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!

Staying Afloat

Do you ever feel like you're running even when you're standing still?

As I got ready for work a few mornings ago my brain was spinning like a centrifuge, trying to resolve problems and set priorities. If I were a comic book character lightning would have been shooting from my finger tips. I forced myself to focus: Breathe in, breathe out, repeat.

At least I was standing still, unlike my friend K (no, not the Men in Black character), who described a typical morning in her home in a recent Facebook post (reprinted with permission):

I am extremely jealous of all those mothers who are able to get out of bed two hours before their children...exercise...do laundry...shower...and bake hot muffins for their children to wake up to every morning...greeting said children with a smile and gently getting them off to school...
I, on the other hand, have TWO alarms set...one at 5:45 and the other at 6:20... when they go off, I quickly calculate the joy I will get out of emerging from my cozy bed an hour or so ahead of the boys and leisurely getting ready vs the joy of sleeping in and hitting the snooze alarm...guess which one wins? I typically manage to emerge from the covers at 6:57...race down the hallway to shower while waking (none too gently) (Son #2) with a shout...race back up the hall to dress...
At 7:30, I start encouraging (read talking at an ever increasing volume) (Son #2) to get dressed because we have to leave in ten minutes....I am convinced velcro sneakers were invented because of moms like me...I yell at (Son #2) to hurry up with the shoes and he moves into a higher gear...rampaging snail...stampeding turtle...

At 7:42, I start looking for my car keys...which I can't find...Found the keys...and my wallet...woo-hoo...and pulled out of the driveway at 7:46...we made it to school with two minutes to spare...and then I went home to do it again with (Son #1)...who we have nicknamed Lurch because he's approaching 6 feet at age 13...and, well, his top speed isn't much higher than (Son #2's) first thing in the morning...

Does reading that make you tired, or is it just me?

I love K's reference to the muffin-making moms. In the ancient, pre-Web days you didn't know what early morning miracles these women performed until you spoke to them at work or church or in your neighborhood. Even then they might take in your dirty sneakers or not-quite-styled hair and show mercy by not talking about their good works.

But now we live in the age of Facebook, and the only thing missing from some posts is the newsboy's cry, "Extra! Extra! Read all about it!" The paragon K described might write something like this:

A bit of a busy morning here. Had to shorten my run (only three miles today!) because I promised Jasper I'd help him finish up his diorama about the Iroquois. Then I realized I haven't made buckwheat pancakes in at least a week so I whipped some up. After a quick shower (can't forget to exfoliate!) I drilled Jasper on his multiplication tables while I braided Theodora's hair---then she and I chatted about Charlotte's Web while I finished packing their lunches. Both are on the bus now so I better finish getting ready for work. I hope we can figure out that last piece of the genetic code today. Bye bye for now!

I can't get too high-and-mighty about Facebook because I use it myself. That's how I get the word out about this blog. And I think we're all guilty of a bit of spin now and then, tweaking details here and there to make our lives look extra bright and shiny.

It occurred to me the other day, the morning my brain was buzzing, that I tend to make things harder than they have to be. I throw rocks into my mental backpack then wonder why I'm bent over with the load. I toss in one stone after another: Do I meet the expectations of others or do I fall short? How do I measure up to my peers? Did I say too much or too little? Why do I have so much trouble conquering (Insert bad habit here)?

I've spent my Sunday mornings with preschoolers for a number of years and I think I've learned more from their pared down lessons than from any lofty sermonizing. I especially like the story about Peter---audacious, impulsive, fiercely loyal and yet terribly fearful Peter---and his reaction to seeing Jesus walk on water.

Shortly before dawn Jesus went out to them, walking on the lake. When the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified. "It's a ghost," they said, and cried out in fear. 
But Jesus immediately said to them, "Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid."
"Lord, if it's you," Peter replied, "tell me to come to you on the water."
"Come," he said.
Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, "Lord, save me!"
Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. "You of little faith," he said, "why did you doubt?"
And when they climbed into the boat, the wind died down. Then those who were in the boat worshiped him, saying, "Truly you are the Son of God."
Matthew 14:25-33 (NIV)

I tell my preschoolers that Peter was fine as long as he kept his eyes on Jesus but he started to sink when he turned his attention to the wind and waves. I need to remind myself of that on a daily basis. No "to do" list, no matter how long and involved, can overwhelm me when my eyes are fixed on my Savior. His is the only approval I should seek.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. Do everything for an Audience of One.

Listen to the Music

Warning: The following column is rife with pop culture references. If you spend all of your free time listening to Vivaldi and reading the classics phone a friend or wait for my next post.

Back in the summer of our nation's bicentennial year everybody was movin' and groovin' to a cool song about death. But I'm not sure they realized it.

All our times have come
Here, but now they're gone
Seasons don't fear the reaper
Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain
(We can be like they are)

Come on baby
(Don't fear the reaper)
Baby take my hand
(Don't fear the reaper)
We'll be able to fly
(Don't fear the reaper)
Baby I'm your man.

"Don't Fear the Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult

(Donald Roeser)

I wondered back then how many of my friends listened to the lyrics. After all, once that cowbell kicked in all you wanted to do was roll down the windows and drive fast through a sparkling South Carolina night. (I assume my younger readers are familiar with this song only through Will Ferrell's brilliant sketch on "Saturday Night Live" in 2000.)

In a 1995 interview with College Music Journal Mr. Roeser said he was talking about eternal love, not suicide, but that's not the impression I got in 1976. It still isn't. 

Everyone has a list of irritants that's as unique as our personalities. One of mine is double-edged: I can't fully enjoy a song if I can't understand the lyrics and if I don't like the lyrics I can't enjoy the melody. (Okay, I do like "The Joker" by The Steve Miller Band even though he speaks "of the pompatus of love." There's an exception to every rule.)

This column came to mind as I listened to "Bang, Bang" by Jessie J, Ariana Grande and Nicki Minaj the other day. The opening, sung by Jessie J, reminds me of Beaker on "The Muppet Show," although I don't think Beaker ever went "bang, bang" on anyone. I watched the video to figure out who was singing the first lines. I admit I hoped it was Ariana Grande, because I wanted an excuse to bring up her penchant for doughnut licking. Oh, wait, I guess I just did...

Anyway, in the spirit of Casey Kasem, back to the countdown. "Independence Day" by Martina McBride seems to be regarded by many as a triumphant anthem:


Let freedom ring, let the white dove sing
Let the whole world know that today is a
Day of reckoning
Let the weak be strong, let the right be wrong
Roll the stone away, let the guilty pay
It's Independence Day.
(Gretchen Peters)

The storyteller in the song is recalling the summer she was eight. She sings about how Mama escaped her abusive marriage by setting fire to the house with Daddy in it. The thing is, she renders herself extra crispy at the same time, leaving her daughter an orphan. Loretta Lynn wouldn't have done it that way. She would have sent hubby to Fist City and run off with her little girl to Nashville.    

And then there's my Grand Prize Winner for Most Annoying Song of All Time: "Imagine" by John Lennon.

I see you out there, your faces painted with stunned disbelief. "Imagine"? The inspirational song about peace and harmony?

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you will join us
And the world will be as one.
(John Lennon)

Let's hold hands and sway around the campfire to that verse. But what about the others?

Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people living for today

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people living life in peace...

Oh, I get it. If only we could get rid of religion and the whole concept of an afterlife we'd be living for today, which brings the film The Purge to mind. I'm all for "Carpe diem," but I disagree with Mr. Lennon's contention that we'd be better off without eternity in mind. For me, it's the eternal that helps me keep the temporary in perspective.

As for getting rid of countries, "nothing to kill or die for," well, it might be considered backward or arrogant or rude these days, but I'm thankful to be an American. As a Christian I believe one day there won't be any borders or conflicts, but until then dictators and madmen will continue to spring up like weeds and work to subjugate their fellow man. And when they do others will rise to defeat them and people will die.

Sorry to leave you on such a low note. How about this instead, courtesy of the group "Walk the Moon"?

 "Don't you dare look back.
Just keep your eyes on me."
I said, "You're holding back, "
She said, "Shut up and dance with me!"
This woman is my destiny
She said, "Ooh-ooh-hoo,
Shut up and dance with me."
(Ben Berger and Ryan McMahon)