Birthday Reflections

I've aged a year in a day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

License to Chill

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And my vision test? Nailed it.

Rain, rain, go away...

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

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

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

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

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

Even if that means eating a Wafflicious under an umbrella.

For Mama

Dear Mama,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,
Rita

The Writing's on the Wall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!