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.

A Father's Day

Thank You, Lord, for daddies
And dads,
And papas,
And pops
Who trade Sports Illustrated
For Goodnight Moon,
And a tee time
For tea time.

Thank You
For the available.
For ballet recitals and band concerts
And Scouts and science fair volcanoes.
For twilight games of catch,
Multiplication tables,
And bleacher prayers
For, please Lord, just one hit.

Thank You
For the steadfast.
For choosing the good "No,"
Over the bad "Yes"
Even when it hurts.
For tempers held
Over dented fenders,
And tears shed for broken hearts.

Thank You, Lord, for the daddies
And dads,
And papas,
And pops
Who keep their eyes on You.
Please carry them
In Your strong arms
When theirs grow tired,
And give them a glimpse
Of their true legacy.

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.