Look

I almost stepped on him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Look.

Where? For what?

Look.

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

Watch and see.

Look.

A Story to Tell

Recently Mr. Pettit told me I always feel the need to explain myself.

It pains me to admit that he is right.

I’ve come up with three reasons why I have trouble delivering a simple “Yes” or No.”

1. Sometimes I think the explanation is a good story, and, well, I’m a storyteller.
2. Sometimes I want to spare someone’s feelings: “I can’t come to your party because I’ll be out of town visiting family.” (Never lie in an explanation, for thou wilt surely be found out.)
3. But sometimes--and this is the least noble and interesting of reasons---I explain myself because I don’t want to look bad.

Since I’m back in the blogosphere for the first time this year, you know an explanation is on its way. Stay or leave, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.

We can eliminate reason #2 , so that leaves #1 and #3 as possibilities. Not to be wishy washy, but I’ve concluded that both are in play here.

I have not stopped writing. (Alas, clearly a nod to #3.) I’ve been distracted by other commitments and haven’t maintained the daily discipline of tapping out words. But I have been writing, albeit in fits and starts.

I’ve been spending time with Sarah Winston, a teenager who lives in the Shenandoah Valley. I can’t give you a full introduction quite yet because I need to finish her story. I started this journey with her several years ago and became serious about it in 2016.

A proper author outlines a plot, turn by turn, and crafts her novel. However, I knew creating an outline would give me just another excuse to avoid writing. So I plunged in, carrying only the story’s beginning, end, and significant events with me.

I’ve told people that I don’t know if this manuscript will ever see the light of day. It may turn out to be nothing more than a do-it-yourself grad course in creative writing. But whatever the fate of Sarah’s story I’ve realized that its real significance for me may be spiritual in nature.

I wanted to write a Christian novel for young adults with three-dimensional characters who have believable reactions and motivations, not Sunday School flannel board cutouts who preach at the reader. Sarah is forced to closely examine her faith when confronted with evil. Her struggle has become mine.

I’ve searched the Bible for answers on Sarah’s behalf and as I approached the story’s climax John 16:33  kept jumping to the front of the line:

“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.” (New International Version)

Sarah wrestles with the ancient question of why God allows bad things to happen to good people. Jesus acknowledges that we will have trouble, not that we might. But---and it’s a glorious preposition in this case---He adds that He has overcome the world. No matter what happens, He promises to be my Anchor and unwavering Friend.

I grumble about my “To Do” list, but my life is very sweet right now. Yesterday I held our newest grandchild as she slept, her tiny legs pulled up to her chest. I listened to her rumbles and purrs and wondered about her dreams. The only thing that could have made the time more precious would have been the presence of our five-month-old grandson with his easy smile and our almost-three-year-old granddaughter with her mischievous grin. (A grin I used to see on her father, Younger Son.)

I’ve lived long enough to know that bad things lurk somewhere down the road. But Jesus has an answer for that too:

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?” Matthew 6:25-26 (NIV)

Today is Easter, the holiest day in the Christian calendar. The Baby of Christmas may capture our hearts, but it is the Savior of Easter Sunday Who offers us hope on our mortal journey and a safe harbor for eternity.

In order to tell Sarah’s story I’ve had to take a closer look at what I believe and why. Maybe that was God’s plan all along.

And that, my friends, concludes my explanation.

Fringe Benefits

I told myself I shouldn't eat the cupcake.

Thanksgiving was approaching, and I knew I'd have to face a thousand edible temptations between that holiday and Christmas. And I also knew I'd wind up succumbing to at least a few of them. (Okay, maybe more than a few. But not most. Well, maybe somewhere between a few and most. But definitely not all.)

So I said no to the cupcake.

I was substituting in second grade that afternoon and the teacher across the hall, Mrs. M., had made Food Network-worthy chocolate cupcakes for a fellow teacher's birthday. When I declined the treat at lunch, Mrs. R., the birthday girl, insisted I take one. "But what if you fly up to heaven tomorrow?" she asked. "You will have missed out on a cupcake for no good reason."

I appreciated her logic, but I was resolute. No cupcake for me.

Mrs. M. said she would be in a meeting while all the second-graders were in Resource (P.E., Art, Music, or Library) but I was welcome to come in to her classroom and take a cupcake if I changed my mind.

I took advantage of the Resource time to look at my lesson plans for the rest of the afternoon and begin my note to the absent teacher about how things had gone. But I finished quickly and I was left with nothing to do but sit and think.

About the cupcakes behind the locked door across the hall.

And I gave in.

As soon as I lifted the lid of the cake carrier the rich, chocolaty scent took me back to every birthday cake Mama ever made for me. If I were a stronger person I would have been satisfied to breathe in that sweetness.

But I'm not.

I took the cupcake back to my classroom and ate it slowly, savoring the moist chocolate cake and the swirly buttery frosting. I've had those fancy cupcakes that folks stand in line for and this one was far superior. Although I did not fly up to heaven the next day I still don't regret consuming that treat. It was that good.

A few days later I spent the afternoon filling in for a P.E. teacher.  I was told that another P.E. teacher would be present, so I'd be on hand to help with crowd control. (And when you're working with 40 or so five- and six-year-olds at a time, crowd control is essential.)

A multicolored parachute was spread out on the gym floor---it looked like a rainbow had circled back on itself and fallen to Earth. After Ms. B. laid down the ground rules (such as no walking on or climbing under the parachute), the students took their places, two per colored wedge.

I shared a color with a young man who declined to participate. I can't remember why he was disgruntled, but his faux tears were plentiful. However, he inched forward once he decided that the cost of setting aside his anger was worth the benefit of making the parachute billow. Following Ms. B's instructions, we built from gentle waves to a tsunami.

Soon the cavernous space filled with laughter: The students', Ms. B.'s and mine. I couldn't have maintained my composure even if you had threatened to take away the Hallmark Channel. My joy was effervescent, bubbling up from my six-year-old self.

I write this during the lull between Christmas and New Year's Day, when I'm caught between the desire for one more night in the glow of my Christmas tree and the urge to lean into a new year with a tidy home and a fresh agenda. I love the holidays, but it's very easy for me to get so caught up in doing that I neglect being. My ongoing resolution---for this column and my life---is that I will become more proficient in savoring the sweetness of the moment, whether that involves a eating a chocolate cupcake, flapping a parachute, putting together a puzzle with my granddaughter or rocking my one-month-old grandson as he sleeps. Those aren't fringe benefits; they're the whole paycheck.

May your new year be filled with moments of light and joy.

Thank You Notes

"What are the magic words?"

I pose that question at least once each time I substitute in an elementary school classroom. And if I had to guess I'd say that 85% of the time the correct reply is given for the situation: "Please" or "Thank you."

I taught kindergarten for a couple of days last week. A young man walked up to me and announced in a gravelly, pack-a-day, I've-been-workin'-on-the-railroad voice that his shoe was untied. If I had been in a crabby mood I might have replied, "Yes, it is," and moved on to our math lesson. But since my patience was not hanging by a thread I asked for the magic words instead. He didn't know them but I remedied that. He seemed somewhat skeptical but maybe the fact that he walked away with nicely tied shoes provided good reinforcement.

Later that day we took a break for story time. The classroom teacher had a basket of books by her chair and I selected one titled Thank You, Thanksgiving by David Milgrim. It's a story about a little girl who's sent on an errand by her mother to the general store in town. Clearly we should classify this particular work as a fantasy because these days a mother is about as likely to ask her young child to fire up a circular saw in the garage as she is to send her off to town by herself.

As Little Miss toddles off through the snow on her mission she thanks her warm boots. In fact, her journey to the store becomes a litany of appreciation. When she hears birds singing in the park she says, "Thank you, music." She also thanks the park, some rabbits (although I couldn't figure out what for), a duck that picks up her scarf, the store, a hill where she does some sledding, pie with whipped cream and finally Thanksgiving itself.

I've developed a pretty good poker face, so as I closed the book I'm sure the children couldn't tell I was thinking "Huh?" I had just read a book with Thanksgiving in the title but the main character gave thanks only to animals, geographic features, inanimate objects and a holiday. Something buzzed on the periphery of my brain until it hit me: The little girl thanked things, not the people who made them possible. (Although I will concede that it was proper to thank that duck.) Don't thank the boots; thank your parents for buying them. Don't thank the store; thank the clerk who helped you. Don't thank the pie; thank the person who made it.

I had the feeling the author's purpose was to write a children's book about Thanksgiving without having to deal with the elephant in the room: Thanksgiving requires giving thanks to somebody. And while you can thank your mama for the pumpkin pie whom do you thank for good health? For a monarch butterfly? For autumn's last blaze of color on the mountainside?

I decided to ask my students whom they could thank on Thanksgiving. The responses came quickly:
"My mom."
"My dad."

"Okay, anyone else?"

"My brother."
"My sister."

Come on, come on. One of you knows. I'm sure of it.

"My family."
"My brother."

"Yes, someone said that. Can you think of someone else you can thank?"

Silence.


I didn't cross the line and give them the answer I longed to hear: God. I'm certain He put this impulse of gratitude in our hearts, knowing that eventually it would lead us to Him. Because there are some things no one else can claim credit for: The velvet of a newborn's skin, the joy of fellowship with a dear friend, the recovery from a serious illness. We can't help but run smack dab into the Creator of all things.

Thank you, God.

It Is Well

Today is Election Day in the United States.

It is likely that by tomorrow morning about half of those who voted will be elated.

The other half will be depressed. Those are the people I'd like to reach today. And I can't rule out the possibility that I'm giving myself a preemptive pep talk.

In church Sunday we sang the hymn "It Is Well With My Soul." Its lyrics were written in 1873 by a businessman named Horatio Spafford and were put to music by Philip Bliss in 1876.

Spafford didn't write his poem from a self-satisfied seat atop a mountain. He wrote it in the deepest of valleys, as he mourned the loss of his four daughters. His family had been traveling ahead of him to Europe when their ship was struck by another. His wife survived and sent him a telegram with this devastating news: "Saved alone."

As Spafford crossed the Atlantic to join her his ship's captain informed him when they arrived at the spot where his daughters had perished. He could have shaken his fist at God and launched volleys of bitter anger. And who would have blamed him? Instead, he wrote this:

When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
Refrain:
It is well, (it is well),
With my soul, (with my soul)
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Whatever happens tonight, I know that I can face tomorrow, thanks to the grace and mercy of Jesus Christ.

It is well.

Retreat. Refresh. Regroup.

What a difference a week makes.

The cornfield crackled as I walked by yesterday, the dead stalks bending in an October breeze. A scene of harvest and of endings. It made me think of the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania, a place of water and color, a place to find refreshment as our nation endures a brittle election season.

The scene below Cucumber Falls, Ohiopyle State Park

A week ago Mr. Pettit and I traveled there for our last camping trip of the year. It's time to put our trailer---affectionately called "Kermit" due to its frog decal---away for the winter.


We spent the first day of our trip exploring Ohiopyle State Park. We clambered over boulders and climbed up and down hillsides to watch the Youghiogheny River at work. 

We heard the water long before we saw it. And when our eyes could take in what our ears had perceived---the sunlight illuminating the mist as the torrent continued its relentless path through the mountains, trees thinned of leaves bearing witness---all of the stress of the 24-hour news cycle faded.

We let the autumnal sunshine bake into our bones as we listened to the music of the river, written by the Composer of all good things before time began.

The names of all those killed on September 11, 2001

The next day we turned our attention from natural wonders to man made tragedy. First we visited the Flight 93 National Memorial outside Shanksville. You know the story: The passengers and crew of United Airlines Flight 93 fought back against the terrorists who sought to use their plane as a missile against a target in Washington D.C. (most likely the U.S. Capitol). They died when the hijackers decided to crash the plane. 

We watched a loop of the television news coverage of the day: From the first reports of a plane hitting one of the World Trade Center towers, to the collapse of one tower, then another, to the terrible burning gash in the side of the Pentagon, to the blackened field in Pennsylvania. 

We saw artifacts from Flight 93's wreckage and portraits of the passengers and crew. Not only portraits, but spontaneous family photos, moments of joy frozen in time. 

A marble wall adjacent to the crash site honors the dead

There were boxes of tissues scattered throughout the exhibit---I've never seen tissues at any of the National Park Service sites we've visited before---but I didn't need any until I listened to the messages left on answering machines by two of the women aboard Flight 93. These weren't reenactments; they were the actual voices of people who knew they probably wouldn't see their loved ones again, not in this life anyway. Different women, different families, the same sentiment, over and over: "I love you."

The crash site itself is more than the scene of a battle between good and evil: It is the final resting place of all those aboard.  I was reminded of our visit to the USS Arizona in Pearl Harbor, where 1,177 sailors and Marines are entombed. A sense of reverence, even awe, settled on most of the visitors. We walked quietly along the wall separating us from the site and some left remembrances behind: A flag, some flowers, a note in a child's handwriting saying "I am ralesle sorey."

The viewing areas with railings are all that remain of the 72-foot-high dam

Around 45 minutes from the Flight 93 memorial is another National Park Service site: the Johnstown Flood National Memorial. On the afternoon of May 31, 1889, the South Fork Dam gave way, sending the 20 million tons of water contained in Lake Conemaugh rushing down the valley toward Johnstown, Pennsylvania. According to the Park Service brochure, the lake broke through the dam "at the velocity and depth of the Niagara River as it goes over the falls." More than 2,200 people were killed. Among the dead were 99 families.

The Park Service brochure says the owner of the dam, the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club, did not maintain it properly but over time the people of Johnstown and surrounding communities stopped worrying about it. One survivor, Victor Heiser, is quoted as saying, "The townspeople, like those who live in the shadow of Vesuvius, grew calloused to the possibility of danger." 

We packed a lot into a short stay: A day of restoration followed by a day of contemplation. And I returned home with a re-calibrated perspective. I still care about the outcome of this election, but I was reminded of the bigger picture. 

God made a beautiful world and He invites us to enjoy it. Pray for the strength to do what's right, even (and especially) in extreme circumstances. Never pass up the chance to tell your loved ones how you feel. And strive to appreciate each moment, because you never know when a flood, whether literal or metaphorical, will come roaring down the valley.

Remember

I watch the television coverage every year. And every time I cry.

Bells ring. Moments of silence are observed. And the names are read.

Name. After name. After name. Almost three thousand in all.

They ranged in age from two to 85. Some died quickly: Murdered with box cutters wielded by hijackers, incinerated as planes were used as piloted missiles or killed in a crash when they rushed the terrorists. Some were lost as they scrambled for safety. And some died as they ran headlong into the conflagration in order to save their fellow man.

It occurred to me this morning that the day will come when the names will not be read. When the footage of the planes crashing into the World Trade Center towers, the blazing gash in the Pentagon and the smoking debris in Pennsylvania will not be aired. It is likely that the time will come when the only recognition given to the events of September 11, 2001, will be a notation in a block on a calendar and a "This Day in History" item at the end of a newscast.

But even as I bemoaned the fact that we have a tendency to turn "Never Forget" into "Never Remember" I realized something else: The impact of those lost is not dependent on our collective memory.

Each person who died that day---and those who have died in the years since due to their service at Ground Zero and on the battlefield---left a legacy that will endure even if their names fade from history. A child, followed by a grandchild, then a great-grandchild, and on and on. Acts of valor which inspire acts of service, followed by even more acts of valor: A chain of selflessness. Even a gentle word shared at the perfect moment lingers in the soul, causing the recipient to pay that sweetness forward, magnifying the original kindness a hundred- or a thousand-fold.

On November 19, 1863, President Abraham Lincoln visited the site of the Battle of Gettysburg to dedicate part of the battlefield as a cemetery for those killed there. His words---now known as the Gettysburg Address---have thrummed in my mind today as we observe the 15th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks.

"But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate---we cannot consecrate---we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men living and dead who struggled here have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work that they have thus far so nobly carried on."

"It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work..." What a weighty and stirring mission, as relevant today as it was almost 153 years ago. I think of the passengers of Flight 93 who denied the terrorists a fourth victory and of the military members who have made the ultimate sacrifice on the field of battle. We must be resolute in completing their unfinished work.

But I think we can also honor the unfinished work of those who died simply because they went to work or chose to travel. In the last 15 years I have seen both of our sons graduate from high school and college and get married. I have looked through a glass and seen my newborn granddaughter. Yes, I have grown older---the laugh lines are a bit more pronounced and I can no longer eat fast food with impunity---but what a small price to pay for the joy of the 5,479 days those lost on September 11 have missed.

None of the survivors who take part in the mournful roll call each year ever talk about the stuff their loved one left behind---not the new car or the nice house or the lovely jewelry. They do talk about how that person made them feel and the hole in their lives that will never close completely.

It is for us, the living, to honor the lost by being fully present with our friends and family. It is for us, the living, to weave a legacy of love that can stand the test of time. It is for us, the living, to light a candle in the darkness.

As Todd Beamer, a passenger on Flight 93, said to his fellow passengers: "Let's roll."