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!

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.