Tin Art Mentor

Thomas-The-Tin-Art-Teacher is a retired psychologist.

I knew that he was welcoming, gracious, non-anxious, and kind,

But I didn’t know that he was a doctor until I stumbled upon his bio online.

When Hurricane Fran hit NC in 1996, Thomas found himself with a damaged roof.

Because the damage was minor compared to the devastation faced by so many,

Thomas decided to do the roof repairs himself.

When he finished, he became fascinated with the metal that was left over,

The scrap metal,

And therein began his work with Tin Art.

Over the years, Thomas has honed his craft through books, workshops, and practice.

He’s won ribbons at the NC State Fair and has sold art in a couple of different galleries.

He teaches a handful of classes each year,

And I’ve had the privilege of going to three of his classes.

 

After my third class with Thomas-The-Tin-Art-Teacher,

I decided to put my learning into practice at home.

I made quite the investment and

Bought tins, tin snips, a can opener, a rubber mallet, an anvil, a hammer, bonsai scissors, wood, nails, sawtooth picture hangers, wood stain, and work gloves

And got to work.

I’ve deconstructed about 50 tins.

I’ve drawn blood in the process.

I’ve figured out two quilt square patterns.

I’ve made about 10 quilt squares.

I’ve brainstormed about how to combine Tin Art and Blackout Poetry.

I’ve made one combination piece.

I’ve created a workstation in my office and

I’ve created a workstation in the garage.

And most importantly,

I’ve introduced Amelia-The-Niece to a new art medium.

I’ve taught her how to deconstruct a can

And guided her through the process of creating her own piece.

 

On the back of her piece,

She wrote:

Amelia, 11/25/2022

Nana’s House

Mentor: Aunt Dee

 

Amelia called me her Tin Art mentor!

I felt so extremely honored and humbled she wrote those words.

Now, I can only hope that when Amelia thinks of me,

She thinks of someone who is welcoming, gracious, non-anxious, and kind,

Just like Thomas The Tin-Art-Teacher Psychologist. 

Jesus Lineage

 It’s not often that one reads the lineage of Jesus,

Much less hears it read aloud in church.

But yesterday was one of those rare days,

And I had the privilege of doing the read aloud.

Thanks to Andrew Peterson’s song, “Matthew’s Begats,”

I knew how to say all of the names in the lineage.

Some of the names are well known,

Like Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

Others are less known,

Like Azor, Zadok, and Achim.

But all of them—

Including the four women listed in the lineage—

Lived a life and had a story.

All of them had to make a living and keep food on the table.

All of them had good days and bad.

All of them had partners and raised children.

All of them had grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

I imagine that at some point in their lives,

All of them sat around staring at their babies,

Thinking that their babies were the most precious things in the world,

Celebrating their babies’ firsts,

Just as we celebrate our babies’ firsts today…

And that included Jesus.

We often think of Jesus as a tiny baby in the manger,

Aglow with light,

Shepherds and Wisemen coming to visit him,

Set apart from all other babies.

But, in the end, Jesus, fully God and fully human, was just a baby.

He breastfed, and burped, and peed, and pooped, and cried, and took his first steps.

He had a grandfather, Jacob, and a great-grandfather, Matthan.

He likely knew both of them,

And they both likely influenced him in one way or another—

If in no other way than influencing Jesus’ dad, Joseph,

Who then raised the Son of Man in his carpentry shop.

 

I’ve never been a history buff.

The words seem stale on the page and so far away.

But every once in awhile,

Like yesterday,

History comes alive and makes sense to me.

I remember that the words on the page are trying to capture life,

And that life is messy,

With hopes and dreams and joys and heartaches and laughter and tears and emotions.

I remember that people actually lived and that living is complicated,

Especially when trying to live counter-culturally while remaining relevant to the culture,

Which is what we, as 21^st Christians, are called to do.

 

I don’t much about Joram or Jotham,

But I know, now, that I am thankful that they lived.

I am thankful that they fumbled their way through life and raised a child who raised a child who raised a child who eventually raised Jesus

Who called us as brothers and sisters

And welcomed us into the Kingdom of God.

 

Dear God: Thank you for welcoming us into your family through Jesus. Thank you, Holy Spirit, that you are with us, from generation to generation, seeking mercy, loving justice, and pouring out your Love through imperfect people like me. We love you. Amen.

 

Remembering G-mama

 Last year for Thanksgiving,

I was in Jacksonville, Florida,

Staying at the Holiday Inn Express

Just down the road from G-mama’s Assisted Living Place.

Mom, dad, and I ate lunch with June Gail in the empty breakfast room of the hotel.

We had a picnic lunch of chicken salad, ham, cheese, rolls, chips, crackers, celery, carrots, and pickles,

Then we went to visit G-mama.

 

In her last years of life,

G-mama looked forward to going down to the creek each day.

Someone would roll her down the path to the shelter and then they would just sit for awhile,

Usually alone,

But sometimes with another resident or guest.

G-mama couldn’t see very well, so no one really knows what she saw.

But she’d always inquire about the ducks and the turtles.

Then she’d sit until she was tired and ready to go back inside.

 

Last Thanksgiving, on one of our trips to the creek,

G-mama and I did a little photo shoot.

Looking back at the pictures,

I can see how tired G-mama was.

Even though she was happy to have her family with her,

She was simply tired from living.

 

Nonetheless, G-mama smiled for the camera,

And later answered interview questions,

And even later clapped her hands as she listened to my mom play the piano.

At 99 and a half, with almost all her life past her,

G-mama made the most of her final Thanksgiving,

And I will always be grateful that I was able to be part.

 

For those for whom this day is difficult because they are missing someone they love,

And for those for whom the day is joyous because they are surrounded by those they love,

May the day be everything you need it to be

And may God’s love, peace, and grace be at your core.

 

Amen. 

The Turtle

 Many years ago, I became acquainted with a potter named Senora Lynch. Senora is from the Haliwa-Saponi Tribe in North Carolina and has work featured at the Smithsonian Museum in Washington, DC. I first met saw Senora on a NC Arts Council video that featured that Haliwa-Saponi Tribe. I then recognized her at her booth in the Village of Yesteryear at the NC State Fair. I was immediately star struck. I introduced myself and we began to talk, striking up an acquaintanceship that has lasted for years. While Senora doesn’t remember my name, she remembers me and is genuinely glad to see me each time our paths cross. I see her each year at the fair and at the American Indian Heritage Day at the NC Museum of History. That’s where I saw her on Saturday.

 

Saturday was an odd day. I went to the Raleigh Christmas Parade and was standing just beyond the point where a truck’s brakes failed, causing the truck to go out of control and kill one young girl. After looking at footage from the event, I think it amazing that no one else was hurt. My family and I had to move three times for ambulances to enter the parade route. We didn’t know what was going on, but we quickly found out from my mom who was watching on TV. The parade was immediately cancelled. Crowds dispersed. But a heavy feeling hung over our hearts.

 

After walking a few blocks to the History Museum, I immediately began to feel the pulse of the Native American drum—the heartbeat of Mother Earth—the call for humanity to be alive. I heard Southern Style singing, which has a low pitch, and I heard Northern Style singing, which has a high pitch, and for the first time in my life I understood the difference between the two. I heard syllable songs and I heard word songs in Native tongues, and I watched both children and adults dance. I breathed in this life and culture that the white man tried to strip away, and I felt a strange connection to a people for whom I have very deep respect.

 

Then I went inside and visited the culture representatives and vendors. I learned about the Three Sisters. I learned how to do a simple quilt stitch. I learned how to do beadwork. It is so much work! I learned how gourds were grown, dried, and cut. And I learned of the generosity of a Cherokee stone carver who gave me a soapstone carved turtle shell simply because he wanted me to have it. I was floored by his kindness.

 

I saw my Senora and greeted her with a hearty handshake. We exchanged pleasantries and then I noticed that one of her turtle’s tails was broken. Her most popular item is her turtle. It is small, meaningful, and affordable. I had purchased two of Senora’s turtles before Saturday. Now I have a third—the one with the broken tail. Its design symbolizes saying prayers each morning and having grandmother moon guide the way each night. It is beautiful.

 

I’m thankful for my acquaintanceship with Senora. I’m thankful for her art and for the work she does to educate and keep Native American tradition alive. I’m thankful for the beat of the drum that reminds us to feel the pulse of life, even when it is heavy and hard. And I’m thankful for a stone carver who selflessly gave his work to a teacher whose heart is open and whose spirit is genuine.

 

Dear God: Be with the family and friends and witnesses who experienced Saturday’s tragedy at the Christmas Parade. Surround them with good people—with life-giving words—with a call to keep going—and with the resources to heal. You provide us with good people like Senora and the stone carver who remind us of the beauty in life each day. Provide those people for them. And thank you, God, for providing them for me. Amen.   

The Vastness of God

 I had an interesting day on the religious school front yesterday.

 

The day started with one of my very boisterous and curious ADHD first graders getting out of his car mumbling, “I wonder whose face this is…” He was holding a pen with Jesus’s face on it. He had no idea who Jesus was. He doesn’t go to church.

 

The day continued with a 5^th grader becoming exasperated that Native Americans seemed to worship gods other than the God of Christianity. As we watched a quick read-aloud video of a book that honored Native American tradition, she quietly declared, “They had other gods. That means they’re going to the bad place,” and then she pointed downward as in pointing to hell. She does go to church.

 

The day continued with a class declaring that they appreciated their teacher because she tells them about God and Jesus.

 

I felt a bit sad with the childlike ignorance of the first story.

I felt a bit a bit angry with the stereotypical Christian judgment of the second.

And I felt a bit concerned with the third.

 

Do I believe that children need to know about Jesus? Yes.

But do I believe that children need to be taught solely about a Jesus who is going to send people to hell? No.

And do I believe that public school teachers need to teach about God and Jesus in their classrooms? No. I don’t. Not anymore than we would teach about any other religious figures.

 

I know. This may not be a popular opinion. As an evangelical Christian, I’ve been taught that my life’s work is to tell people about Jesus—to share the gospel, to speak the good news of Jesus Christ, to proclaim salvation and forgiveness of sin—but as a mainline Christian, I’m learning that maybe my life’s work is about growing fully into the love and grace of Jesus Christ so that the love and grace of Jesus Christ pour into the lives around me. Maybe it’s about letting God continue to create through me and trusting God to work in the lives of those around me because I cannot force anything on anyone without coercion. Does this mean that I should never speak of the power of Jesus Christ? No. I should use words when necessary. But should I openly teach about God and Jesus in my public-school classroom? No. Not unless a kid shows me a pen with Jesus’s face on it. Or another kid shares bad or damning theology with the class.

 

Dear God: Yesterday was interesting. Help me to never hesitate to identify your face but also help me know the limits of what I should and should not do with my faith. You are ever-growing, ever-expanding, ever-changing, yet somehow remaining the same. You are beyond comprehension, and I thank you for that. Thank you for not being contained in a box—or a pen—or in one story of Who You Are. Forgive our short-sightedness and short-comings. Help us to stand in awe of the vastness of You. And help me, oh God, to bear witness to You by wearing your love on my heart, forehead, and sleeve. Amen. 

Stone Carver

 Sometimes the simplest stories make the biggest impact.

 

There once was a stone carver who was carving a beautiful stone to be tucked away in a corner of a cathedral. The carver worked day after day to get the stone just right. When someone mockingly asked why he was putting so much care and excellent craftsmanship into a stone that no one would ever notice, he replied, “Because God sees.”

 

When Pastor Ann told this story yesterday during worship, it quietly hit me:

 

I am not working solely for my students, parents, administration, and colleagues, I am working for God. And my work is seen. And valued. And loved.

 

Each hour of research,

Each updated plan,

Each day of program preparation,

Each chosen song,

Each purchased instrument,

Each introduced culture…

Everything I do

Is bigger than that one moment,

And yet that one moment is exactly where I’m supposed to be.  

 

Every moment is now,

And now is where God is,

Working with us to make us into who we are created to be,

Even if no one ever really sees anything but stone.

 

God: Thank you for seeing us, valuing us, and loving us for exactly who we are and who you allow us to be. You are the master carver, and you have looked at your creation and called it Good…even as you continue to work. Help us to do our part as You do Yours. Thank you.  Amen.   

Bringing Out The Best

 While I knew that ordering and receiving instruments from around the world would be fun,

I didn’t know that it would also be meaningful.

Ricky The Drum Maker made it meaningful.

Here’s our story.

 

About a week after placing my order for a custom-made Native American Drum,

I received a message from the drum maker apologizing for the delay.

He had just had full-hip replacement surgery.

Even so, he was very concerned that I receive my order in a timely manner.

I wasn’t concerned at all, nor was I thinking there had been a delay in response-time.

 

The drum maker introduced himself as Ricky and asked if there was an emphasis that I wanted him to have as he made the drum.

I told him that I wanted it to be something that reached my students.

I wrote: “I want them to understand that Native American people were on this land long before the white man came to destroy so much rich culture. I want them to know that Native American spirit and tradition till exist and should be honored and recognized.”

 

He responded: “You seem like a wonderful person. And I admire your desires. I will put that kind of effort and love into making this drum for you.”

And he did.

 

Throughout the drum making process,

Ricky The Drum Maker and I chatted.

We chatted about the process, and we chatted about life.

Ricky had been a hospital chaplain before he retired.

We shared chaplaincy experiences and deemed that the work that the other had been doing was good, important work.

We chatted about family, religion, education, and Native American culture.

The conversation was always sprinkled with sentiments of admiration and respect,

And I was actually sad when Ricky finished the drum and our friendly exchanges ended.

 

As I was sharing this story with Joe,

And talking about how difficult endings are for me—

Even endings with a drum maker in Oregon!—

Joe said:

“Your friendship with Ricky The Drum Maker is what all human relationships should be:

A reminder of a person’s inherent goodness and kindness.

You each reflected in the another the best parts of your selves,

And for that, you can always be grateful.”

 

And for that, I WILL always be grateful,

Especially when I play my custom-made drum,

Made by my friend Ricky The Drum Maker.

 

People come and go in our lives.

Some are meant to stay.

Some are meant to leave.

All can build up and help us grow if we let them.

May we let them today.

And may we return the goodness in kind.

Amen.

 

I Really Do Care

 Unbeknownst to me at the time,

My principal captured an image of me talking to one of my students last Friday night.

It’s one of my all-time favorite teaching photos.

 

I don’t remember what conversation I was having with the student in the picture.

I probably wouldn’t even remember having a conversation had the picture not been taken.

It was crazy on stage!

Around 100 students were standing there,

Happy, loud, excited, nervous, and everything in between.

They were waving at family members as if they hadn’t just seen them.

They were talking to one another as if they hadn’t seen one another hours before.

They were anxiously awaiting the moment that the program would begin—

The first program in over 2.5 years—

The first program that they will remember—

The program that we’d been working on since Day One—

The program that, hopefully, helped them find their singing voices again.

 

Yet in the midst of the craziness,

I evidently bent down to talk to a student face to face.

I didn’t plan the exchange.

I didn’t think to myself, “This would be a great photo op.”

I simply bent down to the student’s level—

To hear her, and

To see her—

Because she needed to talk to me.

 

Sometimes, I get so focused on controlling the chaos that easily ensues with children that I appear distant and unapproachable. This is odd to me because I know that my heart is about as welcoming and approachable as a heart comes. But someone has to be the maker and enforcer of rules and routines, and, strangely enough, over time, that person has become me. I’m not necessarily the cool teacher. I’m not the one who freely gives hugs or plays games or takes bubbles to car rider duty. Covid did a number on the hugging. I’m terrible at remembering how to play games. Bubbles create disorganization in the car rider line. Yet, I visualize the entire school every Sunday night and imagine Jesus and myself walking through it, dispelling darkness by emitting light, and I spend hours thinking about lessons that are engaging and world-opening for my students.

 

So this picture is so special to me because it captures what sometimes I fear gets lost—my heart.

 

Dear God: Through it all, may my heart be seen. And may my students and colleagues know that I really do hear them, see them, care about them, and love them. So much. Amen.  

Composting

 On Monday night during therapy,

Joe-The-Counselor,

As he often does,

Introduced a concept that I found quite profound:

Composting.

 

After the session, I wrote:

Joe said something really interesting about composting things that I wasn’t quite ready to get rid of.

Not throwing them away.

Not getting rid of them.

But moving them into a place where they can be

Transformed and changed into something new that will then promote growth.

I really like that.

Because we all know that I’m terrible at throwing things away!

 

And I am.

Last week when I was cleaning out my school closet,

I refused to throw away a priority-mail box from Johnsonville that had my name on it.

I used the box to store my electronics one summer and I’ve had it ever since.

Currently, it houses my drill and glue gun and a bunch of miscellaneous stuff.

Could they have been put into plastic box that would have been much more practical?

Yes.

But instead, they’re still in their cardboard,

And I still have the box that reminds me of my time at JES and of the librarian that gave me the box.

 

But Joe wasn’t talking tangible things like my JES box.

Joe was talking about the relationships, memories, and ideas that I cling to,

Sometimes to an unhealthy fault.

Sometimes those relationships, memories, and ideas don’t need to be completely thrown away,

Never to be seen or thought of again,

Rather they need to be composted,

Worked over in time, and

Transformed into something new.

 

I’m currently in the process of composting old religious beliefs that focus so much on the damning nature of sin that they overshadow the steady, undeniable, ever-present love and grace of God. This process has been going on for a few years. I’ve been tossing and turning beliefs, adding fresh substance to the transforming pile, and trusting that something new is being formed.

 

What about you? What are you composting? What do you need to begin your compost pile?

 

Oh God: Help us to know what is truly trash and what is compostable. Help us to put relationships, memories, and ideas into the right pile. And then…do your magic. Amen.