this column "A Happy Birthday," because I've spent it taking stock of my blessings. But now we're learning of yet another terrorist attack, this time in Nice, France. The video of the emergency vehicles rushing to the scene, police advancing with guns drawn, the bodies in the street: it's all horrific and horribly familiar.

Evil roams the planet, with Death as its wing man. But even as I grieve for the lost and pray for solutions my hope rests in the One who has known me since before I was born: Jesus Christ, my Savior and Friend.

^"Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid." John 14:27 (NIV)

License to Chill

All of us must answer to the Lord. And the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Whether you're richer than Midas or poorer than a church mouse (Where does that term even come from? Has the Department of Agriculture studied the relative wealth of mice living in churches versus those living in shoe stores, insurance agencies or private homes? And how do you define that wealth, anyway? By how many pieces of cheese they have stashed in the walls? Never mind. You may now return to the column.), a senior citizen who learned to drive in an Edsel or a teenager who's been practicing in a 2006 Civic, you must make a pilgrimage to the DMV.

I suppose those who live in big cities, where everything can be accessed by walking or public transportation, may not be able to relate to this column. But for the rest of us a trip to Food Lion or Walmart or Chick-Fil-A requires a car. (Take note of my sophisticated lifestyle.)

A few days ago I visited my local DMV office to renew my driver's license. I had been dreading this task for quite some time. I couldn't renew online because the commonwealth wanted a new picture and confirmation that my glasses are still performing their assigned duties. For some reason I was especially concerned about that vision test, even though I visited my optometrist a couple of months ago.

As I've grown older I've become more skilled at focusing on the big picture and worrying less about the little things. But occasionally I indulge myself by picking one little thing and obsessing over it like a dog with a bone. The little thing du jour was my driver's license vision test. I could picture the lady behind the counter---I've never seen any males working at the DMV---declaring that I had failed the test miserably and snatching away my current license, leaving me stranded at the office and desperately searching for a way home. (When I get rolling on a worry high drama is always involved.)

I figure as long as I know I'm being ridiculous about something I'm not too far gone. So I said a prayer and headed into the building. I decided to push aside my fretting by trying to live in the moment in the DMV. I wound up with more moments than I had expected.

Virginia's Department of Motor Vehicles has a website where you can check the wait times at various locations. In Northern Virginia, the land of milk and honey and federal largess, trips to the DMV require a Thermos, cot, and a little something to read, like Stephen King's The Stand. Out here in our part of RoVA (Rest of Virginia; Northern Virginia is NoVA), the site told me the average wait was 14 minutes.

I grabbed my things and headed out. I brought along a notepad to create the latest version of my "To Do" list and the most recent flier from Costco about which mega-jumbo packs of toilet paper or printer ink would go on sale this week.

I took my spot in the queue at the registration desk. I was third in line behind a man and woman---not bad. But I soon realized that the two women talking to the receptionist had considerably more complicated business to conduct than I: Something about trying to convert a Massachusetts learner's permit into a Virginia one---no luck there---how to become Virginia residents and how to prove said residency.

I started studying all the different custom license plates offered by the Commonwealth of Virginia; for a fee you can proclaim your love of many different things, including your university, Shenandoah National Park, wildflowers, lighthouses and ducks.

The man and woman ahead of me turned out to be a couple so I was checked in more quickly than I thought. The receptionist handed me a slip of paper numbered 'B40' and I took a spot in the busy waiting room.

I'd been seated less than a minute when 'B39' was announced. I thought, "Wow, this is my lucky day," for about five seconds before I realized something was amiss. I didn't know how the queuing system worked, but there was no way I'd be seen ahead of the two dozen or so folks around me.

A look at the screen in the front of the room confirmed my suspicions. The list of numbers previously called started with 'H,' 'R," 'T,' 'C' and 'D'. During my stay the letters 'P,' 'O' and 'V' were also used. I tried to find a pattern; the people who were called up to get new plates for their vehicles had the 'P' designation but that might have been coincidence. I finally concluded that the DMV gives out random numbers prefaced by random letters in order to keep the citizens from losing all hope. We waited with a sense of expectancy, like a lady of a certain age hoping the next number will give her five in a row. Indeed, one gentleman actually exclaimed "Bingo!" once, and the number called wasn't even his. We all get carried away sometimes.

I was surprised that few people passed the time playing with their phones. Perhaps they were concerned they'd become distracted and miss their number. Some folks had come with someone, but they talked softly. It almost felt like we were waiting for a church service to start, lined up in our hard chairs, facing forward and filled with anticipation.

I received my number at 12:10 p.m. By the time 'B40' was called I had waited 40 minutes. I had passed the time creating stories for my fellow travelers. The blonde lady and the blonde teenage girl? Mother bringing daughter to get her driver's license. The four men to my right? The two adults happened to know each other and each had come with a mute teenage boy glued to a smartphone---again, I was thinking driving tests. The man and the woman at Window 3? He got a driver's license, she is going to study for one and they registered at least three different vehicles.

My favorite group was at Window 6, which seemed to be reserved for Special Business, since I never heard anyone sent there. A man, a woman and a little boy around 2 years old stood there for at least 10 minutes. I initially thought the man was the boy's grandfather due to his gray hair, but it might have been brown when he arrived. Anyway, he had been given the job of keeping Little One happy while the woman talked to the customer service representative.

Of course, you cannot keep a small child happy waiting at a counter. It is not possible. You can light your hair on fire but this will amuse them for only a short time, like two minutes. The man held Little One at first, but he wriggled from his grasp like an anaconda slithering down a tree in the Amazon. The boy wandered around the man, probably seeking some way out of the Most Boring Place in the World, then finally decided to pull on the man's hand, desperate to escape. The man held him, put him down, spoke softly to him, cajoled and picked him up again.

I admit I hoped for a bit more drama but I think Little One's pacifier helped him keep it together until the woman's business was finished. As they left, the boy pulling the man out the door, I decided the whole group needed lunch and a nap.

Five minutes total. That's how long it took to renew my license. Sorry. Like me, I'm sure you were hoping for a more exciting ending to this story. I can't even complain about the DMV representative who helped me. She wasn't Cruella or the Wicked Witch of the West or my fifth-grade teacher. (Daddy once said Mrs. W. would never die since the Lord wouldn't allow her into Heaven and she was too mean for Hell.) She was actually quite warm and friendly and I told her so. I mentioned that she has a thankless job. She smiled and said, "Yes, but we just keep smiling."

And my vision test? Nailed it.

Rain, rain, go away...

Hanging baskets await Spring at Horton's Nursery and Garden Center in Winchester, VA

April showers bring May flowers. But this year the rains of April have extended into May and the flowers are hanging out in the greenhouse, comparing foliage and gossiping about the garden gnomes in the corner.

The spring of our discontent has taken its toll. Mr. Pettit and I still haven't visited Scoops and Swirls to get our favorite treat, the Wafflicious. (Yes, it is as good as it sounds.) In a fit of optimism we bought some tomato plants about a month ago, thinking we'd shelter them in the garage for a couple of weeks before making them at home in our garden. But the gangly things are still in their pots, tipping over as they wait for a permanent home. I know I should plant them in bigger containers, but that feels like an admission of defeat.

Even as I complain about high temperatures in the 50's and daily drizzle I know that in a couple of months I'll dream of relief from heat and humidity. It occurred to me today that my weather whining is yet another example of my struggle to live in the moment. Today I yearn for summer, in summer I'll yearn for fall and in fall I'll yearn for...nevermind. In fall I'll be content, since it's my favorite season. (However, as October ends I'll probably start dreaming of the first snow of winter.)

I can't imagine what God thinks of my fickle nature, although I know He's not surprised by it; after all, He made me. I hope that eventually I'll appreciate each day for its special graces.

Even if that means eating a Wafflicious under an umbrella.

For Mama

Dear Mama,

Happy Mother's Day. It's been almost 20 years since I last saw you and I'm sorry we couldn't talk. We still had so much to say.

I mailed you a letter but you went into the hospital so suddenly I don't know if you got the chance to read it. I don't remember exactly what I wrote but the gist of it was that I appreciated all you and Daddy had done for me and that I loved you.

That's one thing we got right. We never ended a phone call or parted company without saying "I love you." I thank God I don't have to live with that particular regret.

I wasn't a kid when you left me. I'd been married 18 years and our sons were 9 and 13. But I still had some growing up to do; like a child I was so absorbed by my little galaxy that I didn't pay enough attention to yours. The literal distance between us---I in Colorado and you in South Carolina---didn't help matters. When we talked on the phone you pretended you were fine and I pretended to believe you.

We didn't always agree on things, probably because we were so much alike, both strong-willed Southern women who want what they want when they want it. You could wield guilt like a scalpel and you expressed your displeasure with icy silence. As for me, I was so certain I was on the right side of our disagreements that I dismissed whatever you did say. (And I sense I may have inherited your guilt superpower.)

If we could talk one more time I'd ask you to tell me your story, all of it: Your childhood summers on the Outer Banks, the first time you met Daddy, your dreams, your disappointments.

I'd also share what I've learned in the past 20 years. Now I understand how hard it must have been for you to watch me and my young Air Force lieutenant move from South Carolina to Texas. I imagine you knew---you always seemed to know things--- that we'd never live near you again.

Almost two years ago, when your sweet great-granddaughter was born, I understood---truly understood, right down to my center---how hard it must have been for you to see your grandsons so infrequently. But what an impression you made on them in the time you had. They still talk about your trips with them to Wilson's; the $10 you'd give each of them to buy baseball cards might as well have been $10,000.

I'd like to talk about how fast life seems to fly, how the little boys who devoured junk food at your kitchen table grew up in a matter of days. I wish I could have shared their milestones with you, because you would have been just as proud as I was.

You weren't a perfect mother. I'm not either. But you loved your family fiercely and you taught me to do the same.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama. Thank you for everything.

Love,
Rita

The Writing's on the Wall

You never know what you'll find at the next bend in the road.

Mr. Pettit and I drove the first 30 miles of the Blue Ridge Parkway last week. Our views were obscured by clouds but we decided a rainy day was better spent on the Parkway than in our trailer. Besides, it was a section we'd never covered before, and we love new territory.

We took the exit for Steeles Tavern, Virginia, because an ad in a real estate guide had piqued my interest. Gertie's Country Store and Deli, along with an adjacent ranch home, was listed at $325,000. The price alone intrigued me since it's easy to pay that much for just a house in our part of the country.

The ad called the business "a Vesuvius tradition" (Vesuvius, Virginia, not the volcano that destroyed Pompeii) and said that back in 2012 Blue Ridge Country magazine had proclaimed it the best place to eat along the Parkway.

We almost passed the plain, flat-roofed building; there was no towering sign with a market-tested logo out front. The interior was just as unassuming: Shelves laden with chips, flour and canned goods alongside restaurant-sized plastic jars of ketchup; a simple black-letter menu of entrees hanging over the counter with an adjacent dry-erase board listing meats available by the pound, tables covered with faded flannel-backed tablecloths. Nothing designed at headquarters, trucked in and placed in its preordained spot.

Mr. Pettit and I went all out and ordered two cheesesteak meals. We normally split a combo when we go to our favorite cheesesteak purveyor in town, not in the interest of saving money but calories. But he wanted to sub in the sweet potato fries and I had a craving for onion rings so we threw caution to the wind. We were on vacation, after all.

We wound up with enough food to satisfy someone who had run the 30 miles we had driven. The sandwich was stuffed with meat and cheese and lettuce and tomatoes, all cradled in a fluffy bun with a perfectly calibrated coating of mayonnaise. The onion rings and sweet potato fries did not disappoint us either. I must confess that we left only a few crumbs on our paper plates.

But it's not the lunch we'll file away in our memories. It's the writing covering every inch of the walls and ceiling. Our server, Gertie's daughter, called it the restaurant's guest book.

We read comments from customers from across the U.S. as well as Cuba, England, Sweden and the Netherlands. Most folks dated their signatures and noted their hometowns.  Others proclaimed their love; I wonder if GW21 and Laurie, Kim and Todd. Mike and Becky and Kierstan and Carlton are still together.

What was Jan's inspiration for the blue-eyed bear back in August 2015? What does "No Hugh Her either!!" mean? Whatever happened to Karen and Brian of Rochester, NY, after their trip from San Francisco to Yorktown back in 2004? I think their drawing depicts the two of them on a motorcycle but I can't be sure. Not that I'm judging---my artistic skill is limited to stick figures and smiley faces.

I like to think each of these Sharpie sentiments was written in a moment of silliness or joy or contentment (especially if cheesesteak was served). To eat at Gertie's is to be surrounded by a gallery of happiness.

Gertie, a small lady of a certain age, told me the visitor's center in Lexington called her a while back about a group of Australians who wished to visit. The Aussies later told her they had heard about her restaurant as they came through Immigration.

I asked Gertie why she has decided to sell her business. She answered that she is fighting cancer for the second time and her daughter doesn't want to take over the restaurant. She hopes a young couple will buy it and leave the graffiti-covered walls alone.

Mr. Pettit and I didn't sign our names since all we had was a ballpoint pen. But next time---and I truly hope there is a next time---I'm bringing a bright red Sharpie and some well-considered words. However, I don't know if I'll come up with anything as provocative as this anonymous note:

"The thinker dies but his thoughts are beyond the reach of destruction."