A Change in the Weather

Mr. Pettit and I have had homes across the U.S.: As far west as California, as far east as Virginia, as far north as North Dakota and as far south as south Texas. And the weather in all those places and every stopping point in between had one thing in common: It could change faster than you can say, “I finally got my car washed!”

In each location Mr. Pettit and I have heard some version of this statement: “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.” Wherever you go, the locals believe that theirs is the only place where in a matter of hours temperatures can plummet or skyrocket or sunny skies can be replaced by blizzards or hailstorms or torrential rains. I suppose we all like to think our home is unique, even in a negative way. When we lived in North Dakota a popular saying held that, “Forty below keeps out the riff raff,” although we never experienced ambient temperatures that low. Then again, I never encountered riff raff either.

Fox News Alert: Weather changes. That’s why we have meteorologists on the radio and TV who vacillate between happy chit-chat with their fellow anchors and grim pronouncements of “Save yourselves!” 

We roll with the punches when the wind blows and clouds move in. We might grumble but we take appropriate action: Drag out sensible shoes or boots, pull on the parka, plug in the engine block heater (a must when the temps drop into the double digits below zero), unfurl the umbrella or even leave town.

We don’t bother arguing with the sky.

But that’s exactly what we do—-no, let’s be honest, what I do—when faced with change in other areas. I ask God if He really knows what He’s doing. And if the change is abrupt? Sweet fancy Moses! I’m frozen in place as I process the shift in direction, whether it’s positive or negative. I might as well have that old hourglass icon floating above my head, turning over and over as I try to grab hold of the situation.

2018 promises to be a year of change for Mr. Pettit and me. I worry about the road ahead, never mind the unforeseen zig zags that surely await us.  The status quo isn’t perfect but it is familiar. 

But if I turn my gaze outward for even a moment I’m forced to acknowledge that every person on the planet will have to contend with changes in the days, weeks and months ahead. Some transitions will be expected while others will appear suddenly, floating in like feathers or slamming home like anvils. 

When I scan the horizon I'm on the lookout for anvils.

But when I'm bracing for blows that may never come I miss out on the beauty of the moment. So I remind myself to shift my focus to Jesus, Who does not change. As the writer of Hebrews put it, He is "the same yesterday and today and for ever." (Hebrews 13:8, RSV) That constancy in itself wouldn't provide much comfort if it were not characterized by love.

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases,
    his mercies never come to an end; 

 they are new every morning;
    great is thy faithfulness.

“The Lord is my portion,” says my soul, “therefore I will hope in him.” Lamentations 3:22-24 (RSV)

That hope can sustain you and me through whatever storms 2018 may hold. And it will make the sunny days that much sweeter.

 

 

A Christmas Gift

I was a crier when I was kid but I got over it.

Mostly.

But not at Christmas.

Tears tend to bubble just beneath the surface of my grownup exterior from Thanksgiving through December 25th. I never know what will cause them to appear: A Folgers commercial, a Hallmark movie, a moment of reverence in a worship service or a Christmas song. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” gets to me every time.

As I listened to Michael W. Smith and Carrie Underwood sing “All Is Well” yesterday my parents came to mind. They married on December 24, 1937, and thinking about what would have been their 80th anniversary made me cry. (For those doing some mental math, vanity requires that I mention that I was a mid-life surprise baby.) Daddy’s been gone almost 30 years, Mama over 20, but at Christmas the grief is fresh again, if only for a moment.

Perhaps my veneer of toughness slips because Christmas reminds me of the relentless passage of time. Gaps in our circle become more pronounced and I realize I’m one year further from my youth. I also become keenly aware of diminishing possibilities.

The other day I spent a little too much time wondering where my writing path was going. I haven’t published many columns this year because I’ve focused on fiction. I finally finished my novel this summer and a novella last week. But I don’t know if anyone outside my family or a couple of friends will ever read either one.

Even a cursory study of the world of publishing was daunting, but that concern was eclipsed by a deeper question: Are the thousands of words I’ve written any good? I’m a decent judge of these essays, but I’ve grown too close to my fictional characters to be objective.

I wound up twisted with doubt that no amount of Christmas busy-ness could assuage. But yesterday I heard a word that made all the difference.

Hope.

In the church I visited the pastor preached that Christmas is really all about hope, both for this life and the next. I was familiar with every Bible passage he referenced, but I heard the verses with a heart thirsty for answers.

I realized that in turning my gaze inward I had lost sight of the One Who exists in past, present and future and Who has a plan for my life. I’m a storyteller but I need to trust God with my story. I have to continue to do the work—to write the words and to explore publication—while resting in the certainty that Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior, will work things out according to His perfect plan, not mine.

Merry Christmas!

Looking Up

“Keep your head on a swivel.”

I’ve spoken those words more than once in conversations with Younger Son as he and his wife have planned a trip to Great Britain. Mr. Pettit and I love to travel, so I’d never dream of asking them to cancel their journey due to the possibility of terrorist attacks. But I have stressed the importance of not becoming so lost in the moment that they lose sight of what’s happening around them.

“Keep your head on a swivel.” “Maintain hyper-awareness.” “Look around.”

But I never added this: “Look up.”

Not that looking up would have helped those killed or wounded as they attended a concert in Las Vegas Sunday night. Indeed, doing so might have caused them to stop and stare, leaving them even more vulnerable to the man unleashing Hell upon them from the 32nd floor of a nearby hotel.

I will not say the murderer’s name. I refuse to give him the notoriety he probably craved.

As law enforcement searches for even a wisp of motive the news channels run video of the attack on an endless loop, accompanied by endless speculation. We all long for the cold comfort of closure, of knowing why this man murdered 59 strangers and wounded hundreds more. We’re not wired to accept “We don’t know,” as an answer.

But even if reasons are uncovered---a hatred of government, a love of government, financial crisis, religious fanaticism, atheism, a broken relationship---they won’t be enough. They will never explain the inky darkness in this person’s soul.

Only one word can: Evil.

These days we like to think that we're close to figuring out everything. A probe sends back pictures of Saturn. Surgeons can stop a heart, fix it and start it up again. The smartphone in a teenager’s pocket has more computing power than the machines used to send man to the moon. And psychologists and psychiatrists and behavioral experts have made real progress in helping people scarred by abusive childhoods or other traumatic events.

But then we stub our toes against a hulking black stone in the corner of the room, something even our most powerful floodlights fail to illuminate. As we stagger in the aftermath of loss we seek sense in the senseless and find that none of our technology or theories can answer a simple question: Why? And for the loved ones left behind, another: How? How do I go on?

I don’t know.

But I know Who does.

Not that God is Google, offering me answers in a tenth of a second. A dear friend, a retired pastor, once told me that a fellow minister had concluded that some questions have to be filed away under the heading, “Awaiting further light.” He said that he didn’t know if that light would shine in this life or the next, but in time all would be made clear.

Human beings have free will. But why didn’t God intervene in this madman’s plans, causing his car to break down or his guns to jam? Why did some survive unscathed while those around them fell? Why?

I don’t know.

But as a Christian I hold fast to those things of which I’m certain:

“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)

‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” Revelation 21:4 (NIV)

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” Matthew 5:4 (NIV)

   

Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you. 1 Peter 5:7 (NIV)

We don’t yet see things clearly. We’re squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won’t be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We’ll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us! 1 Corinthians 13:12 (The Message)

No darkness can withstand the perfect luminosity of God’s love; it shrinks back into the depths from which it comes. Today I pray that everyone who has suffered at the hands of evil---whether in the streets of Las Vegas or the mountains of Afghanistan---will be covered by “the peace that surpasses all understanding” (Philippians 4:7) and become aware of strong Arms carrying them through this valley.

Look up. Not at death, but Life.

Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. John 1:3-5 (NIV)

A Picture's Worth

I survived Paint Night.

Last week I saw that a Facebook friend had confronted his fear of heights by jumping out of an airplane, so my big leap is exceedingly puny by comparison. Still, I claim victory whenever I stick a toe outside my comfort zone.

I’d had such a whiny attitude about the whole thing that I prayed for a better one as I drove to church that night. I didn’t want my perfectionism and its traveling companion, pride, to ruin the evening.

I gradually realized I didn’t know what success would look like. So as God and I talked about it---no, I didn’t hear His voice, but whenever I get good ideas that are completely foreign to me I’m sure they’re coming from Him---I began to see what I really wanted: To be a person who was more concerned with the quality of my time with the other ladies than with the quality of my painting. So that was my prayer as I walked into the Fellowship Hall. (Thank goodness it was a 20-minute drive.)

It didn’t take long to see that most of my fellow class members were just as skittish as I was. Our confidence was further diminished when our teacher, Stephanie, showed us the picture we were going to replicate, along with an example by her daughter. Her 10-year-old daughter. It looked identical to her mother’s.

Sweet fancy Grandma Moses.

Stephanie patiently guided us through the mixing of brown paint then showed us how to create a sandy beach. Paintbrush poised above the pristine canvas, I had a thought:

Paintbrushes don’t have erasers.

There would be no going back if something weren’t perfect. Which it wasn’t going to be. But I dove in anyway.

And the water was fine.

I can’t say I didn’t have any moments when I wished I could have had a do-over. But as we went along I found myself encouraging my classmates, telling them not to fret about every little detail. We all laughed and groaned as we tried this new thing.

When I returned home I asked Mr. Pettit what my painting depicted. He said, “An anchor.” Never mind that I had told him that’s what we would be painting; he swears he would have said that anyway.

He insisted on hanging my “artwork”---I feel the quotation marks are necessary---where he could see it every day. He says it makes him smile because it brings me to mind.

Now that's perfect.

 

More or Less

Never mind the new year---it’s my new year that makes me stop and think.

Longtime readers might remember a column I published on New Year’s resolutions. In “My Undo List” (12-31-13) I talked about resolving to let go of guilt, regret and perfectionism.

Now I have a birthday approaching, and while I’m not entering a new decade I can feel its breath on my neck. I find that I’m thinking not so much about “undoing” as I am about scaling back on some activities and spending more time on others.

So, without any ruffles and flourishes, here we go:

More music. Less news.

Ever since I worked at the Rock Hill, South Carolina, Evening Herald right out of college I’ve been a ravenous consumer of news. Back in those olden times I had to rely on the newspaper and three television networks to keep me up to date on current events.

Now, in addition to the legacy media, we have 24/7 cable networks and whatever the internet dreamed up 10 seconds ago. There are TV screens on gas pumps, for heaven’s sake. We’re awash in information and starving for knowledge. Even writing about it makes my nerves jangle.

So I’m putting down the remote and turning on the radio. (Yes, I’m old school.) Or playing a CD. (Further evidence thereof.) Or listening to my iPod. (Welcome to the 21st century.) Or calling up one of my Pandora stations. (See, I’m not a Luddite after all.)

I have eclectic musical tastes: Aaron Tippin to Aerosmith, Lynyrd Skynyrd to Leonard Bernstein and Beethoven to Bruno Mars. Great music grabs me by the collar and lifts me out of whatever stressed out, distracted or sad state in which I may be wallowing. Let’s put it this way: On a normal, non-apocalyptic day “Canon in D” by Pachelbel always makes me soar.

I’ll continue to read our local paper and The Wall Street Journal daily and I’ll turn to the TV for small doses of whatever folks are yelling about on any given day. But then I’ll stream my Christina Perri station as I wash dishes and fold clothes. (And I'll dance if a really good song comes on.)

More Bible. Less internet.

Hear that giant sucking sound? If you’re of a certain age you may recall that presidential candidate Ross Perot said it was the sound of jobs being lost in the wake of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA). But that was small potatoes, Mr. Perot. This is the sound of the internet dragging countless hours into its gaping mouth.

Come on, I know you’ve been there… You go online to check your email. Then you wonder if anyone ever “liked” your status on Facebook. Then there’s a news website, which might give you a link to something not so newsy. Finally you step into the Google abyss because you remember you wanted to find the name of that tall actor in the old movie you saw yesterday and before you know it you’re researching the history of pirates on the Barbary Coast.

As Mama would say, “Merciful fathers.”

In the meantime, I’ve got Bibles in three or four translations acting as bookends. I’m disciplined about reading Scripture when I’m in a Bible study group, but when I’m on my own...not so much. So I’m taking at least 15 minutes of that online time every day and cracking open one of my big study Bibles. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but it’s a start. And way better than looking up movies on imdb.com.

More apprehension. Less comfort.

Now that is simply weird, right? It’s human nature to gravitate to the soft and easy. I’m sure that at this moment someone is making plans to fly drones carrying pepperoni pizza directly into family rooms everywhere. I’ll take mine with extra cheese with a side of recliner and fuzzy blanket.

But I’m concerned that the older I get the harder it is to step outside my comfort zone. I’ve never been a daredevil, but my list of dread-inducing things used to be much shorter. Around 20 years ago I drove two children from Colorado to North Dakota, bought a house, went back to Colorado, then made the return trip when it was time to move. And yet a few months ago I had to give myself a pep talk before driving over to Northern Virginia to visit Older Son and his family. Granted, it was Northern Virginia, NOVA to our ROVA (Rest of Virginia), a strange and foreign land. But still…

So I’m making an effort to try new things. Not jumping-out-of-a-plane new. More like signing-up-for-Ladies’-Paint-Night-at-church new. Don’t laugh. For a recovering perfectionist the idea of trying to follow along as an artist takes us step by step through the creation of a painting is daunting, to put it mildly.

Did I mention I have no discernible artistic skill? Did I mention there will be other participants? In my nightmares I envision myself trying over and over to make a truly round circle while everyone else finishes up a landscape worthy of Andrew Wyeth. It does not help that one member of our group has taken part in a paint night before and says it’s easy and fun. Yes, that’s what they told me about skiing too.

But I’m signing up and going into the whole endeavor with a Teddy Roosevelt “Man in the Arena” attitude. And even if I wind up with something that resembles a landfill (or that belongs in one) I’ll pat myself on the back for trying something new. I might even branch out further and try a new flavor of ice cream.

No doubt there are many other activities which deserve more of my attention and many more which deserve less. But this is a start. In home renovation terms, I’m going for a “refresh,” not a “gut job.” (Although I don’t care for the use of “gut job” in this context.)

I’ll check in next year to let you know how this re-balancing act has worked out. Even if I fall off the high wire I will have had a wonderful view.

A Father's Day

Thank You, Lord, for daddies
And dads,
And papas,
And pops
Who trade Sports Illustrated
For Goodnight Moon,
And a tee time
For tea time.

Thank You
For the available.
For ballet recitals and band concerts
And Scouts and science fair volcanoes.
For twilight games of catch,
Multiplication tables,
And bleacher prayers
For, please Lord, just one hit.

Thank You
For the steadfast.
For choosing the good "No,"
Over the bad "Yes"
Even when it hurts.
For tempers held
Over dented fenders,
And tears shed for broken hearts.

Thank You, Lord, for the daddies
And dads,
And papas,
And pops
Who keep their eyes on You.
Please carry them
In Your strong arms
When theirs grow tired,
And give them a glimpse
Of their true legacy.

Look

I almost stepped on him.

There, a couple of inches from my right foot, crouched a baby bunny. I grew up watching animal documentaries on “The Wonderful World of Disney” on Sunday nights, so I always create storylines for wild creatures. (Each such episode featured a narrator describing a day in the life of Rusty Raccoon or Billy Bear, as in “Watch out, Billy! I don’t think those bees want to share.” I remember my intense disappointment each and every time I realized Walt wasn’t introducing a cartoon selection at the beginning of the show.)

So of course I began anthropomorphizing---I don’t like to use five-dollar words, but sometimes there’s no better choice---Bobby Bunny as he sat there, motionless.  I couldn’t figure out if he were thinking “You can’t see me, you can’t see me, you can’t see me,” or “I’m not scared of you!”

Mr. Pettit noticed Brother and Sister Bunny hopping off in search of a hiding place, one to the boxwoods, the other to the huge holly in the corner of the courtyard. But Bobby remained as still as a garden gnome in the sparse shade provided by the first sprouts of a perennial, even when I knelt next to him. I couldn’t even tell if he were breathing.

I don’t know when Bobby finally decided to move; I noticed him each time I looked out our kitchen window for the next 30 minutes or so. Maybe Brother and Sister called out to him in Bunny-ese, saying, “Hop, goofball!” (You know how siblings are.)

I’ve thought of Bobby Bunny often over the past couple of weeks. Our brief encounter is like a dream with a deeper meaning that’s just out of reach. I’ve tried out an assortment of life lessons, looking for one that fits: Be calm when confronted with a giant. Don’t seek refuge in a puny shelter. Recognize danger and flee. Live long and prosper. (Sorry. Mr. Spock pops up at the most inopportune times.)

But one word kept rolling to the front of my mind, even as I flailed about in my search for meaning.

Look.

Where? For what?

Look.

Oh.

The full title of this blog is “A Moment’s Notice: Striving for an Awareness of Each Moment, Reflecting on the Events of Each Moment.” I have a stack of responsibilities at present---as I’m sure you do---and I’ve become single-minded in my resolve to stop the tower from collapsing, block by block, job by job. I’ve stopped noticing the moments slipping by, just as I almost didn’t notice little Bobby. I’ve stopping looking.

And what do I see when I open my eyes to the wider world? A turtle in our yard. (Is our home becoming a nature preserve now?) The shadows of clouds drifting across the mountainsides. A hug from one friend. A long letter from another.

Confirmation that I’d finally heard the right message came in the form of the closing hymn at church yesterday. I’ve always loved “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus,” especially the refrain:

Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
Look full in His wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of His glory and grace.
(Words and music by Helen H. Lemmel)

I was reminded that when I focus on Christ my priorities fall into line. My frantic busy-ness subsides as I keep my eyes on Him and His plans. My anxiety eases as I hear Him saying, “I’ve got this.”

Watch and see.

Look.