One Finger Touch Hug

Amy and I met at camp.
Hugs are a common greeting at camp.
For years, Amy and I hugged whenever our paths crossed.
Then I learned that Amy really doesn’t like hugs.
She was just being kind—to me and everyone else in the world.
So I stopped hugging Amy.
But one day I needed a hug.
Amy knew it.
Amy said, “Do you need a hug?”
Pitifully, I said, “Yes.”
So Amy reached out her pointer finger and touched me on the top of my arm.
It was an ET phone home gesture.
My pointer finger just wasn’t ready to connect on the other end.
“There,” she said smiling.
I needed a hug so badly in that moment, that I actually felt the little touch expand over my body.
Then I laughed.
A pointer finger touch hug—
That is classic Amy.

Amy is partially deaf.
I talk about Amy whenever I teach about Beethoven.
Beethoven slowly lost his hearing until he was completely deaf.
I know that I talk about Amy whenever I talk about Beethoven.
It is a natural connection that allows me to intelligently talk about how Beethoven could read lips.

This morning, as I was greeting students in the hallway, I saw a 5th grade boy try to hug a 5th grade girl.
It was a very innocent hug—one of those, “I haven’t seen you in awhile and it’s good to see you” hugs—but the girl was having nothing of it.
As she stood there with her arm outstretched, I heard her say my name.
I thought she said that she was giving a Ms. Deaton hug and I thought that she had confused me with another teacher who prefers to give high-fives.
But then I realized what she was actually saying and doing:
“I’m giving one of Ms. Deaton’s friend’s hugs.”
And she was.
She was giving an Amy pointer finger touch hug!!!!!

I have NO IDEA when I told my students about Amy’s hug!
I have no idea WHY I told my students about Amy’s hug!
Did I tell a class? Were we talking about ways we can share peace?
Did I tell a small group of students? Were we talking about boundaries?
Did I just tell her? Did something she said spark a memory?
I really don’t know!
But I know that she remembered my words.
And I know the whole thing makes me smile.

God: Thank for friends and for laughter. And thank you for giving me the opportunity to share my life and stories with my students. Help them always to remember the positive—to latch on to the good—and to spread love and peace in this world…even if it’s one pointer finger hug at a time. Amen.

Giving Voice To Fear

Well. Having no voice is turning out to be a interestingly frustrating experience. I lost my voice walking around Highland last Monday, but it didn’t come back while I walked around Highland today.

Two half days last week; an early incorporation of videos that I usually don’t teach with until much later; a guest speaker; no singing at all—even at choir practice or during Sunday morning worship; no extracurricular activities that would tempt me to use my voice; an entire day in bed reading on Saturday—with my eyes!; a vaporizer, essential oils, pain medication, anti-inflammatory medicine, cold medication, nasal spray, hot tea, cold tea, lemon, honey, cloves, and water later…I still don’t have a voice.

And I don’t mean that my voice sounds weak. I truly don’t have a voice unless I force out sound by pushing my diaphragm as hard as I can—and I know that this is not good for me.

This started as my normal cold two Friday nights ago—sore throat, runny nose, hopes for one clear nostril to sleep, eventually into a little cough. But it settled on my vocal chords last Monday and decided not to move. I haven’t been to the doctor. Laryngitis can normally last one to two weeks. But I fear that a trip to the doctor is in store if things don’t clear up soon.

If I’m honest, then I must admit losing my voice is one of my biggest fears. Truly losing it. Have a vocal cord rupture or paralyze. Having nodes or nodules. Having to have a scope inserted down my throat so that doctors can see what’s going on. I gag just thinking about it.

One of my music teacher colleagues showed us the procedure where doctors looked at her vocal cords. While it was sort of neat to see the vocal cord vibrate—and only one vibrated because the other was so enlarged—it made me a little sick watching the scope get to where the camera could see. My colleague had to go on vocal rest for an entire month. Not just teaching vocal rest. Everything vocal rest. Home. Church. Grocery store. The North Carolina Symphony. Everywhere. I remember it vividly. She wore a button that something like, “Please excuse me for not speaking. The doctors have me on vocal rest.” Vocal rest, folks, means any type of sound from the mouth—whispering included. Having to be wise about my words this week, I’ve imagined what it must have been like for my colleague…and what I’ve imagined has been awful.

So I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned that the same was going to happen with me. I hope it won’t. I hope that this is just a bought of laryngitis and that it will clear up in due time. I hope that this is a wake-up call that one of my biggest fears could come true if I don’t take better care of my voice. How many teachers actually do take care of their voices, though? I can’t think of many. My colleague does. She must. She knows the consequence.

I was supposed to sing at a revival last night. I played piano and horn instead. I am thankful for a mom who could go with me and save my musical butt. I’m supposed to lead my graduate school class in a song for our group presentation next week. What happens if I still can’t sing? I’m thankful that I found a singer in my group at revival last night; she was leading the praise songs. But still. That’s my job. My duty. I don’t want to let the group down. I don’t want to let my students down either. I have too much that I want to teach. Not long lectures. But questions. Guidelines. Suggestions. Encouragement. I had a kid tell me last week that students in her class were laughing at me when I made the morning announcements because I sound so ridiculous. I don’t want to sound ridiculous. I don’t want kids to laugh at me. But I can’t even use my voice to explain that laughing at people whose voice is different doesn’t show kindness or respect. I feel like I’d be wasting my words. And when you’re afraid that your vocal cords are dying, every word counts.

I am a teacher. I teach music. I am a music minister and worship leader. I lead music. I am a minister. I share words. I am an extravert. I thrive off of conversation. Yet all of that is stunted with no voice. And when I’m teaching my students about the four different ways they can use their voices, I can only actually properly demonstrate one.

Though it may not seem as such, I don’t write this to sound pitiful. I know that having no voice is such a minor thing compared to so many others. I know that woe-is-not-me. But I needed to confess a fear that I’ve been afraid to admit. I needed to cry these tears and pray this prayer that only confession and admission of fear can pray.

God, in this forced quiet, help me to listen more, to be more creative, to learn anew the power of words, and to find the voice that exists beyond inflamed vocal cords. I love you. And I’m really trying to not let fear and frustration spin out of control. Amen.

I Stepped On A Slug

I want to make an impact
Today I did not succeed
Furrowed brow forehead

Monday I could laugh.
Tuesday and Wednesday, I tried.
Thursday was too much.

I stepped on a slug.
It was slimy and squishy.
It went splat. Eww. Gross.

Crammed full to-do list
Never ahead but behind
Homework out my ears

-----

Excuse me, but I was wondering if
You could teach me about love.
I'm really confused.

I hear people say that they love
food and games and toys and cars
Yet I see people hurting each other on the news
And my mom and dad never say, "I love you."

My dad is never home;
He stays at work a lot.
I guess that work makes him happy,
And he really likes the woman who has the office beside him.
And my mom always says she doesn't feel good;
She has headaches almost every day.
I wish her head would feel better
And that I didn't have to clean up paper bags and bottles.
I wish she’d be happy to see me at the bus stop
And hug me like my friends’ moms do.

I think that they are supposed to love each other
And love me,
Right?
But they hardly speak and they just get mad when I struggle to read at school
And they send me to my room to play on my computer or watch TV or play video games.

Is it okay for me to love my computer, TV, and video games?

I think I'll save my lunch money and buy my dad a new car.
I heard him tell the neighbor that he loves his new SUV.
Then maybe he’ll come home early one night and we can all go to McDonald's together and get a happy meal.

Is it okay for me to love Happy Meals?

They do make me happy.

In The Aftermath of Murder

Maybe I’m a bit OCD, but I don’t like to have notifications lingering on my phone. So on Friday afternoon when I finally had a chance to look at my phone, I immediately opened Facebook to address the 12 notifications that were alerting me. After clearing the notifications, I absentmindedly began scrolling down my page. I liked a few pictures, skimmed past a few advertisements, and then stopped when I got to a post by my friend Sarah. Sarah had posted a tribute to her mother, whom I knew, and I was curious to know what occasion we were celebrating—a retirement, a major birthday, an award, something else? As I read the tribute and felt somewhat encouraged by the impact that an elementary music teacher and active church member and mom had made on the writer’s life, I suddenly found myself stunned into disbelief by the following words: “Mrs. Carol was murdered in her home last night.” For the next fifteen minutes, I sat in my elementary music classroom with my jaw dropped in shock.

……

A few years ago, Sarah’s dad died suddenly from a heart attack. He was on his daily run when he crumpled onto the side walk and died. When I visited the house and funeral home in the days following that loss, the family was deeply saddened and shocked. But this?! Mrs. Carol hadn’t been sick, or didn’t have a major stroke or heart incident, and she hadn’t been in tragic accident—all of those things horrible in and of themselves. She had been murdered. Killed. On purpose. In her home. In the house where I had last seen her. In the house where I had spent countless hours in the early years of my adolescence before my family and I moved two hours away.

……

My friendship with Sarah was actually a bi-product of my friendship with her older sister, Ellen. Ellen and I came to know each other through piano and band competitions, and we later spent a summer together at Summer Ventures in Math and Science and visited with one another a couple of times during college. I played my horn in Ellen’s wedding and visited her home in Charlotte after she had her first child. Over the years, as is too often the case with those we love, we lost touch, yet Ellen often comes to mind. She once wrote me a very silly song that I can still hear her singing: “Dee! I love you, Dee! I really do! I love you. De-ann-a!” When I look at those words and hear her voice, I can’t help but smile.

And Sarah. Well, Sarah, the younger sister who I imagine looked up to the older sister and her friends, once gave me a poem that endeared me to her forever: “To live you must be loved. To be loved you must love. To love you must know the Lord.” That poem hung in my room for years until it made it into a book of quotes that profoundly influenced my life. Sarah and I reconnected at her dad’s visitation. We have been friends on Facebook for the past four years. For whatever reason, her posts are ones that often come up on my newsfeed. I am glad. I like to see how she is changing the world.

I fell asleep thinking about Sarah and Ellen (and their brother Max) on both Friday and Saturday nights. I fell asleep trying to make sense of their mother’s horrific death. I fell asleep praying that unexplainable light surrounded her and somehow calmed her spirit and lifted her pain in the midst of unspeakable evil. I fell asleep knowing that every person who is senselessly murdered has a family left in the aftermath and I fell asleep with my heart breaking for their heartache and grief. I fell asleep angry yet full of love and prayers for peace.

……

When I arrived at the visitation yesterday, I knew that I had nothing to say. What do you say? No amount of pastoral counseling or chaplaincy training prepares you for something like this. So I just hugged Sarah, and I held Ellen’s hand, and I stood in the family’s presence silently sending out light, love, strength, and peace as I watched grief finally settle upon the children after being strong for well over two hours of visitation.

Then I drove away sobbing. The dam that had been holding back the tears since that moment of disbelief on Friday afternoon had finally broken. And then I wrote. Haiku. Because I didn’t know—I don’t know—what else to do.

Two hours is nothing ~ The pain of this tragedy ~ Is overwhelming

I have no words. (Pause) ~ That’s okay. There are no words. ~ You have hugs and tears.

I don’t understand. ~ A life devoted to Love ~ Senselessly murdered

Assault on women. ~ Attack for sport. Turns him on. ~ Where did life go wrong?

Brother and sisters ~ Too soon without a mom. Gone. ~ Weeping arm in arm.

…….

Friends: Please keep Sarah, Ellen, Max and the rest of the family in your thoughts and prayers. Also pray for the neighbor who found Mrs. Carol’s body and everyone who will feel her absence so poignantly. Mrs. Carol was stabbed to death and her car stolen by a man who had broken parole and previously been convicted of assault on women. Pray whatever else you will, too. And then make it your commitment to Love in such a way that broken lives are transformed and healed. If Love is going to win, then we must make it so…We must follow in the footsteps of the One who has already made it so…