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."

Wide Open Spaces

Even storm clouds look beautiful from a distance.

I grew up surrounded by trees. I wouldn't be surprised if Daddy cursed them under his breath as he condemned another bag of grass seed to shady oblivion, but Mama wouldn't hear of cutting one down. Only the threats of neighbors---and to this day I don't know what the threats were, whether legal action or old-fashioned Southern shunning---convinced to her to allow the removal of an especially messy tulip poplar on the property line.

It wasn't until Mr. Pettit and I moved to Lubbock, Texas, that I saw how big the sky could be. It scared me a little: Too much open space with no green to hide in. I still remember our trips to visit South Carolina, how I'd start to relax when the trees of Abilene came into view.

I'm not sure when my feelings about trees began to shift, but it might have been during an Air Force assignment outside Omaha, Nebraska. Nebraska gave us our first real taste of winter, and with no trees to block the view you could see countless stars sparkle in the icy air. Since then I've stared at the full moon hanging over Cheyenne, Wyoming, looking for all the world as if it were about to land there. I've watched endless waves of corn billowing in Iowa and a blanket of royal blue settling over the green of Montana's mountains.

I still love trees. My favorite season in Virginia's Shenandoah Valley is autumn, when a quick drive to the grocery store can become a leaf-peeping adventure. But I don't want to live in an arboretum anymore. I love the way the full moon shines in my bedroom window like a celestial spotlight. And I especially love seeing what weather is coming our way as the clouds roll over the Blue Ridge. Just this morning Mr. Pettit and I studied the layers of light and dark clouds on the horizon and wondered if our newly planted hydrangeas would be getting any rain this afternoon. The skies gradually cleared and the rain didn't come. But that trifle of clouds has been on my mind all day.

Several friends are caught in thunderstorms as I write this. Some saw the gale coming from a distance but they couldn't stop it, although they tried mightily to do so. Others had no idea foul weather was approaching before the downpour started. All I can do is pray for them until the skies clear.

Satellite pictures of hurricanes always leave me dumbstruck by their immensity and power, even as I fear for the people in their path. Such images provide the tiniest of glimpses into God's perspective on our Earth. He sees all the inclement weather headed our way, whether a string of tornadoes or a series of events triggered by human frailty, and is in control of all of it. That's the hard thing: Reconciling the fact that He's in control with the suffering experienced by His children. Why does God spare some people and not others? I don't know---I've finally accepted that I may never know until I get a Heaven's eye view of things myself.

I also don't know how long our friends will be battered by the different storms raging in their lives: Disappointment. Illness. Grief. Frustration. Fear. Their only hope, and mine, rests in Jesus of Nazareth.        

By entering through faith into what God has always wanted to do for us—set us right with him, make us fit for him—we have it all together with God because of our Master Jesus. And that’s not all: We throw open our doors to God and discover at the same moment that he has already thrown open his door to us. We find ourselves standing where we always hoped we might stand—out in the wide open spaces of God’s grace and glory, standing tall and shouting our praise. (Romans 5:1-2, The Message)

"The wide open spaces of God's grace and glory"---What a glorious phrase! Not hemmed in, restricted or confined, but free to take everything in. Clouds. Stars. Sunrises. Sunsets. And sometimes rainbows.

Bitter. Sweet. Repeat.

The little boy with special needs had been staring at me all day. I was working as a substitute aide in his classroom and one of the other aides said he was obsessed with me because I was a new face.

He didn't talk, not with words anyway. But he was able to communicate clearly about what he did---and did not---want to do.

At the end of the school day I crouched in front of him to zip up his coat. As I struggled to get the zipper started he leaned over and kissed the top of my head tenderly.

Then, in less than a breath, he grabbed two fistfuls of my hair and pulled. Hard.

I gasped for assistance as I worked to extricate my hair from one of the tiny Goliath's fists. The other teachers and aides rushed to free me while managing to handle the boy with great gentleness.

Sweetness one moment, pain the next. Life.

I don't have to explain it to you, this pendulum from which we swing: Back and forth, back and forth, joy to woe, excitement to disappointment, high to low and back again.

Back in the late nineties Mr. Pettit was assigned to the U.S. Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado. As Charles Dickens would say, "It was the best of times. It was the worst of times."

The best: Mr. Pettit enjoyed his job and our family tried to take in all that the Academy and the surrounding area had to offer. We attended Falcon football and hockey games and we all tried skiing. (We decided we prefer snowmobiles.) We hit the road in our pop-up camper, seeing much of  Colorado, Wyoming and Montana. We got the chance to see an enormous full moon over Cheyenne and the deep green slopes of the Absaroka Mountains.

The worst: We lost our three remaining parents in an 18-month period. (My father had passed away in 1988.) It began with the passing of Mr. Pettit's father in December 1995, followed by the losses of my mother in November 1996 and Mr. Pettit's mother in April 1997.

Bonaventure Cemetery, Savannah, Georgia

I don't share this story to summon your sympathy, for we are all well acquainted with grief. Reversals of fortune and even the coexistence of sweetness and sorrow are common in this life. I confess that when things are going well I tend to look over my shoulder, wondering when the good times will stop and the bad will take over.

Yesterday was Good Friday, the day Christians commemorate the death of Jesus of Nazareth on a cross. We believe He died to pay the penalty for our mistakes. Tomorrow we'll celebrate Easter, the day Jesus came back to life, proof that He was no ordinary teacher, but the Son of God Himself.

This was no simple swish of the pendulum; it was the difference between death and life, between separation and union. And this time there would be no swinging between negative and positive, no moving from low to high and high to low. Good Friday gave way to Easter morning and there was no going back. Jesus's sacrifice on our behalf allows us to shift permanently from alienation to communion, free to be the people He created us to be.

Unfortunately, we can't hop off this crazy ride between joy and pain. As long as we're breathing we'll have to contend with a mix of good and bad. Even Jesus said, "I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble." But He didn't stop there: "But take heart! I have overcome the world." (John 16:33 NIV)

He is risen! He is risen indeed!

Undead Love

Valentine's Day 2016 is approaching. Better grab your ax.

Say what?

Sorry---I've seen one too many commercials for Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, a new movie out this weekend. I suppose Jane Austen's original version didn't have enough zip. (Not to mention slash.)

The movie is based on a book of the same title by Seth Grahame-Smith, the author who also brought us Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter. I have to tip my hat to Mr. Grahame-Smith for his apparent success in blending genres. However...

Goodness gracious! Excuse me while I settle myself in my rocker and commence to complain about all these young whippersnappers messing around with great literature, deciding that everything needs more blood gushing and bones cracking and brains squishing and especially more of those danged zombies. Back in my day, sonny, zombies were just mindless things who stood around awaiting orders. The Mummy couldn't talk but at least he showed some initiative, managing to surprise and murder people too slow and stupid to escape a creature bound head to toe in gauze.

Whew. I think I'll be okay now. Thanks for letting me unleash my inner elderly curmudgeon and vent a bit. But really, what's next, To Kill a Werewolf? Atticus Finch and his two brave children, Jem and Scout, melt down the family silver to protect Maycomb County from a pack of changelings. They're assisted by Boo Radley, a werewolf who's trying to resist his murderous urges...

I know, I know, different strokes for different folks and all that. I have to admit to a certain bias here because of my love for Pride and Prejudice. I confess I haven't reread the book in years but I did watch my favorite movie version a couple of weeks ago.

As I watched Elizabeth Bennet (played by Keira Knightley) and Mr. Darcy (played by Matthew Macfadyen) muddle through their almost on-, definitely off-, possibly on- and finally deliriously happy relationship I realized that this was the quintessential romance, the ultimate "chick flick." Lizzie and Darcy don't embrace until they confess their love for each other (at last!) and we don't see them kiss until the movie's last scene.

But their circuitous route to love, embellished by exquisite dialogue, makes my heart sing. When Mr. Darcy tells Miss Bennet she has bewitched him, body and soul, I can't help but wonder if that's what every woman, from 18 to 80, wants to hear.

So, gentlemen, allow me to make the following suggestion: This Valentine's Day, leave the dead alone. Go with Miss Austen's original version. The zombie apocalypse can wait.

Waiting for Christmas

When I was little Mama made a long ribbon out of red felt with small Christmas ornaments about the size of a golf ball tied along its length. Beginning December 1 I’d untie an ornament each day, starting at the top. Each vacant spot on that ribbon assured me that Christmas was truly drawing closer even though the month seemed to be passing slower than ketchup from a bottle. Finally---oh, at last!---I’d reach the bell at the bottom which tolled the joyous news that Christmas Eve had arrived.

Now that I”m a grownup the days from December 1st to Christmas Eve don’t creep along; they come at me like a bullet train. And while I love Christmas Day I don’t feel the wild-eyed anticipation I experienced as a child.

That’s why I love a snowstorm.

Here in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley forecasters usually start talking about the chance of snow several days before the event. It begins as almost an off-hand comment, something along the lines of “Models say there’s a chance of a significant storm at the end of the week.” My ears perk up and my internal weather radar comes online.

I visit weather websites and pay closer attention to the news. I ask the serious weather watchers in my circle about the movement of cold fronts and high- and low-pressure systems. As the meteorologists grow more confident of their predictions my excitement begins to build. By the time a Winter Storm Watch has been issued I’m almost giddy with anticipation.

Shoveling must deplete your potassium...

In the day or two before a storm hits---as the Winter Storm Watch is replaced by a Winter Storm Warning---the entire region becomes caught up in Snow Madness. Some of us are mad as in crazy excited over the possibility of piles and piles of fluffy flakes while others are just...mad. The former group buzzes in the grocery store aisles and chats with complete strangers about how much snow we’ll get and “Do you remember that storm in 2010?”

The latter group pushes their carts about with the same cheer you’d expect from soldiers heading into Armageddon. An acquaintance told me yesterday about a scene she witnessed at a local Costco: Agitated shoppers yelling at a hapless young man about the fact that the rotisserie chickens had sold out. I never even knew that adequate storm preparations included rotisserie chicken. When faced with a South Carolina ice storm the only items Mama and Daddy insisted on having on hand were coffee and toilet paper.

When I got up this morning we were still under a Winter Storm Warning for today but the Weather Channel said we've have  blizzard conditions tomorrow. Having lived in Nebraska, Colorado and North Dakota I know how dangerous blizzards can be as the wind whips the falling snow into a white curtain and drops the wind chill to wicked levels. That’s why I pause my Happy Snow Dance long enough to pray for the homeless and all the essential personnel who must venture into the storm. I’m thankful that our community provides extra shelter for those in need during the winter.

As I write this I’m bundled up in my softest fleece jacket, watching the first fat flakes drift to earth. The snow started falling about half an hour ago and Mr. Pettit and I are ready for whatever the storm brings. We have extra batteries, gas for the snow blower, and, of course, plenty of coffee and toilet paper.

It’s here! It’s here! Merry Snow Day to all!

Wake Up Call

Dreaming is good. But waking up is better.

I've dreamed of being a writer since childhood. I've thought about it and hoped for it and worked toward it. But as the years passed I thought and hoped more than I worked---dreaming about my life as a writer became a substitute for writing itself.

I didn't stumble upon this epiphany recently. I've cast about for ways to make the discipline of stringing words together a part of my daily routine for years. I vowed to have a book published by the time I was 40, then 45, and, well, you get the idea. Back in April 2013 I started this blog in the hope that having such a forum would force me to write regularly. Maybe that would have worked if "A Moment's Notice" had an editor clamoring for content but, alas, I'm the sole staffer.

On May 13, 2014, I published a column titled "Going the Distance, Fifteen Minutes at a Time" about my latest attempt to commit to the writing life. I referred to a blog post written by children's book author Martin Tiller about how words come to you as you write, not necessarily before. (Be sure to check out Martin's blog at martintiller.com and his books on Amazon.com.) With that in mind he had made a commitment to write 15 minutes each day, no matter what.

In that 2014 post I claimed that commitment as my own and it worked, for a while. I started a book I'd had swirling in my mind because I thought it would be easier to join a story in progress day after day. But before long I fell into the trap of editing as I wrote, trying to polish each word into a gem. So 15 minutes would pass and I’d have precious little to show for my time. Low productivity led to diminishing motivation.

I continued to write here and for my short-form blog, “Just a Moment.” Some days I felt like a writer and a few times I even told other people I was one, but I didn’t really believe it. That was an old dream, a grand delusion, and I was a pretender.

I believe in prayer and I approach God daily about the big and small concerns facing me, my family and friends and the world at large. But on January 5 of this shiny new year it struck me that I rarely prayed about my writing. Perhaps I assumed He had more important things on His agenda. I don’t know.

But that morning I placed all my insecurities and doubts about writing in His hands. I told God that if He wanted me to write He’d have to show me how to make it happen.

Later that day I was skimming through my jam-packed email inbox when I came across a note from Jeff Goins, a writer who writes about writing. (How circular is that?) I had subscribed to his newsletter a while back and I’m not proud to admit that more than a few issues had gone directly to my trash folder without being opened.

Perhaps my prayer request was still lingering in my mind because this time I hesitated before swiping Mr. Goins’s tips into oblivion. The subject line---“Why starting slow is the quickest way to succeed”---piqued my curiosity and the opening line grabbed me by the throat:

Are you off to a slow start with your New Year's Resolutions?

Well, amen, brother! Testify! Mr. Goins went on to talk about ways to establish a writing routine, including the “My 500 Words a Day Challenge.” I went to the Challenge web site to learn the details and felt a buzz of recognition when I read this title at the top of the page: “The Secret to Developing a Regular Writing Habit.”

The goal was simple:
For the next 31 days, we’ll be writing 500 words a day. These won’t be great words, but they will be written. We’re not trying to reach perfection; we’re just trying to get more ideas out of our heads and onto paper. 

Five hundred words. Every day. For 31 days. On the one hand I felt Jeff Goins might as well have been telling me to run a marathon by February. On the other hand, I had asked for help and this might be my answer. So I dove in.

I dragged out my tiny seedling of a book and started writing. Unless I run off the rails completely today will mark my  twelfth day in a row of writing 500 words a day. Believe me, this is something of a miracle. Not a water-into-wine or raising the dead kind of miracle, but a miracle nonetheless.

The sentences aren’t perfectly crafted but they exist. The story needs some work but the characters are moving forward. At this point I’m writing to see what they’ll do, because sometimes I’m not sure until my fingers touch the keyboard. 

I don’t know if anyone will ever read what I write and I’m surprised that I’m okay with that. It’s enough to know that I’m finally using a gift handed to me by my Maker. I’ll trust Him with the outcome.

My name is Rita Finch Pettit. And I am a writer.

(For more information about Jeff Goins and the resources he offers visit www.goinswriter.com.)

Christmas, Moment by Moment

My Christmas season is always in pieces---not the seamless canvas portrayed in magazines, but a picture created by scores of random fragments coming together.

A stained glass Christmas.

Each Thanksgiving, as I spoon leftovers into plastic containers and look for new ways to recycle turkey, I vow that this year I'll get Christmas right. I won't let my priorities get so out of line that I'm running around like an elf on amphetamines. I won't experience a moment of horror when I realize Christmas is only a week away and I haven't written my Christmas letter (Yes, I do write one each year and I'm not ashamed to admit it) and I haven't baked a single cookie.

Yep, that's what I always say. And I have yet to succeed.

As Christmas Day 2015 draws to a close I realize while I may not "do" Christmas perfectly I am often blessed with perfect moments:

Shopping in Costco a week before Christmas, cart-to-cart with fellow last-minute pilgrims, listening to carols echoing through the warehouse, and feeling good cheer settling over us all, from the shoppers to the sample ladies. "Thank you," "Excuse me," and "Merry Christmas" bounce from soul to soul.

Listening to "I'll Be Home for Christmas" on the radio as I run Christmas Eve errands and
remembering how the song made me sad during Mr. Pettit's military service---we made our home wherever we were currently assigned, but we also missed our extended family. As I make my trek to Walmart I think about both sons, their wives and our granddaughter spending the holiday at our home and I'm overwhelmed with the sweet realization that extended family has come to us.

Watching children at a Christmas light show; they jump up and down as if springs are attached to their soles and their shrieks of delight ping back and forth in the crowd, causing even grownups to smile.

Holding Sweet Baby Girl before I put her to bed, swaying in the soft light of the guest room. Her head, damp from her bath, rests on my shoulder and my heart rests in her little hands.

My awareness of my blessings is sharpened by the fact that many of our friends and family have been touched by calamity this year. Indulge me as I quote the conclusion of the aforementioned Christmas letter (which I did mail before Christmas):

I try not to focus on why God didn't stop the bad things from happening. Instead I think about all the moments when He did intervene on the roads and in the emergency rooms and the surgical suites. Then my thoughts turn to the intervention, the reason we set aside every December 25 as holy.

This is how much God loved the world: He gave his Son, his one and only Son. And this is why: so that no one need be destroyed; by believing in him, anyone can have a whole and lasting life. God didn't go to all the trouble of sending his Son merely to point an accusing finger, telling the world how bad it was. He came to help, to put the world right again. Anyone who trusts in him is acquitted; anyone who refuses to trust him has long since been under the death sentence without knowing it. And why? Because of that person's failure to believe in the one-of-a-kind Son of God when introduced to him.
John 3:16-18 (The Message)

May all the colorful pieces of 2016 unite to give you a beautiful and blessed stained glass year.

Merry Christmas!