Let Freedom Ring

As I listened to Pandora’s Thumbprint station this morning I was struck by the variety of music I’ve “liked” in recent weeks and months: Latin, Motown, classical and pop. Artists ranging from Marc Anthony to George Winston kept me company as I wrapped up my Independence Day preparations.

The music prompted me to think about this beautiful melting pot I call home. The United States of America is a place where people can unify under one flag and one Constitution, even if we disagree about music or religion or economics.

If only we would.

We live in contentious times. But maybe, just for today, we can set aside our rhetorical weapons and agree to give thanks.

...For all those who sacrificed to make this dream of democracy a reality. Our Founders were not perfect, for they were human as we are. But their vision and genius means I am free to worship as I please and speak as I like, without fear of prosecution.

...For the men and women of our armed forces. Let us give thanks for their families as well, who wait and serve and, God forbid, grieve.

...For this magnificent land, from sea to shining sea. I have visited all 50 states and lived in 10 so I can testify to the breathtaking diversity of our nation. From the Monterey Bay Peninsula to the Smoky Mountains, from the otherworldly beauty of South Dakota’s Badlands to the green velvet of Kauai, the U.S. is a wonder to behold. Venture out. Take it in.

I could go on, but that’s a start. Just for today, let’s think about all that is good and noble and sweet about our country. Perhaps, just for today, we could embody our nation’s motto.

E pluribus unum. Out of many, one.

Refusing to Play the Game

Two weeks ago I wrote a column entitled “That Ain’t Nothin’” (TAN) about the human tendency toward one upmanship.  (You can read it at http://ritafinchpettit.blogspot.com/2018/06/that-aint-nothin.html.) The TAN game can be summed up this way: Your story will never be as bad or as good as mine. Alas, we all seem to suffer from it from time to time.

Except for Charles Krauthammer.

I never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Krauthammer, the conservative columnist who passed away last week. For all I know he might have said “That ain’t nothin’,” a time or two (although he would have said, “That’s nothing,” just to be grammatically correct), but the tributes written by colleagues and friends lead me to believe his focus was always on others, not himself.

(Go to http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2018/06/21/charles-krauthammer-conservative-commentator-and-pulitzer-prize-winner-dead-at-68.html for Mr. Krauthammer’s obituary.)

Certainly Charles Krauthammer had more right to say “That ain’t nothin’,” than 99.9% of us. He was 22, in his first year at Harvard Medical School, when a diving accident left him paralyzed from the neck down. He completed medical school anyway—-with his classmates, no less—-and went on to become a psychiatrist.

Mr. Krauthammer then changed directions, moving to Washington, D.C., and becoming a speechwriter for Vice President Walter Mondale during President Jimmy Carter’s re-election bid. When Carter and Mondale lost he became editor of The New Republic, then a columnist for The Washington Post. In recent years he had appeared on Fox News as a commentator. 

Along the way he collected awards, including the Edwin Dunlop Prize for excellence in psychiatric research and clinical medicine, the Pulitzer Prize and the National Magazine Award. In addition, his 2013 book, Things That Matter: Three Decades of Passions, Pastimes and Politics was a New York Times bestseller.

Unless you’re a blind quadruple amputee who’s won a prize in each of the Nobel categories while fighting off an alien invasion, I don’t think you could win a TAN match against him.

Not that he would have wanted to play.

The recurring theme in the reminiscences of those who knew and loved Charles Krauthammer is that he had no interest in talking about himself. He preferred to ask how other people were doing, checking in about their children, their parents, even their pets. And he certainly did not brag about his achievements or clobber folks with his intellect.

I’ve had Things That Matter on my reading list since it was released and finally borrowed it from the library when I learned Mr. Krauthammer had died. In writing about his accident and his subsequent journey through medical school ("Hermann Lisco: Man for All Seasons," The Washington Post, August 25, 2000), he doesn’t focus on his struggle in the face of overwhelming odds. Instead he writes a beautiful eulogy for Dr. Lisco, the Harvard professor who arranged for his instruction to continue throughout his hospitalization and rehabilitation.

He closes the column this way:

"And now, just short of 90, he is gone. Those who were touched by this man, so wise and gracious and goodly, mourn him. I mourn a man who saved my life." 

On June 8, Charles Krauthammer saw fit to share his grim prognosis in a letter to his viewers and readers, colleagues and friends. The last lines are an eloquent summation of a life well lived.

“I leave this life with no regrets. It was a wonderful life -- full and complete with the great loves and great endeavors that make it worth living. I am sad to leave, but I leave with the knowledge that I lived the life that I intended.” (Copyright 2018, The Washington Post)

Shalom, Charles Krauthammer. You will be missed.

That Ain't Nothin'

We’re all narcissists.

Not clinically speaking, of course.Thank goodness narcissistic personality disorder is rare, since those diagnosed with the condition are incapable of empathizing with others and combine a paper-thin level of self-esteem topped with a crispy crust of egomania. Mama would have said narcissists are full of themselves. (Thanks to mayoclinic.org for the article. And thanks to whomever invented the internet.)

But I think it’s human nature to compare everyone’s situation to one’s own. Mr. Pettit and I call the game “That Ain’t Nothin’”. Tune in and you’ll see it being played all around you.

Last week a friend who’s had a couple of surgeries on her foot and ankle told me about the following comments from perfect strangers:

“When I got out of my cast and put weight on my leg for the first time I thought I’d die.”

“They warned me that when I got out of my cast and put weight on my leg for the first time it would hurt, but I practically ran across the room.”

I don’t know if anyone ever asked her how she felt.

Later that same day another coworker bemoaned the fact that she’d be turning 30 soon. I confess I simply moaned. 30? Please. Then another lady started reminiscing about her 30th birthday and how this and that and the other thing happened and after five minutes or so I realize the youngster (Sorry, 29-year-olds bring out the snarky in me) had never gotten the chance to talk about why 30 seems like such a scary milestone.

Mr. Pettit and I love to travel, both for the places we see and for the people we meet. We’ve been fortunate to run into world travelers who happily share their experiences and give us advice you can’t find in any guidebook. And then there are folks like...well, we’ll call them Mr. and Mrs. Beentheredonethat.

With the first syllable of any locale Mr. and Mrs. B. would be off and running.

“We really liked Nor…”

“Yes, we loved Norway too. Been there two times, once in the back of a whaler. Did we tell you about the whales we saw in Alaska? I was going to ride one but the water was too cold. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.”

And don’t think “That Ain’t Nothin’” can only be played by adults. Talk to anyone who’s ever taught young children and they’ll relate a discussion like this:

Teacher: This story is about a little puppy who misses his mother.

Boy #1: Today’s my mother’s birthday.

Girl #1: My mother had a birthday one time.

Boy #1: My birthday’s next week.

Boy #2: I had a puppy.

Girl #1: I got a puppy for my birthday.

Girl #2: My puppy peed on the floor.

(Maniacal laughter ensues.)

Boy #3: My brother pees on the floor all the time.

(More laughter.)

Teacher: It’s time for math.

As you can see, the rules for “That Ain’t Nothin’” really are easy enough for a child to play. If a person says something bad has happened to them, you report something worse.

Player #1: I broke my leg.

Player #2: I broke my leg and my arm when I was 12.

The rules allow you to go as far back in time as necessary. You can also pull in distant relatives, celebrities and historical figures.

On the other hand, if a person has good news to report, you relate something better.

Player #1: I just won a million dollars!

Player #2: I hear a lady in Sheboygan won two million dollars and a week with George Clooney.

I’d like to say I write this from the mountaintop, having defeated all such unseemly impulses. And I don’t struggle with one-upping every single soul I meet. Instead my self-centeredness manifests itself as Miss When-will-you-stop-talking-so-I-can-say-something-awesome.

I’m getting better about not interrupting people when I can’t contain my wisdom for a second longer. However, I still find myself formulating responses to what someone is saying instead of truly listening to them. As with many things, I remain a work in progress.

You are, too? That ain’t nothin’...

The Music Man

Sometimes I wonder if I work for the money or the stories.

Since this writing gig doesn’t produce income (not yet, anyway; I’m an optimist) I make my mad money working as a substitute for teachers and clerical staff in our district’s elementary schools. (Actually, I can’t afford to get terribly angry based on the current rates. A more accurate term would be “mildly peeved money.”) I don’t get any benefits, of course, not even a badge that would get me a discount at local restaurants during Teacher Appreciation Week. I do get incredible flexibility with my schedule and for this I am most grateful.

But the stories are priceless.

Like the kindergartner who struggled with my name before finally deciding to call me “Mrs. Butterworth.” Or the first grader who solemnly approached my desk with his arms outstretched, asking me if I needed a hug. (I did, by the way.) Or the time I leaned down to tie a child’s shoes only to have him grab two handfuls of my hair. It took three adults to pull him off and I have yet to need Botox.

And then there’s the man with his own soundtrack.

The other secretary I was working with that day had heard the music when he called to say he was coming by to pick up his child. It was still playing on his phone when we buzzed him into the office.

He was Latino, in his late twenties or early thirties. He wore a tailored gray sport coat over a T shirt and jeans and his hair was perfectly styled. And the music blaring over his phone: Merle Haggard.

No, not really.

It was salsa. Or at least what sounds like salsa to me. When Older Son married his beloved in her native Colombia their wedding reception included four or five hours of salsa dancing. Best party ever. (Any exercise I do is meant to keep me dancing as long as I can.)

This gentleman was infused with his music. He practically swayed as he signed out his child. I had to restrain myself from handing him the pen with a flourish, followed by a La La Land chorus line moment.

Salsa Dad’s brief cameo came to mind this week as I converted tapes of Pettit home movies to DVD. Mr. Pettit’s late mother was ahead of her time when she had their Super 8 memories copied to VHS over 20 years ago and a step up, technology-wise, was long overdue. (Although it only buys me a little time before I’ll need to go into flash-drive territory or whatever the next big thing might be.)

The folks who created the VHS tapes added a soundtrack of tunes from the 1960’s, the era when the movies were made. Nice idea, right? But it gets a little weird sometimes: “Whiter Shade Of Pale,” “Nights in White Satin” and “Sunshine of Your Love” don’t fit scenes of family beach vacations and little boys jumping from present to present on Christmas morning. (Generational Outreach: Ask Mr. YouTube about the aforementioned songs.)

Which song would I choose to accompany me wherever I go? I’ve had several over my lifetime, including “Love Will Keep Us Together” by the Captain and Tennille when Mr. Pettit and I were dating, “Amazing Grace” after Daddy died, “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” as our time in the Air Force ended and “Something That We Do” by Clint Black when Younger Son got married. (If you look up only one song I’ve mentioned please choose the last. It’s the best description of love I’ve heard outside 1 Corinthians 13.)

As I prepare to publish my first book I think I need a new theme song. I’m open to suggestions.

Salsa, perhaps?

This Magic Moment

You know it when you feel it.

That moment when a work of art has been crafted so perfectly that it touches the part of you that doesn’t traffic in words but emotions. When you have to choose between three possible responses: 1. Laughter. 2. Tears. 3. Both.

I think of taking a walk when Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” shuffled to the fore on my iPod, how my spirit spiraled upward with each repetition of the theme. Or the first time I read The Polar Express, dazzled by the poetry of the story and the beauty of the paintings. Going deeper in my past I still remember my amazement when I finished Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities, awestruck by the way he knitted the book together into a cohesive whole, every plot point leading to a conclusion marked by horror and redemption.

The magic moment.

I’ll never be a Pachelbel, a Chris Van Allsburg or a Charles Dickens. I studied piano with Miss Virginia for three years during elementary school and my current repertoire consists of “Jingle Bells” and other melodies of similar complexity. Sometimes, on my very best days, I think I might have been worthy of buying ink for Mr. Dickens, but that’s as far as it goes.

My limitations used to bother me.

Not anymore.

It’s taken me several decades to learn that all I can be is the best version of myself. I don’t pretend I have just imparted a life-changing, never-before-heard truth to all of you. But it was one thing for me to know this truth and another to believe it.

I was never delusional, thinking I was only one paragraph away from literary immortality. But part of me did wonder if there were any point to pursuing something if I couldn’t be the best or even in the same ZIP code as the best.

In the last five years or so I have finally gained some hard-won perspective. For me, striving to be the best wasn’t about the pursuit of excellence but perfection. Now I can see that my words may not be intended for millions or thousands or hundreds, but for one. One person who needs to hear what I have to say at that given moment—it might even be a magic moment.

Although I am drawn to beauty in the arts, I believe we’re all capable of being magicians. The turn of a wrench, the placement of a decimal or the touch of a child’s hand can lead to a moment of completion and wholeness. Of knowing, if just for a millisecond, that you are doing exactly the right thing in exactly the right way at exactly the right time.

Abracadabra!

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!