Mom: Dee, you need to go get your father.
Me: Now?
Mom: Yes. He’s at the car place. It seems as if your car wouldn’t start when he tried to start it this morning, so he went to the Napa place to get something to jump your battery. But he didn’t put your car in park when he left, so it rolled down the driveway by itself but it stopped just short of the ditch. And he set off the alarm.
Me: Umm. Okay…
Such was the beginning of my Monday. My dad’s plan was to take my car to a local mechanic to have it checked out. The check engine light had come on Saturday. Along the way, he had the above eventful episode. I slept through it all. And then I chuckled in horrific amusement when I heard what had happened. (Dad blames all of the “junk” around my gear shift for his not putting the car in park). And finally I chuckled in not-surprised amusement after the mechanic told me that my car was fixed but the check engine light came right back on while I was driving home. Thankfully, I won’t be doing my normal amount of driving over Christmas break. It sounds like my car needs a 273,454 mile break and then a specialist’s visit to follow.
While my car was at the local mechanic’s shop today, I enjoyed a dreary day at home. Because wrapping presents is close to the top of my list of things I most dislike to do, I had a productive day in my living quarters—doing many of the things that I’ve needed to do for months but not made time for—sorting junk mail, filing papers, writing notes, finding things lost. Procrastination is often a useful tool in cleaning; it just doesn’t help with the present wrapping. NCIS marathons are also useful for cleaning; and I hope that they will be useful for present wrapping after I finish this note tonight.
Speaking of presents…On my way to get my dad from the mechanic’s shop this morning, I saw that Percy-the-Dog’s family had put two cans of soda and one tin of cookies on top of their trashcan. At first, I thought, “That’s a weird place to leave trash.” Then I realized, “That’s not trash. They left a Christmas gift for the trash-men. What a great idea. What a loving idea. Maybe people should do that more often.” When I got home from retrieving my dad, I worked with both of my parents to become copycats and leave a small present for our trash-men.
When I went to pick up my car from the local mechanic, I saw a bag of sausage balls, a cheese tray, and some other finger foods that tend to show up at appreciation luncheons or celebrations. I thought to myself, “Someone wants her mechanic to know that he is appreciated.”
I don’t know about you, but I’d gag on a daily basis if I were a sanitation worker and my car would be very dead if I were left to do its repairs…therefore, I am genuinely grateful for sanitation workers and the work they do to keep our towns and streets clean and I am genuinely grateful for mechanics and the work they do to keep our transportation vehicles running. And yet, I rarely say thank you. Maybe I should say thank you more often…and not just on manic Mondays around Christmas.
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Friday, December 19, 2014
Add To The Beauty
A few years ago as I was preparing to lead a women’s retreat, I heard Sara Groves’ song “Add To The Beauty” and immediately knew that I would turn it into the retreat. I did. And the retreat was a success.
On Sunday night, I went to a Sara Groves’ concert in Raleigh. While there, I purchased her latest CD. While listening to that CD, I re-heard “Add To The Beauty.” When the song played this time, I immediately knew that I would turn its message into this year’s mass Christmas gift. [My mass Christmas gift is a gift that I give my coworkers since I cannot afford giving each one of them individual gifts.] I did. We’ll see if it was a success. I pray that it was. And I pray that its words will be a blessing now:
As teachers, we have the unique opportunity to add to the beauty of this world.
We hold the beautiful secret of belief.
We carry purpose on our hearts.
We come to every morning with possibility.
We know that redemption comes in strange places and small spaces.
We know that each new day calls out the best of who we are.
We believe in the value of community and the necessity of helping souls find their worth.
Just as growing a garden takes time,
Growing children takes the same:
Time, effort, patience, and pruning until something beautiful blossoms.
Thank you for the time that you give and the work you do to
add to the beauty of the school and this world.
Merry Christmas.
--adapted from Sara Groves’ song, “Add To The Beauty.”
On Sunday night, I went to a Sara Groves’ concert in Raleigh. While there, I purchased her latest CD. While listening to that CD, I re-heard “Add To The Beauty.” When the song played this time, I immediately knew that I would turn its message into this year’s mass Christmas gift. [My mass Christmas gift is a gift that I give my coworkers since I cannot afford giving each one of them individual gifts.] I did. We’ll see if it was a success. I pray that it was. And I pray that its words will be a blessing now:
As teachers, we have the unique opportunity to add to the beauty of this world.
We hold the beautiful secret of belief.
We carry purpose on our hearts.
We come to every morning with possibility.
We know that redemption comes in strange places and small spaces.
We know that each new day calls out the best of who we are.
We believe in the value of community and the necessity of helping souls find their worth.
Just as growing a garden takes time,
Growing children takes the same:
Time, effort, patience, and pruning until something beautiful blossoms.
Thank you for the time that you give and the work you do to
add to the beauty of the school and this world.
Merry Christmas.
--adapted from Sara Groves’ song, “Add To The Beauty.”
Monday, December 15, 2014
Regardless
Toward the beginning of the year, my dad read to me a statement that made a profound impact on my life: “I love you regardless of how well you’re performing.” That one statement worked its way into my consciousness as a statement from God to me, from me to God, from me to myself, from me to those I love, and from me to those I struggle even to like. It became a prayer that I prayed over the people in my life—a mantra that I repeated until negative thoughts began to turn positive—until I was remembered that we’re all human and walking this journey together.
In May, after preaching a sermon based on the statement, I accidentally allowed it to slip to the back of my mind…Until last week when I was telling a coworker a story and suddenly, “I love you regardless of how you’re performing,” popped right back to the forefront of my thinking.
For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been praying that God would allow me to see people for who they really are instead of who I want or think them to be. Sometimes I want people to be more vulnerable than they are. Sometimes I think them to be more outgoing or friendly than they are. Sometimes I want people to be more capable than they are. Sometimes I think them to be less capable than they are. I don’t mean to do it. But sometimes I want people to be who they are not. Which is not fair to either me or them.
“I love you, (peoples), regardless of how well you’re performing, (I perceive you to be performing, or I want you to perform.)”…
On Wednesday night, I went to preschool choir rehearsal to practice the narration part that I’d been assigned. It was a bit chaotic. I left the rehearsal feeling a bit overwhelmed, wondering how Sunday’s worship service was going to flow with the preschoolers playing a huge role in worship leadership.
Interjection: I have no idea how people successfully work with more than one or two preschool children at a time! I admire preschool workers and know that I could not be an effective preschool leader for more than a few minutes. Preschoolers scare me!
Because I was feeling a bit overwhelmed, I couldn’t muster the words to tell the children’s minister, Rebecca, that everything was going to be okay. I honestly didn’t know if everything was going to be okay, and I didn’t want to lie—although part of me knew that the look of exhaustion and concern on her face might be reason enough to lie—so I said nothing.
Fast forward to yesterday morning. As Rebecca was doing her final preparations for yesterday’s children-led worship service, she looked at me and said, “I told my mom the other night that I didn’t even get an ‘I believe in you’ from you on Wednesday night. And I really could have used that I believe in you.”
My response was, “Wait a minute. I didn’t say I didn’t believe in you. I always believe in you. I just wasn’t sure that I could believe in the preschooler’s program.”
“I love you, (friend), regardless of how well you (or your preschoolers) are performing.”
[Which, by the way, they performed—or worshipped—very well. It’s amazing what morning-time, a large congregation, a lot of prayer, age-appropriate content, and duct-taped picture place-cards will do for the kiddos.]…
God,
help me to see people for who they really are
instead of who I want them to be.
And help me daily to
remember, say, and believe,
in all its many forms,
I love you
Regardless of how well you’re performing,
until I truly believe it and live it
in all that I say and do.
Amen.
In May, after preaching a sermon based on the statement, I accidentally allowed it to slip to the back of my mind…Until last week when I was telling a coworker a story and suddenly, “I love you regardless of how you’re performing,” popped right back to the forefront of my thinking.
For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been praying that God would allow me to see people for who they really are instead of who I want or think them to be. Sometimes I want people to be more vulnerable than they are. Sometimes I think them to be more outgoing or friendly than they are. Sometimes I want people to be more capable than they are. Sometimes I think them to be less capable than they are. I don’t mean to do it. But sometimes I want people to be who they are not. Which is not fair to either me or them.
“I love you, (peoples), regardless of how well you’re performing, (I perceive you to be performing, or I want you to perform.)”…
On Wednesday night, I went to preschool choir rehearsal to practice the narration part that I’d been assigned. It was a bit chaotic. I left the rehearsal feeling a bit overwhelmed, wondering how Sunday’s worship service was going to flow with the preschoolers playing a huge role in worship leadership.
Interjection: I have no idea how people successfully work with more than one or two preschool children at a time! I admire preschool workers and know that I could not be an effective preschool leader for more than a few minutes. Preschoolers scare me!
Because I was feeling a bit overwhelmed, I couldn’t muster the words to tell the children’s minister, Rebecca, that everything was going to be okay. I honestly didn’t know if everything was going to be okay, and I didn’t want to lie—although part of me knew that the look of exhaustion and concern on her face might be reason enough to lie—so I said nothing.
Fast forward to yesterday morning. As Rebecca was doing her final preparations for yesterday’s children-led worship service, she looked at me and said, “I told my mom the other night that I didn’t even get an ‘I believe in you’ from you on Wednesday night. And I really could have used that I believe in you.”
My response was, “Wait a minute. I didn’t say I didn’t believe in you. I always believe in you. I just wasn’t sure that I could believe in the preschooler’s program.”
“I love you, (friend), regardless of how well you (or your preschoolers) are performing.”
[Which, by the way, they performed—or worshipped—very well. It’s amazing what morning-time, a large congregation, a lot of prayer, age-appropriate content, and duct-taped picture place-cards will do for the kiddos.]…
God,
help me to see people for who they really are
instead of who I want them to be.
And help me daily to
remember, say, and believe,
in all its many forms,
I love you
Regardless of how well you’re performing,
until I truly believe it and live it
in all that I say and do.
Amen.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
That's Alright
I went to my nephew’s first home basketball game today. He’s one of the few seventh graders on the team. I’m not proud or anything.
The bleachers were crowded. My family and I sat in the only seats we could find, uncertain as to whether we were on the home or visitor’s side. We were on the visitor’s side.
As the man beside me became increasingly angry at the referees for what he deemed unfair calling, I became increasingly uncomfortable in my seat. I wanted the game to be over. Or else I wanted to be surrounded by like-minded fans.
Like-minded fans make tense situations feel a bit less intense.
But I stayed on enemy turf and listened to the man’s yelling—which I suppose wasn’t even that bad in the scheme of things—and I thought to myself, “Competitive sporting events give people permission to yell out their anger in a socially acceptable way. Maybe that’s what they’re good for. Because they’re certainly not good for nerves.”
And then I looked at the cheerleaders and chuckled. The head cheerleader would give a command and all the rest of the cheerleaders would chime in. Loud. In rhythm. Extremely positive.
My favorite of the cheers was the free throw cheer. After some positive words that I never quite understood, the cheerleaders would hold their hands up—one over their heads, one in line with their wastes—and do jazz hands until the free throw was released. If the ball went in the hoop, they’d chant a celebration. If the ball missed—which it did more often than not—they’d respond, “That’s alright.” Loud. In rhythm. Extremely positive.
I thought to myself, “Maybe we each need a group of cheerleaders to follow us around and affirm, ‘That’s alright,’ when we mess up.” Spilled coffee? That’s alright. Misplaced keys? That’s alright. Exploding moment of frustration? That’s alright. Really bad lesson? That’s alright.
Or if it’s not alright now,
Then it will be…
Even in enemy territory.
The bleachers were crowded. My family and I sat in the only seats we could find, uncertain as to whether we were on the home or visitor’s side. We were on the visitor’s side.
As the man beside me became increasingly angry at the referees for what he deemed unfair calling, I became increasingly uncomfortable in my seat. I wanted the game to be over. Or else I wanted to be surrounded by like-minded fans.
Like-minded fans make tense situations feel a bit less intense.
But I stayed on enemy turf and listened to the man’s yelling—which I suppose wasn’t even that bad in the scheme of things—and I thought to myself, “Competitive sporting events give people permission to yell out their anger in a socially acceptable way. Maybe that’s what they’re good for. Because they’re certainly not good for nerves.”
And then I looked at the cheerleaders and chuckled. The head cheerleader would give a command and all the rest of the cheerleaders would chime in. Loud. In rhythm. Extremely positive.
My favorite of the cheers was the free throw cheer. After some positive words that I never quite understood, the cheerleaders would hold their hands up—one over their heads, one in line with their wastes—and do jazz hands until the free throw was released. If the ball went in the hoop, they’d chant a celebration. If the ball missed—which it did more often than not—they’d respond, “That’s alright.” Loud. In rhythm. Extremely positive.
I thought to myself, “Maybe we each need a group of cheerleaders to follow us around and affirm, ‘That’s alright,’ when we mess up.” Spilled coffee? That’s alright. Misplaced keys? That’s alright. Exploding moment of frustration? That’s alright. Really bad lesson? That’s alright.
Or if it’s not alright now,
Then it will be…
Even in enemy territory.
Monday, December 8, 2014
Yes, I Have Faith In You
Yesterday was our annual Christmas cantata at church. The choir and I had been preparing for the morning’s service for the past couple of months and we’d been praying that the hour would be a meaningful worship experience for everyone involved.
Some songs were more difficult than others. Some motifs were quite challenging. Some beginnings were sloppy. Some endings were rough. The cantata was far from perfect. The choir was a bit worried about their ability to pull it off. And yet…I was never concerned.
As I held the door for my choir to enter the sanctuary yesterday—yes, I called them my choir because I love them—I smiled at them and offered words of encouragement. As one of my men walked by, he said something about hoping that they did okay.
I said, “You will. I have no doubt.”
He said, “You sure do have a lot more faith in us than we do in ourselves.”
“Yes, I do,” I thought. “Yes, yes I do.”
One of my friends once told me that even I knew there wasn’t a God, then I’d believe in God anyway.
Another friend once told me that I wear my heart on my sleeve and everything I own.
Both of those statements are very true.
And my choir member just added another one: I sure do have a lot more faith in people than they do in themselves.
On my tombstone or whatever else is put in place to remember my life, I want some variation of the phrase, “I believe in you,” written near my name—because if nothing else in this life, I believe in the good in people. I don’t live life with blinders. I know that there is a lot of evil in this world and that each of us battles our own demons. And I know that sometimes I struggle to believe in the good of some people. But the deeper the humanity that is seeking to grow, the more beautiful I find the person as he/she is being redeemed…and I am daily being redeemed as well.
So, yes, dear choir, I do probably have more faith in you than you have in yourselves…and the same goes for you, too, dear readers.
And for the record: Just as I predicted, the cantata was great.
Some songs were more difficult than others. Some motifs were quite challenging. Some beginnings were sloppy. Some endings were rough. The cantata was far from perfect. The choir was a bit worried about their ability to pull it off. And yet…I was never concerned.
As I held the door for my choir to enter the sanctuary yesterday—yes, I called them my choir because I love them—I smiled at them and offered words of encouragement. As one of my men walked by, he said something about hoping that they did okay.
I said, “You will. I have no doubt.”
He said, “You sure do have a lot more faith in us than we do in ourselves.”
“Yes, I do,” I thought. “Yes, yes I do.”
One of my friends once told me that even I knew there wasn’t a God, then I’d believe in God anyway.
Another friend once told me that I wear my heart on my sleeve and everything I own.
Both of those statements are very true.
And my choir member just added another one: I sure do have a lot more faith in people than they do in themselves.
On my tombstone or whatever else is put in place to remember my life, I want some variation of the phrase, “I believe in you,” written near my name—because if nothing else in this life, I believe in the good in people. I don’t live life with blinders. I know that there is a lot of evil in this world and that each of us battles our own demons. And I know that sometimes I struggle to believe in the good of some people. But the deeper the humanity that is seeking to grow, the more beautiful I find the person as he/she is being redeemed…and I am daily being redeemed as well.
So, yes, dear choir, I do probably have more faith in you than you have in yourselves…and the same goes for you, too, dear readers.
And for the record: Just as I predicted, the cantata was great.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Defining Moments: That Which We Cannot Control
I knew I was in trouble when I caught myself thinking, “I want to go to church tomorrow. I don’t want to miss the pastor’s sermon.”
Confession: Sometimes minister’s kids and/or ministers themselves—or at least this one—find themselves at church more out of obligation, expectation, or guilt than true desire. After working in full-time ministry in SC for a couple of years, I found myself somewhat burned out on church—or at least the Baptist church—and I was quietly determined to spend my Sundays elsewhere.
Then Patrick showed up. And more than once his words moved me to tears. And more than once I came home from church feeling as if God had spoken directly to me. And more than once I was curious to know what he would say next…until, all of a sudden, though I guess it wasn’t so sudden at all, I caught myself wanting to go to church—looking forward to it even—and I realized that my plan to jump Baptist ship had been sunk.
During Sunday’s sermon, Patrick presented the idea that fear comes from that which we cannot control. As such, the older we get and the more we realize just how much we are not in control, the more fear seems to paralyze us.
I’ve been thinking about that idea all week.
And I wanted to write it down tonight.
And I needed to further confess that while there is much that I fear in life,
I am learning to say,
Just as Mary once said,
“Here am I, the servant of the Lord;
let it be with me according to your word...”
Even if it means that I’m not in control.
Confession: Sometimes minister’s kids and/or ministers themselves—or at least this one—find themselves at church more out of obligation, expectation, or guilt than true desire. After working in full-time ministry in SC for a couple of years, I found myself somewhat burned out on church—or at least the Baptist church—and I was quietly determined to spend my Sundays elsewhere.
Then Patrick showed up. And more than once his words moved me to tears. And more than once I came home from church feeling as if God had spoken directly to me. And more than once I was curious to know what he would say next…until, all of a sudden, though I guess it wasn’t so sudden at all, I caught myself wanting to go to church—looking forward to it even—and I realized that my plan to jump Baptist ship had been sunk.
During Sunday’s sermon, Patrick presented the idea that fear comes from that which we cannot control. As such, the older we get and the more we realize just how much we are not in control, the more fear seems to paralyze us.
I’ve been thinking about that idea all week.
And I wanted to write it down tonight.
And I needed to further confess that while there is much that I fear in life,
I am learning to say,
Just as Mary once said,
“Here am I, the servant of the Lord;
let it be with me according to your word...”
Even if it means that I’m not in control.
Monday, December 1, 2014
Defining Moments: Maybe I'm Wrong
The weeks leading up to spring break of my junior year were not very pleasant. The fact that I remember those weeks seventeen and a half years later goes to show just how miserable they were.
I was blessed to be a NC Teaching Fellow and I was blessed to be in the Meredith Chorale, but I was not blessed that both organizations demanded my attention over spring break. I needed both to observe in a school system for a week and to go on tour with chorale for part of the week. The next-to-last stop on tour was in the county where I wanted to do my observations, so it seemed to me that I should be able to miss the final night of tour to complete my scholarship’s requirement. I was wrong.
“When you joined chorale,” my chorale director said, “you made an obligation to be a full and active part of the group. The group depends on you for every performance, so you need to be there for every performance.” And no matter how much I reasoned with her. No matter what my Teaching Fellows Director said. No matter how frustrated I became or how many tears I cried, my chorale director would not budge in her stance: I had to be at all performances on tour or else my grade would suffer. And she knew that I wouldn’t let my grade suffer.
I was not a happy chorale member on that tour. I felt disrespected, unappreciated, and uncared for by someone whom I deeply respected and those feelings colored my attitude about the whole trip. I guess maybe that’s why I don’t remember a lot of the trip—just the night that I’d wanted to leave and the beautiful church in which we were singing in Asheville—and the night that I had one of the biggest realizations of my life…
Fast forward to just before my senior year. When thinking about going to my student teaching placement, I felt sick. I’d worked with a middle school band director the year before, and I was scheduled to work with her for my student teaching placement, but I hated it. I hated it to the point that I thought maybe I’d chosen the wrong career. As I hoped that maybe it was the band director and her teaching style that I didn’t like and as I tried to figure out a way to switch schools without hurting the director’s feelings, my mom said, “Have you ever considered teaching elementary music, Dee?” Then that realization of a few months before came right back…
Sometimes I am just plain wrong.
Not just an I’ve made an error in my checkbook wrong. Or an I’ve misspoken a fact or mispronounced a name wrong. But a way-deep-down-in-the-core-of-my-being-albeit-with-really-good-intentions wrong.
It’s a wrong that comes from realizing that I’ve been so focused on what I think is right that I can’t step back and see the bigger picture of what is best.
I was so totally focused on doing my Teaching Fellows observation during spring break that I couldn’t see another way. I was so totally focused on being a band director in the public schools that I couldn’t see another way.
Yet my professor forced me to step back and see another way. And my mom’s simple question gently nudged me to do the same.
So because I didn’t do my Teaching Fellows observation during spring break, I got to spend a week with my sister before going to the mountains to do summer missions that summer. And because I didn’t stick with band, I got to do my student teaching with a woman who helped me realize that everything in my life had been pointing not to band but to general elementary music.
Sometimes, dear friends, when everything seems frustratingly hopeless, maybe we are wrong. Not deliberately or intentionally or even stubbornly. But narrowly and exhaustingly. So sometimes, dear friends, maybe we need to step back and reexamine things with a fresh set of eyes and ears.
Will it always be that easy? Of course not. But may it sometimes be? Maybe. Because sometimes, maybe we are wrong. And sometimes maybe just admitting that fact is the first step toward making things right.
So many thoughts inside my mind
So many doubts inside my heart
I want to believe
But I don't understand your plan
I ask but it's not given to me
I seek but I do not find
The answer that I'm looking for
Must be behind the closed door
With my heart's desire
But maybe I'm wrong
Maybe I'm looking at the wrong door
Maybe I'm wrong
Maybe your will is not mine
So not my will but yours be done
I'm laying my life down on the line
The weight of the world has paralyzed me
So Lord I give it to you
There's nothing more I can do
Lord take my life from me
I'm down on bended knee
Oh Lord
I was blessed to be a NC Teaching Fellow and I was blessed to be in the Meredith Chorale, but I was not blessed that both organizations demanded my attention over spring break. I needed both to observe in a school system for a week and to go on tour with chorale for part of the week. The next-to-last stop on tour was in the county where I wanted to do my observations, so it seemed to me that I should be able to miss the final night of tour to complete my scholarship’s requirement. I was wrong.
“When you joined chorale,” my chorale director said, “you made an obligation to be a full and active part of the group. The group depends on you for every performance, so you need to be there for every performance.” And no matter how much I reasoned with her. No matter what my Teaching Fellows Director said. No matter how frustrated I became or how many tears I cried, my chorale director would not budge in her stance: I had to be at all performances on tour or else my grade would suffer. And she knew that I wouldn’t let my grade suffer.
I was not a happy chorale member on that tour. I felt disrespected, unappreciated, and uncared for by someone whom I deeply respected and those feelings colored my attitude about the whole trip. I guess maybe that’s why I don’t remember a lot of the trip—just the night that I’d wanted to leave and the beautiful church in which we were singing in Asheville—and the night that I had one of the biggest realizations of my life…
Fast forward to just before my senior year. When thinking about going to my student teaching placement, I felt sick. I’d worked with a middle school band director the year before, and I was scheduled to work with her for my student teaching placement, but I hated it. I hated it to the point that I thought maybe I’d chosen the wrong career. As I hoped that maybe it was the band director and her teaching style that I didn’t like and as I tried to figure out a way to switch schools without hurting the director’s feelings, my mom said, “Have you ever considered teaching elementary music, Dee?” Then that realization of a few months before came right back…
Sometimes I am just plain wrong.
Not just an I’ve made an error in my checkbook wrong. Or an I’ve misspoken a fact or mispronounced a name wrong. But a way-deep-down-in-the-core-of-my-being-albeit-with-really-good-intentions wrong.
It’s a wrong that comes from realizing that I’ve been so focused on what I think is right that I can’t step back and see the bigger picture of what is best.
I was so totally focused on doing my Teaching Fellows observation during spring break that I couldn’t see another way. I was so totally focused on being a band director in the public schools that I couldn’t see another way.
Yet my professor forced me to step back and see another way. And my mom’s simple question gently nudged me to do the same.
So because I didn’t do my Teaching Fellows observation during spring break, I got to spend a week with my sister before going to the mountains to do summer missions that summer. And because I didn’t stick with band, I got to do my student teaching with a woman who helped me realize that everything in my life had been pointing not to band but to general elementary music.
Sometimes, dear friends, when everything seems frustratingly hopeless, maybe we are wrong. Not deliberately or intentionally or even stubbornly. But narrowly and exhaustingly. So sometimes, dear friends, maybe we need to step back and reexamine things with a fresh set of eyes and ears.
Will it always be that easy? Of course not. But may it sometimes be? Maybe. Because sometimes, maybe we are wrong. And sometimes maybe just admitting that fact is the first step toward making things right.
So many thoughts inside my mind
So many doubts inside my heart
I want to believe
But I don't understand your plan
I ask but it's not given to me
I seek but I do not find
The answer that I'm looking for
Must be behind the closed door
With my heart's desire
But maybe I'm wrong
Maybe I'm looking at the wrong door
Maybe I'm wrong
Maybe your will is not mine
So not my will but yours be done
I'm laying my life down on the line
The weight of the world has paralyzed me
So Lord I give it to you
There's nothing more I can do
Lord take my life from me
I'm down on bended knee
Oh Lord
Friday, November 28, 2014
Touching Moment: Thirty Cent Plastic Baggy
In the hecticity of the front office last Monday morning (*yes, I just made up a word*), two students quietly entered the office with lost looks on their faces. This happens quite frequently.
I looked at the students and said, “What do you need, guys?” This happens quite frequently happens, too.
The girl of the pair said, “He has change for the Penny Pageant.” (The Parent/Teacher Organization held a Penny Pageant as one of its fundraisers this year.)
The boy of the pair humbly yet hopefully held out his hand and presented me with his coin collection: a tiny plastic baggy holding 30 pennies.
I said, “Got it. I’ll get this where it needs to go.” Then I turned to go back to my morning announcement spot in the office and cried.
Many of our students don’t have much to give, and yet this student or someone in the student’s family collected thirty pennies for him to donate to the pageant. How beautiful is that, friends? How extremely beautiful is that?
Thousands of years ago, a struggling widow gave all that she had to the church. It wasn’t much. It didn’t even equal a tiny baggy of 30 cents. Yet this widow’s small gift meant more in the course of history than large riches ever could because her gift was a sacrifice of the heart.
As I consider my blessings this Thanksgiving season, I pray that everything I say, do, and give will be done in the spirit of the widow and my student (and his family) and that my life will be one lived out of beautiful sacrifices of the heart.
Always.
I looked at the students and said, “What do you need, guys?” This happens quite frequently happens, too.
The girl of the pair said, “He has change for the Penny Pageant.” (The Parent/Teacher Organization held a Penny Pageant as one of its fundraisers this year.)
The boy of the pair humbly yet hopefully held out his hand and presented me with his coin collection: a tiny plastic baggy holding 30 pennies.
I said, “Got it. I’ll get this where it needs to go.” Then I turned to go back to my morning announcement spot in the office and cried.
Many of our students don’t have much to give, and yet this student or someone in the student’s family collected thirty pennies for him to donate to the pageant. How beautiful is that, friends? How extremely beautiful is that?
Thousands of years ago, a struggling widow gave all that she had to the church. It wasn’t much. It didn’t even equal a tiny baggy of 30 cents. Yet this widow’s small gift meant more in the course of history than large riches ever could because her gift was a sacrifice of the heart.
As I consider my blessings this Thanksgiving season, I pray that everything I say, do, and give will be done in the spirit of the widow and my student (and his family) and that my life will be one lived out of beautiful sacrifices of the heart.
Always.
Monday, November 24, 2014
Sweet Moment: That Dog
Last Tuesday, I took Bullet to the knee-replacement rehab facility to see Dad. He quivered on the way there because he didn’t know where he was going, but once he got there and saw my dad he was overjoyed. He jumped onto my dad’s leg and practically danced around the room singing, and my dad was so happy to see Bullet that he endured the pain of claws digging into his still-healing wound.
Mistakingly thinking that Bullet needed to pee, I put him on the grass on the way to the car. As soon as I put him down, though, he bulleted straight back to the institutional door. He longingly looked in the window while he scratched on the door, seeing a long empty hallway keeping him from his favorite person in the world…
Fast forward to Saturday:
My brother and two of my nephews surprised my mom and me by driving down to help get my dad home. After going to the Chinese buffet per Dad’s request, we met at the house in our separate vehicles. My plan was to go into the house and roll up any carpets that might be a hazard and to help my dad get safely settled in the house before getting Bullet.
As I headed toward the front door, however, my dad, slowly turning himself to get out of my brother’s van, looked at me and said, “Are you going to go get Bullet?”
I said, “Well yes. But I was going to go into the house first and make sure everything was safe.”
“You should go get Bullet…I want to see him…like—now.”
And so I went to get Bullet from his porch. In between barks, he was speaking so loudly that I could hear him in our yard. He was also scratching at the door, wagging his tail excitedly, and jumping up and down in anticipation of his emancipation all at the same time.
And Bullet bulleted over to my dad.
And they talked to one another as if it had been weeks since they were together.
And Bullet kept trying to kiss my dad.
And the two have pretty much been inseparable since.
Sweet story, huh? And it portrays Bullet as a sweet little loving dog, right? A dog you might like to meet?
Here’s the truth: To everyone other than my immediate family, Bullet is a mean little sausage dog that has been portrayed as a grumpy old man. In his protectiveness of my dad and his neuroses of being abandoned and abused as a pup, he comes across as a ferocious fat ball of fur. He will hesitantly let you feed him with one hand while he growls at the other, and he will allow you pet him if either my dad or I am around. But…if you wanted to visit him today, you’d be out of luck. He’d bark at you. Non-stop. Today. Tomorrow. And many days to come. After all, it took him a solid year to learn to trust me.
Sometimes he’s embarrassing. Sometimes we just want him to hush. Sometimes we wish he were a more welcoming dog. And yet…still…we—especially my dad—love him…just as he is.
I suppose that this is how it is with people from time to time. We get hurt. We find ourselves abandoned. We become defensive. We act out of the need to protect. We grumble and act hypocritical. We take a long time to let down our defenses. We act ridiculous. We make too much noise. We pretend to be stronger than we really are. And yet we need to be loved and we find that love is the single greatest change agent in the world.
Thanks, Bullet, for teaching us about love once again…even if you did just pee on my mail.
Mistakingly thinking that Bullet needed to pee, I put him on the grass on the way to the car. As soon as I put him down, though, he bulleted straight back to the institutional door. He longingly looked in the window while he scratched on the door, seeing a long empty hallway keeping him from his favorite person in the world…
Fast forward to Saturday:
My brother and two of my nephews surprised my mom and me by driving down to help get my dad home. After going to the Chinese buffet per Dad’s request, we met at the house in our separate vehicles. My plan was to go into the house and roll up any carpets that might be a hazard and to help my dad get safely settled in the house before getting Bullet.
As I headed toward the front door, however, my dad, slowly turning himself to get out of my brother’s van, looked at me and said, “Are you going to go get Bullet?”
I said, “Well yes. But I was going to go into the house first and make sure everything was safe.”
“You should go get Bullet…I want to see him…like—now.”
And so I went to get Bullet from his porch. In between barks, he was speaking so loudly that I could hear him in our yard. He was also scratching at the door, wagging his tail excitedly, and jumping up and down in anticipation of his emancipation all at the same time.
And Bullet bulleted over to my dad.
And they talked to one another as if it had been weeks since they were together.
And Bullet kept trying to kiss my dad.
And the two have pretty much been inseparable since.
Sweet story, huh? And it portrays Bullet as a sweet little loving dog, right? A dog you might like to meet?
Here’s the truth: To everyone other than my immediate family, Bullet is a mean little sausage dog that has been portrayed as a grumpy old man. In his protectiveness of my dad and his neuroses of being abandoned and abused as a pup, he comes across as a ferocious fat ball of fur. He will hesitantly let you feed him with one hand while he growls at the other, and he will allow you pet him if either my dad or I am around. But…if you wanted to visit him today, you’d be out of luck. He’d bark at you. Non-stop. Today. Tomorrow. And many days to come. After all, it took him a solid year to learn to trust me.
Sometimes he’s embarrassing. Sometimes we just want him to hush. Sometimes we wish he were a more welcoming dog. And yet…still…we—especially my dad—love him…just as he is.
I suppose that this is how it is with people from time to time. We get hurt. We find ourselves abandoned. We become defensive. We act out of the need to protect. We grumble and act hypocritical. We take a long time to let down our defenses. We act ridiculous. We make too much noise. We pretend to be stronger than we really are. And yet we need to be loved and we find that love is the single greatest change agent in the world.
Thanks, Bullet, for teaching us about love once again…even if you did just pee on my mail.
Thursday, November 20, 2014
**No defining moments tonight. Just a few poems that I’ve written during the past few months. My prayer is that you will connect with at least of these tonight/today.**
-----
Always, Love, and Amen
8.14
In coming and in going,
In standing up and in lying down,
In successes and in failures,
In plans and in spontaneity,
In courage and in fear;
In all that we say and do--
God--
Guide us and protect us,
Use us and bless us,
Now and forevermore,
Always,
Love, and
Amen.
-----
Fact: I Love You, Friend
9.14
When things fall apart.
Always, I am here. Or there.
I care about you.
-----
Please Don’t Let Me Fall Apart
11.14
Every day
I’ve been dealing with this
mess
and I’m tired.
I am over this
crap.
I need a break.
I need a day to do nothing
before I lose my mind.
I’m usually good
at keeping myself together but
I don’t know
how much longer I can keep it up.
Because all these years I’ve been doing this alone:
Walking on egg-shells,
Trying to stay safe,
Showing up for everyone but myself…
Meanwhile the TV blares
And falls upon broken hearts and blind eyes.
The kids are asleep now.
I think I’ll sit in the quiet.
I need peace.
Because every day
I’ve been dealing with this
mess
and I’m tired.
------
Feel Better
11.14
Feeling bad is bad.
Everything in the world is slow.
Everything in your body hurts.
Life is a little bit harder, and yet still you push through.
Being present is important.
Elevating students above yourself is what you do. But
Try to get some rest. And
Try to take good care of yourself. For
Eliminating germs is
Really, really good. Just like you.
-----
Always, Love, and Amen
8.14
In coming and in going,
In standing up and in lying down,
In successes and in failures,
In plans and in spontaneity,
In courage and in fear;
In all that we say and do--
God--
Guide us and protect us,
Use us and bless us,
Now and forevermore,
Always,
Love, and
Amen.
-----
Fact: I Love You, Friend
9.14
When things fall apart.
Always, I am here. Or there.
I care about you.
-----
Please Don’t Let Me Fall Apart
11.14
Every day
I’ve been dealing with this
mess
and I’m tired.
I am over this
crap.
I need a break.
I need a day to do nothing
before I lose my mind.
I’m usually good
at keeping myself together but
I don’t know
how much longer I can keep it up.
Because all these years I’ve been doing this alone:
Walking on egg-shells,
Trying to stay safe,
Showing up for everyone but myself…
Meanwhile the TV blares
And falls upon broken hearts and blind eyes.
The kids are asleep now.
I think I’ll sit in the quiet.
I need peace.
Because every day
I’ve been dealing with this
mess
and I’m tired.
------
Feel Better
11.14
Feeling bad is bad.
Everything in the world is slow.
Everything in your body hurts.
Life is a little bit harder, and yet still you push through.
Being present is important.
Elevating students above yourself is what you do. But
Try to get some rest. And
Try to take good care of yourself. For
Eliminating germs is
Really, really good. Just like you.
Monday, November 17, 2014
Defining Moments: Music, Music, Music
I knew I wanted to be in band; my brother was in band. But I didn’t know what I wanted to play until my dad came home with a trumpet one day. He’d been at a furniture store when a shipment of used furniture had arrived, and for some reason a trumpet had come with it. The furniture store owner didn’t want the trumpet. My dad did. One thing led to another, my dad paid $10 for the instrument, and a little while later he got the $10 back because the furniture store owner hadn’t really wanted the money in the first place—he just figured he should charge something for the trumpet since other customers were in the store.
And so…Deanna started 6th grade band as a trumpet player playing a free antique trumpet.
I grew up in a small town. In small towns, the band director sometimes works at both the middle and high schools. When the band director works at both the middle and high schools, middle school students sometimes get to march in the high school marching band.
Deanna started marching in the high school marching band as a second/third trumpet player in 7th grade.
In 8th grade, though, my band director decided that he needed depth in his brass section, so he asked me to switch to mellophone. The mellophone, he said, was the marching French horn.
Deanna marched her 8th grade year with the mellophone…and her 9th, 11th, 12th, and 14th. She skipped marching with the mellophone her 10th grade year because she was the drum major that year. She only played one year in college since Meredith did not have a marching band and going to NC State was somewhat of a hassle.
When concert season began my 8th grade year, my band director told me that playing the French horn was just like playing the trumpet. He said that just as he’d needed depth during marching band season, he needed depth during concert season.
Deanna began playing the French horn incorrectly her 8th grade year. She continued playing French horn through college and continues playing for special occasions today.
I auditioned for Governor’s School during my 10th grade year. I auditioned using my school’s broken and dented French horn. The woman who auditioned me immediately realized that I was playing the horn incorrectly. I was using trumpet fingerings and had no idea what the thumb valve even was—because it was broken. Yet she saw and heard potential in me and accepted me for Governor’s School that summer.
Deanna’s family was going to be moving the summer Deanna was slated to go to Governor’s School. Remember: Deanna played her school’s broken and dented horn; therefore, Deanna could not move with the horn. Deanna had a problem. To make matters worse, Deanna’s new band director—the one who had chosen her as drum major her sophomore year—was considering getting a new horn for the school. Deanna’s band director wanted her to try it out.
It was shiny and silver and the thumb valve worked. It lived in a beautiful case. It was perfect. It was perfect when I took it home to practice while my parents cooked supper in the kitchen and it was perfect when I played it in the Christmas concert at school. I was very sad when my band director had to send it back to the company. I couldn’t believe that some other horn player would get to play that beauty the next year.
Deanna was perfectly content with her presents on Christmas morning of her sophomore year when her brother pointed out that there was a large bag under the tree. He suggested that Deanna see what the package was. Deanna confusedly walked to the tree, wondering what in the world was waiting there. She first saw it was for her. She then realized it was in the shape of a French horn case. She then decided that her parents had gotten her a used horn to take to Governor’s School. She finally opened the bag, saw the beautiful case, realized what was inside, hugged the shiny new horn in disbelief, and cried. Her entire family cried, too. Deanna’s family had tricked her and created one of the most beautiful moments in Deaton Family history.
I began learning to play the horn properly while at Governor’s School. My teacher there—the woman who had auditioned and seen potential in me—patiently worked with me and offered to teach me private lessons for the next two years until I went to study with her for four more years at Meredith. Somehow, I became decent enough that I earned a scholarship for playing the horn.
Deanna tells her students all the time that one never knows where music will take him/her. From a free, antique store trumpet to a total surprise of a new French Horn; from a band director who challenged her to a professor who believed in her when maybe she shouldn’t…Deanna’s life has been profoundly impacted by music and by the musicians who have made it.
What about your life? What and who has impacted you? Be grateful today. For you—we—truly are blessed.
And so…Deanna started 6th grade band as a trumpet player playing a free antique trumpet.
I grew up in a small town. In small towns, the band director sometimes works at both the middle and high schools. When the band director works at both the middle and high schools, middle school students sometimes get to march in the high school marching band.
Deanna started marching in the high school marching band as a second/third trumpet player in 7th grade.
In 8th grade, though, my band director decided that he needed depth in his brass section, so he asked me to switch to mellophone. The mellophone, he said, was the marching French horn.
Deanna marched her 8th grade year with the mellophone…and her 9th, 11th, 12th, and 14th. She skipped marching with the mellophone her 10th grade year because she was the drum major that year. She only played one year in college since Meredith did not have a marching band and going to NC State was somewhat of a hassle.
When concert season began my 8th grade year, my band director told me that playing the French horn was just like playing the trumpet. He said that just as he’d needed depth during marching band season, he needed depth during concert season.
Deanna began playing the French horn incorrectly her 8th grade year. She continued playing French horn through college and continues playing for special occasions today.
I auditioned for Governor’s School during my 10th grade year. I auditioned using my school’s broken and dented French horn. The woman who auditioned me immediately realized that I was playing the horn incorrectly. I was using trumpet fingerings and had no idea what the thumb valve even was—because it was broken. Yet she saw and heard potential in me and accepted me for Governor’s School that summer.
Deanna’s family was going to be moving the summer Deanna was slated to go to Governor’s School. Remember: Deanna played her school’s broken and dented horn; therefore, Deanna could not move with the horn. Deanna had a problem. To make matters worse, Deanna’s new band director—the one who had chosen her as drum major her sophomore year—was considering getting a new horn for the school. Deanna’s band director wanted her to try it out.
It was shiny and silver and the thumb valve worked. It lived in a beautiful case. It was perfect. It was perfect when I took it home to practice while my parents cooked supper in the kitchen and it was perfect when I played it in the Christmas concert at school. I was very sad when my band director had to send it back to the company. I couldn’t believe that some other horn player would get to play that beauty the next year.
Deanna was perfectly content with her presents on Christmas morning of her sophomore year when her brother pointed out that there was a large bag under the tree. He suggested that Deanna see what the package was. Deanna confusedly walked to the tree, wondering what in the world was waiting there. She first saw it was for her. She then realized it was in the shape of a French horn case. She then decided that her parents had gotten her a used horn to take to Governor’s School. She finally opened the bag, saw the beautiful case, realized what was inside, hugged the shiny new horn in disbelief, and cried. Her entire family cried, too. Deanna’s family had tricked her and created one of the most beautiful moments in Deaton Family history.
I began learning to play the horn properly while at Governor’s School. My teacher there—the woman who had auditioned and seen potential in me—patiently worked with me and offered to teach me private lessons for the next two years until I went to study with her for four more years at Meredith. Somehow, I became decent enough that I earned a scholarship for playing the horn.
Deanna tells her students all the time that one never knows where music will take him/her. From a free, antique store trumpet to a total surprise of a new French Horn; from a band director who challenged her to a professor who believed in her when maybe she shouldn’t…Deanna’s life has been profoundly impacted by music and by the musicians who have made it.
What about your life? What and who has impacted you? Be grateful today. For you—we—truly are blessed.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Defining Moments: Using Music To Teach
It never fails. I go to the music educator’s conference and leave feeling like a horrible music teacher. Actually, I feel like a horrible music teacher the entire time I’m there.
The conference leaders are always so good. They have such great energy and ideas and they speak about music education like it is the highest calling of humanity. They speak of Orff, Kodaly, and Dalcroze and adhere to their chosen theories of music education like there is no other way. I understand what they’re saying. I think that music education is very important and I know that each of the major theories of music education have their strengths. And yet…
I am not a true music educator.
During one of my workshops at this year’s conference, the workshop leader said, “If a moment of integration pops up, then great. I point it out and keep going. But I never set out to intentionally teach math or reading or social studies. That’s not my job.”
Inwardly, I cringed a bit and I thought, "Yes it is."
A little while later, he said, “There’s a difference between teaching music and using music to teach, folks. And I teach music.”
“And I use music to teach,” I thought. "And I finally have language for what it is that makes me feel out of place here."
Don’t get me wrong. My students and I sing and dance together. We play instruments and learn to read music. We experience rhythm, melody, beat, tempo, dynamics, and form, and I follow the NC Standard Course of Study for Music.
But music itself is not my goal.
Using music to teach the whole child is my goal.
Helping a student connect his isolated and segregated learning is what drives me.
Music is math, science, social studies, reading, write, and linguistics.
Music is cultural reality that is with us throughout our lives.
Music bridges gaps in learning and provides opportunity to express what otherwise cannot be expressed.
So why not cover both music and math on purpose? Why not cover music and history and social studies by design? Why not emphasize music and reading? Maybe it’s old-fashioned, but my students absolutely love following along in the music textbook and finding places on the map. So why not use my time with my students to try to help their brains connect everything they are learning?
The thing is? That’s not what I hear when I’m at convention. And so I leave feeling like a terrible music educator. Which maybe I am. And yet…
I use music to teach holistic learning in an increasingly fragmented world.
So I guess when receive a note from a student that says, “Thank you for helping me learn music, Ms. Deaton,” I have to trust that, true music educator or not, I’m doing something right.
And I’m doing it in my own way.
The conference leaders are always so good. They have such great energy and ideas and they speak about music education like it is the highest calling of humanity. They speak of Orff, Kodaly, and Dalcroze and adhere to their chosen theories of music education like there is no other way. I understand what they’re saying. I think that music education is very important and I know that each of the major theories of music education have their strengths. And yet…
I am not a true music educator.
During one of my workshops at this year’s conference, the workshop leader said, “If a moment of integration pops up, then great. I point it out and keep going. But I never set out to intentionally teach math or reading or social studies. That’s not my job.”
Inwardly, I cringed a bit and I thought, "Yes it is."
A little while later, he said, “There’s a difference between teaching music and using music to teach, folks. And I teach music.”
“And I use music to teach,” I thought. "And I finally have language for what it is that makes me feel out of place here."
Don’t get me wrong. My students and I sing and dance together. We play instruments and learn to read music. We experience rhythm, melody, beat, tempo, dynamics, and form, and I follow the NC Standard Course of Study for Music.
But music itself is not my goal.
Using music to teach the whole child is my goal.
Helping a student connect his isolated and segregated learning is what drives me.
Music is math, science, social studies, reading, write, and linguistics.
Music is cultural reality that is with us throughout our lives.
Music bridges gaps in learning and provides opportunity to express what otherwise cannot be expressed.
So why not cover both music and math on purpose? Why not cover music and history and social studies by design? Why not emphasize music and reading? Maybe it’s old-fashioned, but my students absolutely love following along in the music textbook and finding places on the map. So why not use my time with my students to try to help their brains connect everything they are learning?
The thing is? That’s not what I hear when I’m at convention. And so I leave feeling like a terrible music educator. Which maybe I am. And yet…
I use music to teach holistic learning in an increasingly fragmented world.
So I guess when receive a note from a student that says, “Thank you for helping me learn music, Ms. Deaton,” I have to trust that, true music educator or not, I’m doing something right.
And I’m doing it in my own way.
Monday, November 10, 2014
Life Impacting Moment: When A Former Student Dies
*Last week, after one of my former students unexpectedly died, his family asked me to sing "Beautiful Boy" at his funeral. They also requested that I say a few words to honor his life. The following words are what emerged after a week of prayer and struggle. My deepest prayer was--and is--that these words speak exactly what needs to be said--and in exactly the way it needs to be heard. Amen and Amen.*
-----
I drove here this afternoon directly from work. Today, I taught music to a little over one hundred students, completing my week of six hundred. In my ten years of teaching, I’ve taught thousands of students—some of whom I remember clearly—some of whom, sadly, I do not. Andrew Thomas is a student that I remember.
As a 3rd grader at Gentry, Andrew was one of the first students I ever taught. As a 5th grader at Erwin, Andrew was one of the first students from Erwin that I took to Harnett Off Broadway. We played boomwhackers that year—and did the Chicken Dance—and did something with “Sugar Sugar.” The kids dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt—hair slicked back—the 60’s look—and joined together with students from Gentry to dramatically end the performance—which was something that we did every year for six years. Andrew was part of that first group of students…and he was part of figuring out what to do when a student has so much energy that he cannot sit still or stop drumming—or stop talking .
If I’m honest, though—and I’ve been forced to be honest with myself all week—I remember Andrew not so much because he was my student—but because he is John and Sherry’s son, Jonathan and Mary Kathryn’s brother—and because he died much too young…
One of my favorite Psalms is Psalm 139. Listen to its words now:
1 O LORD, you have searched me and known me.
2 You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
you discern my thoughts from far away.
3 You search out my path and my lying down,
and are acquainted with all my ways.
4 Even before a word is on my tongue,
O LORD, you know it completely.
5 You hem me in, behind and before,
and lay your hand upon me.
6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
it is so high that I cannot attain it.
7 Where can I go from your spirit?
Or where can I flee from your presence?
8 If I ascend to heaven, you are there;
if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.
9 If I take the wings of the morning
and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
10 even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me fast.
11 If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light around me become night,”
12 even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is as bright as the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
13 For it was you who formed my inward parts;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
14 I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
that I know very well.
15 My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
16 Your eyes beheld my unformed substance.
In your book were written
all the days that were formed for me,
when none of them as yet existed.
17 How weighty to me are your thoughts, O God!
How vast is the sum of them!
18 I try to count them—they are more than the sand;
I come to the end—I am still with you.
19 O that you would kill the wicked, O God,
and that the bloodthirsty would depart from me—
20 those who speak of you maliciously,
and lift themselves up against you for evil!
21 Do I not hate those who hate you, O LORD?
And do I not loathe those who rise up against you?
22 I hate them with perfect hatred;
I count them my enemies.
23 Search me, O God, and know my heart;
test me and know my thoughts.
24 See if there is any wicked way in me,
and lead me in the way everlasting.
I don’t understand how life happens to us, folks. I don’t understand why the pathway seems so smooth for some but so bumpy for others. I don’t understand why some of us struggle with deep darkness while others of us do not. I don’t understand why some of us emerge from that darkness while others cannot find the way out. I don’t get it, friends. I truly don’t get it.
But I do get this:
• God is an inescapable God who loves us. When darkness surrounds us, God is there. When we feel that our pain is so great that it will consume us, God is there. When we feel joy so deep that it radiates through our bodies, God is there. And not only that, but God is big enough to hear our raw, honest prayers along the way and to wait with us as those prayers are being answered. God was with Andrew Thomas.
• God is a God of love—of redemption—of community. And God did not create us to go at life alone. We are born from another and connected to humanity through both life and death. Andrew’s life made a difference to those who loved him, and Andrew’s death will make a difference in ways that only time will tell.
• God created each of us in our mother’s wombs and called each of us good. God knitted each one of us together and called each of us beautiful. Andrew Thomas was a beautiful boy.
From all that I’ve gathered, Andrew’s path was one mixed with joys and sorrows and both his happiness and darkness were very real. But so was the love of God and of the people in his life—the people who have helped me remember him—the people who are here to honor his life today.
Before you go to sleep tonight, friends, say a prayer.
It may not seem like it now,
But every day, in every way,
Through God’s time and redemption
Life really will get better.
------
BEAUTIFUL BOY (DARLING BOY) by John Lennon
Close your eyes, have no fear, the monster's gone, he's on the run
And your daddy's here
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
Before you go to sleep, say a little prayer
Everyday, in every way it's getting better and better
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
Out on the ocean, sailing away
I can hardly wait to see you come of age
But I guess we'll both just have to be patient!
Cause it's a long way to go! A hard row to hoe!
Yes it's a long way to go
But in the meantime....
Before you cross the street take my hand
Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
Before you go to sleep, say a little prayer
Everyday, in every way it's getting better and better
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
Darling, darling, darling
Darling boy.
-----
I drove here this afternoon directly from work. Today, I taught music to a little over one hundred students, completing my week of six hundred. In my ten years of teaching, I’ve taught thousands of students—some of whom I remember clearly—some of whom, sadly, I do not. Andrew Thomas is a student that I remember.
As a 3rd grader at Gentry, Andrew was one of the first students I ever taught. As a 5th grader at Erwin, Andrew was one of the first students from Erwin that I took to Harnett Off Broadway. We played boomwhackers that year—and did the Chicken Dance—and did something with “Sugar Sugar.” The kids dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt—hair slicked back—the 60’s look—and joined together with students from Gentry to dramatically end the performance—which was something that we did every year for six years. Andrew was part of that first group of students…and he was part of figuring out what to do when a student has so much energy that he cannot sit still or stop drumming—or stop talking .
If I’m honest, though—and I’ve been forced to be honest with myself all week—I remember Andrew not so much because he was my student—but because he is John and Sherry’s son, Jonathan and Mary Kathryn’s brother—and because he died much too young…
One of my favorite Psalms is Psalm 139. Listen to its words now:
1 O LORD, you have searched me and known me.
2 You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
you discern my thoughts from far away.
3 You search out my path and my lying down,
and are acquainted with all my ways.
4 Even before a word is on my tongue,
O LORD, you know it completely.
5 You hem me in, behind and before,
and lay your hand upon me.
6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
it is so high that I cannot attain it.
7 Where can I go from your spirit?
Or where can I flee from your presence?
8 If I ascend to heaven, you are there;
if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.
9 If I take the wings of the morning
and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
10 even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me fast.
11 If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light around me become night,”
12 even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is as bright as the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
13 For it was you who formed my inward parts;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
14 I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
that I know very well.
15 My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
16 Your eyes beheld my unformed substance.
In your book were written
all the days that were formed for me,
when none of them as yet existed.
17 How weighty to me are your thoughts, O God!
How vast is the sum of them!
18 I try to count them—they are more than the sand;
I come to the end—I am still with you.
19 O that you would kill the wicked, O God,
and that the bloodthirsty would depart from me—
20 those who speak of you maliciously,
and lift themselves up against you for evil!
21 Do I not hate those who hate you, O LORD?
And do I not loathe those who rise up against you?
22 I hate them with perfect hatred;
I count them my enemies.
23 Search me, O God, and know my heart;
test me and know my thoughts.
24 See if there is any wicked way in me,
and lead me in the way everlasting.
I don’t understand how life happens to us, folks. I don’t understand why the pathway seems so smooth for some but so bumpy for others. I don’t understand why some of us struggle with deep darkness while others of us do not. I don’t understand why some of us emerge from that darkness while others cannot find the way out. I don’t get it, friends. I truly don’t get it.
But I do get this:
• God is an inescapable God who loves us. When darkness surrounds us, God is there. When we feel that our pain is so great that it will consume us, God is there. When we feel joy so deep that it radiates through our bodies, God is there. And not only that, but God is big enough to hear our raw, honest prayers along the way and to wait with us as those prayers are being answered. God was with Andrew Thomas.
• God is a God of love—of redemption—of community. And God did not create us to go at life alone. We are born from another and connected to humanity through both life and death. Andrew’s life made a difference to those who loved him, and Andrew’s death will make a difference in ways that only time will tell.
• God created each of us in our mother’s wombs and called each of us good. God knitted each one of us together and called each of us beautiful. Andrew Thomas was a beautiful boy.
From all that I’ve gathered, Andrew’s path was one mixed with joys and sorrows and both his happiness and darkness were very real. But so was the love of God and of the people in his life—the people who have helped me remember him—the people who are here to honor his life today.
Before you go to sleep tonight, friends, say a prayer.
It may not seem like it now,
But every day, in every way,
Through God’s time and redemption
Life really will get better.
------
BEAUTIFUL BOY (DARLING BOY) by John Lennon
Close your eyes, have no fear, the monster's gone, he's on the run
And your daddy's here
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
Before you go to sleep, say a little prayer
Everyday, in every way it's getting better and better
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
Out on the ocean, sailing away
I can hardly wait to see you come of age
But I guess we'll both just have to be patient!
Cause it's a long way to go! A hard row to hoe!
Yes it's a long way to go
But in the meantime....
Before you cross the street take my hand
Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
Before you go to sleep, say a little prayer
Everyday, in every way it's getting better and better
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
Darling, darling, darling
Darling boy.
Friday, November 7, 2014
Confession: But By The Grace of God
A coworker asked me the other day how I remained so positive.
But by the grace of God, my friend. But by the grace of God.
Because here’s the truth.
I’m really not a very positive person. At all.
In fact, when left on its own,
The script in my head is one of the most damning places one could ever be.
“You’re such a stupid piece of crap. You should just stay in bed instead of getting up and subjecting the world to your junk. You’re overbearing and ridiculously annoying. You think too much and talk too much and no one wants to be around you. You’re a pitifully sad excuse of a
minister and teacher.”
Those are the thoughts that stay with me, folks.
But by the grace of God, my friend. But by the grace of God.
When I’m rested and my appreciation tank is full,
I can quieten the lies.
But when I’m tired and overly stressed,
They are all that I can hear.
And when they’re all I can hear,
I get really messed up.
I feel lonely. So I talk more. Then I feel like I say too much and annoy people. So then I get mad at myself and want to disappear. But then I get lonely again. And when I say lonely, I mean deep down irrationally alone. So I talk about it and try not to turn it inward. But then I get mad at myself for burdening the world with my mess. And then I shut down and want to disappear because I dislike myself so much And cannot believe that anyone else would actually want me around.
Crazymaking, huh?
But by the grace of God, my friend. But by the grace of God.
I’ve had to learn how to soften the lies and I have to face them every day.
Counseling has helped me build new neuro-pathways and
given me language for a new script.
I’ve learned to breathe and to give the Spirit space to settle.
I’ve learned the value of silence and contemplative prayer.
I’ve learned that I’m not alone in my damning thoughts and
that I do not have to carry them alone.
I’ve learned that people are praying for me, too…
But by the grace of God, my friend. But by the grace of God.
We’re in this together.
And I believe in you.
Which is one positively true statement,
Even when I don’t believe in myself.
But by the grace of God, my friend. But by the grace of God.
*Selah*
But by the grace of God, my friend. But by the grace of God.
Because here’s the truth.
I’m really not a very positive person. At all.
In fact, when left on its own,
The script in my head is one of the most damning places one could ever be.
“You’re such a stupid piece of crap. You should just stay in bed instead of getting up and subjecting the world to your junk. You’re overbearing and ridiculously annoying. You think too much and talk too much and no one wants to be around you. You’re a pitifully sad excuse of a
minister and teacher.”
Those are the thoughts that stay with me, folks.
But by the grace of God, my friend. But by the grace of God.
When I’m rested and my appreciation tank is full,
I can quieten the lies.
But when I’m tired and overly stressed,
They are all that I can hear.
And when they’re all I can hear,
I get really messed up.
I feel lonely. So I talk more. Then I feel like I say too much and annoy people. So then I get mad at myself and want to disappear. But then I get lonely again. And when I say lonely, I mean deep down irrationally alone. So I talk about it and try not to turn it inward. But then I get mad at myself for burdening the world with my mess. And then I shut down and want to disappear because I dislike myself so much And cannot believe that anyone else would actually want me around.
Crazymaking, huh?
But by the grace of God, my friend. But by the grace of God.
I’ve had to learn how to soften the lies and I have to face them every day.
Counseling has helped me build new neuro-pathways and
given me language for a new script.
I’ve learned to breathe and to give the Spirit space to settle.
I’ve learned the value of silence and contemplative prayer.
I’ve learned that I’m not alone in my damning thoughts and
that I do not have to carry them alone.
I’ve learned that people are praying for me, too…
But by the grace of God, my friend. But by the grace of God.
We’re in this together.
And I believe in you.
Which is one positively true statement,
Even when I don’t believe in myself.
But by the grace of God, my friend. But by the grace of God.
*Selah*
Monday, November 3, 2014
Defining Moments: Please Fill This Emptiness
“I just saw some of your favorite artist’s work,” I read. “There’s a big display in an art gallery in Miami.”
“I love him,” I replied.
“I like him, too. His work makes me feel. And that’s a good thing in art.”
His work makes me feel, too, and it’s made me feel deeply since the moment I laid eyes upon it at Pop Art Gallery in Downtown Disney in July 2011.
After spending the week at a work event in Orlando, FL, my friend Amy and I stopped at Downtown Disney to get some food and visit some shops before beginning the drive back to South Carolina.
When we walked in Pop Art Gallery, Amy and I parted ways, each walking around the store to take in the sights on our own.
As soon as I looked at Fabio Napoleoni’s display wall, I was mesmerized. I stood there and gazed upon his paintings and prints, and I wept.
I felt sort of stupid standing in the middle of a busy store crying, but I couldn’t help it. Fabio’s work spoke to me in a way that no artist’s work had spoken to me before. I got it. It made me feel. And so I soaked it in respectful awe until Amy came around the corner, shook her head at my tears, and laughed at me for wearing my heart on my sleeve (and everything I own).
Fast forward a few months and find my brother at Downtown Disney. Having unsuccessfully been able to find Fabio’s work cheaper online and having been unable to get his images out of my mind, I asked my brother if he’d see if the piece that had resonated with me most deeply was still there. It was. And not only that, but Fabio was going to be at the gallery that next weekend. If I purchased the canvas then he would sign, date, and Remarque it for free.
I purchased the canvas. “Please Fill This Emptiness.” And to this day, when I look at it, I get it:
I get feeling beaten down. Exhausted. No energy left to keep going.
I get longing for love. Reaching. Hoping against hope that love will come.
I get being surrounded by beauty but only being able to stare at nothing.
I get being shielded by friends and family stepping in to hold the weight of the world.
I get it.
And tonight,
as I process the suicide of a former student and member of my youth group,
as I feel the hurts of those who have been emotionally damaged and abused,
as I still grieve Kay’s death and mourn the loss of baby Sam just two short months ago,
as I cry for students whose parents are so absent that they do not realize their child has no underwear,
I am reminded that I am not the only one who gets it—
Who prays each day,
God, please fill this emptiness.
Please.
Fill this emptiness.
Amen.
“I love him,” I replied.
“I like him, too. His work makes me feel. And that’s a good thing in art.”
His work makes me feel, too, and it’s made me feel deeply since the moment I laid eyes upon it at Pop Art Gallery in Downtown Disney in July 2011.
After spending the week at a work event in Orlando, FL, my friend Amy and I stopped at Downtown Disney to get some food and visit some shops before beginning the drive back to South Carolina.
When we walked in Pop Art Gallery, Amy and I parted ways, each walking around the store to take in the sights on our own.
As soon as I looked at Fabio Napoleoni’s display wall, I was mesmerized. I stood there and gazed upon his paintings and prints, and I wept.
I felt sort of stupid standing in the middle of a busy store crying, but I couldn’t help it. Fabio’s work spoke to me in a way that no artist’s work had spoken to me before. I got it. It made me feel. And so I soaked it in respectful awe until Amy came around the corner, shook her head at my tears, and laughed at me for wearing my heart on my sleeve (and everything I own).
Fast forward a few months and find my brother at Downtown Disney. Having unsuccessfully been able to find Fabio’s work cheaper online and having been unable to get his images out of my mind, I asked my brother if he’d see if the piece that had resonated with me most deeply was still there. It was. And not only that, but Fabio was going to be at the gallery that next weekend. If I purchased the canvas then he would sign, date, and Remarque it for free.
I purchased the canvas. “Please Fill This Emptiness.” And to this day, when I look at it, I get it:
I get feeling beaten down. Exhausted. No energy left to keep going.
I get longing for love. Reaching. Hoping against hope that love will come.
I get being surrounded by beauty but only being able to stare at nothing.
I get being shielded by friends and family stepping in to hold the weight of the world.
I get it.
And tonight,
as I process the suicide of a former student and member of my youth group,
as I feel the hurts of those who have been emotionally damaged and abused,
as I still grieve Kay’s death and mourn the loss of baby Sam just two short months ago,
as I cry for students whose parents are so absent that they do not realize their child has no underwear,
I am reminded that I am not the only one who gets it—
Who prays each day,
God, please fill this emptiness.
Please.
Fill this emptiness.
Amen.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Defining Event: Kay's Death
It’s been a rough week, folks. Not necessarily at work—though I’ve had my fair share of rough patches. But inside my head and on the shards of my broken heart.
Those of you who have been reading my notes for awhile will know about whom I speak when I mention Kay. I write about her each year around the second week of November, yet this year’s writing is early because of how heavily she’s been on my mind this week.
It started Sunday night. As I prepared to go to my dad’s associational meeting that evening, I found myself filled with unexplainable anxiety. I wasn’t late. I wasn’t on the program. I wasn’t scheduled to see anyone new. I was just deep down, butterflies in my stomach, back quivering anxious.
As I stood in line to register, though, I realized where the feeling was coming from: The last time I went to an associational meeting at that church and stood in that same line, I was standing in line behind Kay.
The first wave of deep grief hit on my way to praise team practice that night. In addition to remembering Kay’s death, I realized that most of the people who were in my life at that time are gone, too—not to physical death but to time’s natural passing.
That wave of grief colored much of my Monday, and then another, much deeper, wave of grief overwhelmed me on Tuesday. I remembered every vivid detail of the last moments I saw Kay, the phone conversation that told me something was wrong, the hours that I stood outside her apartment waiting for the rescue squad prepare her body for transport, the minutes after I got home, the days I spent helping clean her apartment--the sights, the smells, the confusion, the hurt. I sobbed on the way to counseling. I sobbed in counseling. I sobbed on my way home from counseling. I sobbed as I lay in bed trying to fall asleep. And I woke up yesterday feeling like I’d been run over by a truck…
Sunday is homecoming at church. The choir is singing “Find Us Faithful” for our choral anthem:
We're pilgrims on the journey
Of the narrow road
And those who've gone before us line the way
Cheering on the faithful, encouraging the weary
Their lives a stirring testament to God's sustaining grace
Surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses
Let us run the race not only for the prize
But as those who've gone before us
Let us leave to those behind us
The heritage of faithfulness passed on through godly lives
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful
May the fire of our devotion light their way
May the footprints that we leave
Lead them to believe
And the lives we live inspire them to obey
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful
After all our hopes and dreams have come and gone
And our children sift through all we've left behind
May the clues that they discover and the memories they uncover
Become the light that leads them to the road we each must find
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful
For some reason, the choir has struggled with this anthem. As we practiced last night and I listened to their hesitation in singing, I thought about the message of the song—the message of single-minded devotion to God that I’ve been trying to get the choir to share—and I thought about…Kay.
I thought about her cheering on the faithful and encouraging the weary. I revisited those moments of literally sifting through all she’d left behind. And I stopped rehearsal and leaned against my podium and shared some of the burden that I’d been carrying all week.
My choir listened. My choir heard. And then they sang the anthem the best they’d ever sung it shortly afterward.
I imagine Kay would have been happy had she been sitting in the sanctuary with us last night. I imagine she would have sat on the front pew with her eyes closed, hands in receiving position, smiling as she listened—just as she listened to my band play on the last morning of her life. And I imagine she’d be smiling with me now—the day after the day after completely falling apart—celebrating just how far I’ve come and just how much farther there is to go.
Those of you who have been reading my notes for awhile will know about whom I speak when I mention Kay. I write about her each year around the second week of November, yet this year’s writing is early because of how heavily she’s been on my mind this week.
It started Sunday night. As I prepared to go to my dad’s associational meeting that evening, I found myself filled with unexplainable anxiety. I wasn’t late. I wasn’t on the program. I wasn’t scheduled to see anyone new. I was just deep down, butterflies in my stomach, back quivering anxious.
As I stood in line to register, though, I realized where the feeling was coming from: The last time I went to an associational meeting at that church and stood in that same line, I was standing in line behind Kay.
The first wave of deep grief hit on my way to praise team practice that night. In addition to remembering Kay’s death, I realized that most of the people who were in my life at that time are gone, too—not to physical death but to time’s natural passing.
That wave of grief colored much of my Monday, and then another, much deeper, wave of grief overwhelmed me on Tuesday. I remembered every vivid detail of the last moments I saw Kay, the phone conversation that told me something was wrong, the hours that I stood outside her apartment waiting for the rescue squad prepare her body for transport, the minutes after I got home, the days I spent helping clean her apartment--the sights, the smells, the confusion, the hurt. I sobbed on the way to counseling. I sobbed in counseling. I sobbed on my way home from counseling. I sobbed as I lay in bed trying to fall asleep. And I woke up yesterday feeling like I’d been run over by a truck…
Sunday is homecoming at church. The choir is singing “Find Us Faithful” for our choral anthem:
We're pilgrims on the journey
Of the narrow road
And those who've gone before us line the way
Cheering on the faithful, encouraging the weary
Their lives a stirring testament to God's sustaining grace
Surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses
Let us run the race not only for the prize
But as those who've gone before us
Let us leave to those behind us
The heritage of faithfulness passed on through godly lives
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful
May the fire of our devotion light their way
May the footprints that we leave
Lead them to believe
And the lives we live inspire them to obey
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful
After all our hopes and dreams have come and gone
And our children sift through all we've left behind
May the clues that they discover and the memories they uncover
Become the light that leads them to the road we each must find
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful
For some reason, the choir has struggled with this anthem. As we practiced last night and I listened to their hesitation in singing, I thought about the message of the song—the message of single-minded devotion to God that I’ve been trying to get the choir to share—and I thought about…Kay.
I thought about her cheering on the faithful and encouraging the weary. I revisited those moments of literally sifting through all she’d left behind. And I stopped rehearsal and leaned against my podium and shared some of the burden that I’d been carrying all week.
My choir listened. My choir heard. And then they sang the anthem the best they’d ever sung it shortly afterward.
I imagine Kay would have been happy had she been sitting in the sanctuary with us last night. I imagine she would have sat on the front pew with her eyes closed, hands in receiving position, smiling as she listened—just as she listened to my band play on the last morning of her life. And I imagine she’d be smiling with me now—the day after the day after completely falling apart—celebrating just how far I’ve come and just how much farther there is to go.
Monday, October 27, 2014
Defining Moments: I Think I'll Ride A Bike Now
10 Nesmith Street
Tabor City, NC 28463
910-653-2216
Such was my address and phone number for most of my childhood.
And what a wonderful place to grow up:
A dead end street lined with beautiful live oak trees,
Not much traffic,
Children laughing,
Building forts in the woods,
Jumping in pools and on trampolines,
Playing basketball and football,
Having wars with cap-guns,
Running to the railroad tracks to wave at the conductor…
Nesmith Street began with railroad tracks and ended with a forest.
While I realize, now, that this probably wasn’t a great idea,
We—the Nesmith Street Gang—spent a lot of time racing on the railroad tracks and leaving coins to be squished by the train.
We also made it a point to race for the train tracks when we heard the conductor blowing his whistle.
We had a childhood fascination with seeing the conductor wave at us,
So I suppose it only makes sense that on the day that
Everyone else hopped on their bikes and raced to the end of the street,
Leaving little Dee running behind in their dust,
Little Dee decided that it was time to learn to ride a bike.
At the boundary of my childhood paradise,
where the railroad tracks hugged Nesmith Street,
having missed the conductor’s wave,
I, Little Dee, began learning to ride a bike right then and there.
It didn’t take long.
I picked it up like a childhood pro.
(Or at least I think I did?)
And before long I had my very own BMX-ish-like bike and
was riding with the rest of the gang.
As I got older and my world expanded beyond Nesmith Street,
My bicycle took me there.
I rode to the church.
I rode to the school on workdays.
I rode to see friends.
I even rode to the next town over.
My bicycle gave me flight
Until my car expanded the world beyond two wheels.
My favorite professional artist, Fabio Napoleoni,
Has a painting entitled “Sometimes I Miss My Childhood,”
And sometimes, dear friends, I do:
Not much traffic,
A lot of laughing,
Building forts in the woods,
Jumping in pools and on trampolines,
Playing basketball and football,
Having wars with cap-guns, and
Riding bikes to the railroad tracks with the very best of friends.
Tabor City, NC 28463
910-653-2216
Such was my address and phone number for most of my childhood.
And what a wonderful place to grow up:
A dead end street lined with beautiful live oak trees,
Not much traffic,
Children laughing,
Building forts in the woods,
Jumping in pools and on trampolines,
Playing basketball and football,
Having wars with cap-guns,
Running to the railroad tracks to wave at the conductor…
Nesmith Street began with railroad tracks and ended with a forest.
While I realize, now, that this probably wasn’t a great idea,
We—the Nesmith Street Gang—spent a lot of time racing on the railroad tracks and leaving coins to be squished by the train.
We also made it a point to race for the train tracks when we heard the conductor blowing his whistle.
We had a childhood fascination with seeing the conductor wave at us,
So I suppose it only makes sense that on the day that
Everyone else hopped on their bikes and raced to the end of the street,
Leaving little Dee running behind in their dust,
Little Dee decided that it was time to learn to ride a bike.
At the boundary of my childhood paradise,
where the railroad tracks hugged Nesmith Street,
having missed the conductor’s wave,
I, Little Dee, began learning to ride a bike right then and there.
It didn’t take long.
I picked it up like a childhood pro.
(Or at least I think I did?)
And before long I had my very own BMX-ish-like bike and
was riding with the rest of the gang.
As I got older and my world expanded beyond Nesmith Street,
My bicycle took me there.
I rode to the church.
I rode to the school on workdays.
I rode to see friends.
I even rode to the next town over.
My bicycle gave me flight
Until my car expanded the world beyond two wheels.
My favorite professional artist, Fabio Napoleoni,
Has a painting entitled “Sometimes I Miss My Childhood,”
Not much traffic,
A lot of laughing,
Building forts in the woods,
Jumping in pools and on trampolines,
Playing basketball and football,
Having wars with cap-guns, and
Riding bikes to the railroad tracks with the very best of friends.
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Just Two Haiku-like Thoughts About Working In The Helping Professions
One
This challenging thing:
More than a job. Jobs pay bills.
Service changes lives.
Two
This important work:
Not by choice alone. Call leads.
Mustard seed of faith.
------
If you have dedicated your life to helping and serving others, thank you.
If you know someone who has done the same, tell him/her thank you as well.
Not because it’s a special week.
Just because.
This challenging thing:
More than a job. Jobs pay bills.
Service changes lives.
Two
This important work:
Not by choice alone. Call leads.
Mustard seed of faith.
------
If you have dedicated your life to helping and serving others, thank you.
If you know someone who has done the same, tell him/her thank you as well.
Not because it’s a special week.
Just because.
Monday, October 20, 2014
Defining Moments: If You Go, I'll Go
Third grade.
Here’s Hope, Jesus Cares For You national revival.
Associational worship service in Whiteville.
The invitation.
Butterflies in stomach.
Heart pounding.
A powerful, new feeling fills me.
“If you go, I’ll go,” I say to my best friend.
“If you go, I’ll go,” she says to me.
“If you go, I’ll go,” I say again to my best friend.
“If you go, I’ll go,” she says back to me again.
I went.
My pastor—my dad—was praying with someone.
I prayed with a stranger pastor.
My best friend did the same.
On the bus waiting to go home.
Bouncing from seat to seat.
Laughing.
Filled with unexplainable joy.
Baptismal pool.
Long silence.
Look up.
“Daddy, hurry up.”
His baby.
He was crying.
“I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
Now.
“If you go, I’ll go,” I say to God.
“As you, I’ll be with you,” God says to me.
“I’m going,” I say to God.
“Day by day. One step at a time. I am with you,” God says.
“Always?”
“Always.”
Amen and amen.
Here’s Hope, Jesus Cares For You national revival.
Associational worship service in Whiteville.
The invitation.
Butterflies in stomach.
Heart pounding.
A powerful, new feeling fills me.
“If you go, I’ll go,” I say to my best friend.
“If you go, I’ll go,” she says to me.
“If you go, I’ll go,” I say again to my best friend.
“If you go, I’ll go,” she says back to me again.
I went.
My pastor—my dad—was praying with someone.
I prayed with a stranger pastor.
My best friend did the same.
On the bus waiting to go home.
Bouncing from seat to seat.
Laughing.
Filled with unexplainable joy.
Baptismal pool.
Long silence.
Look up.
“Daddy, hurry up.”
His baby.
He was crying.
“I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
Now.
“If you go, I’ll go,” I say to God.
“As you, I’ll be with you,” God says to me.
“I’m going,” I say to God.
“Day by day. One step at a time. I am with you,” God says.
“Always?”
“Always.”
Amen and amen.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Defining Moments: Harry Potter
It’s all Jack’s fault.
I’m currently reading The Blood of Olympus, the fifth and final book in Rick Riordan’s Heroes of Olympus series. But before I started The Blood of Olympus, though, I was reading Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets for the third time. I’ve seen all of the movies, too. They kept me company while packing my apartment in SC.
Like I said, it’s all Jack’s fault.
What Nephew Jack reads, Aunt Dee reads. Sometimes we get to talk about the stories. Sometimes we don’t. Either way, it’s opened a whole new world of story for me, and I’m very glad.
Harry Potter used to intimidate me. I saw the books and how many pages they held and I thought to myself, “I’d never make it through that.” Even after I started listening to books on CD, I still considered Harry Potter a task too daunting to undertake.
I’d heard how wonderful the books were. I’d had numerous people recommend them to me. I was with Angela when she bought the sixth book on CD many years ago. We were on our way to a wedding in Connecticut and she was so anxious to hear Rowling’s latest installment that we stopped at a Wal-mart for the purchase along the way! She listened while I slept, and I remember waking up, listening, and being completely lost. Little did I know that a few years later, I’d be listening to that exact book, no longer lost, and totally thankful that Angela had purchased it.
She purchased all of the other books, too, and had them in a shoe box at her house when I decided to read the series (with my ears). Jack had started it (with his eyes). He loved it. I wanted to be able to speak with him intelligently. I had plenty of listening time as I drove around SC for work. It was time.
I think that the fact that I’ve started the series for the third time is testament to the fact that I liked it. And not only did I like it, but I also accidentally allowed it to change the way I think.
Don’t worry, folks, I haven’t allowed witchcraft and wizardry to take over my mind.
But I do often wish I had an invisibility cloak and the ability to disparate.
I do find myself comparing painful experiences and places to dementors.
I often imagine myself in Hogwarts and desire to meet Dobby.
I ponder the series’ themes of light and darkness, good and evil, friendship and family.
I marvel at the creativity that God has placed in the human mind.
And I connect with the notion that love has the power to withstand evil…lightning scar or not.
After all, it’s Love that I’ve built my life upon…and it’s love that leads us to read books and opens hearts and sets us free…
I’m currently reading The Blood of Olympus, the fifth and final book in Rick Riordan’s Heroes of Olympus series. But before I started The Blood of Olympus, though, I was reading Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets for the third time. I’ve seen all of the movies, too. They kept me company while packing my apartment in SC.
Like I said, it’s all Jack’s fault.
What Nephew Jack reads, Aunt Dee reads. Sometimes we get to talk about the stories. Sometimes we don’t. Either way, it’s opened a whole new world of story for me, and I’m very glad.
Harry Potter used to intimidate me. I saw the books and how many pages they held and I thought to myself, “I’d never make it through that.” Even after I started listening to books on CD, I still considered Harry Potter a task too daunting to undertake.
I’d heard how wonderful the books were. I’d had numerous people recommend them to me. I was with Angela when she bought the sixth book on CD many years ago. We were on our way to a wedding in Connecticut and she was so anxious to hear Rowling’s latest installment that we stopped at a Wal-mart for the purchase along the way! She listened while I slept, and I remember waking up, listening, and being completely lost. Little did I know that a few years later, I’d be listening to that exact book, no longer lost, and totally thankful that Angela had purchased it.
She purchased all of the other books, too, and had them in a shoe box at her house when I decided to read the series (with my ears). Jack had started it (with his eyes). He loved it. I wanted to be able to speak with him intelligently. I had plenty of listening time as I drove around SC for work. It was time.
I think that the fact that I’ve started the series for the third time is testament to the fact that I liked it. And not only did I like it, but I also accidentally allowed it to change the way I think.
Don’t worry, folks, I haven’t allowed witchcraft and wizardry to take over my mind.
But I do often wish I had an invisibility cloak and the ability to disparate.
I do find myself comparing painful experiences and places to dementors.
I often imagine myself in Hogwarts and desire to meet Dobby.
I ponder the series’ themes of light and darkness, good and evil, friendship and family.
I marvel at the creativity that God has placed in the human mind.
And I connect with the notion that love has the power to withstand evil…lightning scar or not.
After all, it’s Love that I’ve built my life upon…and it’s love that leads us to read books and opens hearts and sets us free…
Monday, October 13, 2014
Come To Me...And Rest
One of my biggest accomplishments of all of my years at camp was laying the foundation for my friend Humphries to learn to play the guitar.
A couple of years after we first played together, I drove to Humphries house to visit. Naturally, we busted out our guitars and began to play. A little while later, we’d written a song.
It’s a simple song. The words come from scripture. I honestly don’t remember why it emerged that day. But it did. And it’s a song that I often find myself singing…especially when I’m tired…which is a lot…because working two very public jobs while also trying to be a good friend and family member, responsible citizen, and healthy self is tiring.
Yesterday’s sermon was on the importance of rest—for both the body and soul. We are our best selves when we are our rested selves. We are only able to project peace and joy when we are our rested selves. We need rest. After all, God created rest through the very act of resting.
And so…during yesterday’s early service…I sang that little song that Humphries and I wrote…and it’s been the calming earworm in my mind ever since…and while you can’t hear the music right now, I pray you take comfort in the words…and remember to rest.
Come To Me
7/3/10
Matthew 11:28-29
with Amy Humphries
Come to me
All you who labor and are tired
Come to me
And I will give you rest
Take my easy yoke
And learn from me
For I am gentle
And humble in heart
Yes, you will find rest
For your weary soul
Just come to me
My burden is light
Come to me
My burden is light
Come to me
Come to me
A couple of years after we first played together, I drove to Humphries house to visit. Naturally, we busted out our guitars and began to play. A little while later, we’d written a song.
It’s a simple song. The words come from scripture. I honestly don’t remember why it emerged that day. But it did. And it’s a song that I often find myself singing…especially when I’m tired…which is a lot…because working two very public jobs while also trying to be a good friend and family member, responsible citizen, and healthy self is tiring.
Yesterday’s sermon was on the importance of rest—for both the body and soul. We are our best selves when we are our rested selves. We are only able to project peace and joy when we are our rested selves. We need rest. After all, God created rest through the very act of resting.
And so…during yesterday’s early service…I sang that little song that Humphries and I wrote…and it’s been the calming earworm in my mind ever since…and while you can’t hear the music right now, I pray you take comfort in the words…and remember to rest.
Come To Me
7/3/10
Matthew 11:28-29
with Amy Humphries
Come to me
All you who labor and are tired
Come to me
And I will give you rest
Take my easy yoke
And learn from me
For I am gentle
And humble in heart
Yes, you will find rest
For your weary soul
Just come to me
My burden is light
Come to me
My burden is light
Come to me
Come to me
Monday, October 6, 2014
Defining Moments: Envy My Massage
If I were independently wealthy, I would purchase lake, beach, and mountains houses for use by my family and friends and I would invite teachers, social workers, and persons in the ministry to use the houses for either super cheap or free. I would also hire a counselor to offer super cheap or free counseling sessions to teachers, and I would hire a massage therapist to do the same. Teachers, social workers, and persons in the ministry are notorious for selflessly giving themselves to others while doing very little for their own bodies and souls. I’d like to see that change. If only I were independently wealthy…
Whether she meant to or not, Boss once let me know that I was wealthy enough to provide myself with one monthly luxury: a massage. I remember her telling me that she was a member at Massage Envy. She said that with as much driving as she did and the stress that she carried, she needed it. She liked the flexibility of the franchise. She felt that the monthly membership was a good deal. And she felt that taking care of her body was something God-honoring.
So I joined, too.
I did well at scheduling and keeping monthly my massage appointments for most of my time in South Carolina. I saw a few different massage therapists and enjoyed talking with them while they loosened the tension in my body.
During one particular massage with a non-Christian massage therapist, as I was talking through a breakout session on compassion that I was scheduled to lead the next day, I admitted that I have trouble having compassion on people who intentionally hurt and judgmentally damn other people. I confessed that I don't understand how God can be okay with this and then I heard a statement that I’ve remembered ever since:
"Maybe God has compassion on them."
Maybe God has compassion on them—on each of us, really—in the same way that I have compassion on my students who come from horrible home lives and act out of the only brokenness they know. Maybe God believes in each of our abilities to rise above our limitations and shortcomings and maybe that belief is God’s ultimate compassion.
After work today, I called my local-ish Massage Envy to see if they had any appointments available tonight. They did. As I lay on the table feeling today’s massage therapist work out the kinks and knots that have becoming increasingly more painful in the past few months, I had to make myself relax. I found my thoughts wandering back and forth between things I need to do, people for whom I desired to pray, and this line from a Sara Groves song:
“I’ve remembered the body and the mind but dissected the soul.”
I love this line. I love that it sings of the importance of a holistic approach to life. I’m mindful of it every time I get a massage, and I’m mindful that, for me, the line should read, “I’ve remembered the soul and the mind but neglected the body.”
I decided today that I’m going to attempt to be more intentional about not neglecting the body, mind, or soul. And I’m going to do this by making an effort to actually use the monthly Massage Envy membership that Boss encouraged me to get. I don’t make a lot of money and I can’t afford to buy vacation homes—but I can afford this. Thanks, Boss, for helping me realize that sometimes there are things we can’t afford not to do.
Whether she meant to or not, Boss once let me know that I was wealthy enough to provide myself with one monthly luxury: a massage. I remember her telling me that she was a member at Massage Envy. She said that with as much driving as she did and the stress that she carried, she needed it. She liked the flexibility of the franchise. She felt that the monthly membership was a good deal. And she felt that taking care of her body was something God-honoring.
So I joined, too.
I did well at scheduling and keeping monthly my massage appointments for most of my time in South Carolina. I saw a few different massage therapists and enjoyed talking with them while they loosened the tension in my body.
During one particular massage with a non-Christian massage therapist, as I was talking through a breakout session on compassion that I was scheduled to lead the next day, I admitted that I have trouble having compassion on people who intentionally hurt and judgmentally damn other people. I confessed that I don't understand how God can be okay with this and then I heard a statement that I’ve remembered ever since:
"Maybe God has compassion on them."
Maybe God has compassion on them—on each of us, really—in the same way that I have compassion on my students who come from horrible home lives and act out of the only brokenness they know. Maybe God believes in each of our abilities to rise above our limitations and shortcomings and maybe that belief is God’s ultimate compassion.
After work today, I called my local-ish Massage Envy to see if they had any appointments available tonight. They did. As I lay on the table feeling today’s massage therapist work out the kinks and knots that have becoming increasingly more painful in the past few months, I had to make myself relax. I found my thoughts wandering back and forth between things I need to do, people for whom I desired to pray, and this line from a Sara Groves song:
“I’ve remembered the body and the mind but dissected the soul.”
I love this line. I love that it sings of the importance of a holistic approach to life. I’m mindful of it every time I get a massage, and I’m mindful that, for me, the line should read, “I’ve remembered the soul and the mind but neglected the body.”
I decided today that I’m going to attempt to be more intentional about not neglecting the body, mind, or soul. And I’m going to do this by making an effort to actually use the monthly Massage Envy membership that Boss encouraged me to get. I don’t make a lot of money and I can’t afford to buy vacation homes—but I can afford this. Thanks, Boss, for helping me realize that sometimes there are things we can’t afford not to do.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Defining Moments: (Motorcycle) Helmet of Salvation
On Tuesday afternoon, I put a Carolina Tiger Rescue sticker on my car. After visiting the facility in July and learning what the Rescue does, I decided to become a member and supporter. I toured the facility with my aunt, my sister-in-law, and my nephews, and we had a great time while learning a lot. We also enjoyed a lovely meal in downtown Pittsboro afterward and found an interesting thrift shop near the restaurant. One of my nephews bought a gift for his grandmother; another bought a motorcycle helmet for himself. Does he ride a motorcycle? Nope. Does he have use for the helmet? Nope. But he thought it was cool, so he bought it.
Six years ago July, I was sitting in the outdoor chapel at my favorite camp listening to one of my friends speak during worship. My friend was speaking about putting on the armor of God and making that armor accessible to girls today. The passage she read was from Ephesians 6:
Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the Lord’s people. Pray also for me, that whenever I speak, words may be given me so that I will fearlessly make known the mystery of the gospel, for which I am an ambassador in chains. Pray that I may declare it fearlessly, as I should.
Her entire message was good, but the part that deeply impacted me was the part about the helmet of salvation. No. She didn’t suggest wearing a motorcycle helmet as a reminder of God’s salvation—although that image definitely provides one of great protection—especially when the helmet sits so large on the body like it did on my nephew—but she did offer a suggestion: brush your hair.
Profound, huh? For me it was.
I am a hair farmer. I grow my hair. I give it away. I grow it again.
I wash it. I let it dry naturally.
I wear it down until it starts to bother me. I pull it back. I put it in a ball when it’s long enough.
And that’s about it.
For awhile there, I was putting up my hair immediately after getting up. I was leaving it up all day, taking it down at night, and going to bed. There were many days when I didn’t brush it at all because I didn’t really need to.
But then my friend spoke. And she suggested that every time we brush our hair, we imagine putting on the helmet of salvation. And I thought the idea was brilliant. So I started brushing my hair (almost) every day.
Just this morning, I was running late, so I considered just pulling back my hair and leaving. But then I looked at my brush and thought about how anxious I’d been feeling at work and decided that I needed that helmet of salvation—a helmet of protection from the anxiety of this world—from stress, fear, negativity, jealousy, anger, frustration, and more. So I intentionally stopped and brushed my hair, and I prayed for God to surround and protect me with light, grace, and salvation.
Will you do the same with me tomorrow and in the days to come?
Will you wear your helmet of salvation?
Not your thrift-store motorcycle helmet of bulk—
but your prayers for hope and the mind of Christ—
your breath for peace and the heart of God…
which is, my dear friends, the heart of love.
Six years ago July, I was sitting in the outdoor chapel at my favorite camp listening to one of my friends speak during worship. My friend was speaking about putting on the armor of God and making that armor accessible to girls today. The passage she read was from Ephesians 6:
Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the Lord’s people. Pray also for me, that whenever I speak, words may be given me so that I will fearlessly make known the mystery of the gospel, for which I am an ambassador in chains. Pray that I may declare it fearlessly, as I should.
Her entire message was good, but the part that deeply impacted me was the part about the helmet of salvation. No. She didn’t suggest wearing a motorcycle helmet as a reminder of God’s salvation—although that image definitely provides one of great protection—especially when the helmet sits so large on the body like it did on my nephew—but she did offer a suggestion: brush your hair.
Profound, huh? For me it was.
I am a hair farmer. I grow my hair. I give it away. I grow it again.
I wash it. I let it dry naturally.
I wear it down until it starts to bother me. I pull it back. I put it in a ball when it’s long enough.
And that’s about it.
For awhile there, I was putting up my hair immediately after getting up. I was leaving it up all day, taking it down at night, and going to bed. There were many days when I didn’t brush it at all because I didn’t really need to.
But then my friend spoke. And she suggested that every time we brush our hair, we imagine putting on the helmet of salvation. And I thought the idea was brilliant. So I started brushing my hair (almost) every day.
Just this morning, I was running late, so I considered just pulling back my hair and leaving. But then I looked at my brush and thought about how anxious I’d been feeling at work and decided that I needed that helmet of salvation—a helmet of protection from the anxiety of this world—from stress, fear, negativity, jealousy, anger, frustration, and more. So I intentionally stopped and brushed my hair, and I prayed for God to surround and protect me with light, grace, and salvation.
Will you do the same with me tomorrow and in the days to come?
Will you wear your helmet of salvation?
Not your thrift-store motorcycle helmet of bulk—
but your prayers for hope and the mind of Christ—
your breath for peace and the heart of God…
which is, my dear friends, the heart of love.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Defining Moments: To Shave Or Not To Shave
I remember shaving my left forearm when I was in elementary school. I don’t know what inspired me to do this. I suppose I was curious as to the function of the razor. So I shaved my left forearm. Thankfully the hair grew back normally.
I do not, however, remember first shaving my legs. I don’t know what inspired me to do this either. I suppose I was following peer pressure. So I shaved my legs. And my leg hair has never been the same.
Not trying to gross anyone out, but, thanks to my dad, I have man legs.
One summer at camp, a friend dared me not to shave my legs for the summer. I took the dare. As I entered the movie theatre one weekend afternoon, the ticket-taker tore my ticket stub, looking down as he did, and said, “To the left, sir.” Then he looked up and realized I was a woman and was mortified. I laughed. I have man legs.
I also have terrible vision. When in the shower, I cannot see my legs well enough to accurately shave them. So I need to shave in the bathtub. Then, more often than not, I get razor burn. So I prefer to shave with an electric razor. Then, sometimes I still get razor burn.
Shaving is a pain. Literally. And it takes up time that I could use for something else—like sleeping. So all in all, shaving is not a priority for me. Is it any wonder, then, that shaving is an activity that I often skip?
[Point of clarification: I’m talking about my shaving my legs. A Garbage Pail kid that I had as a kid instilled in me an aversion to stinky arm-pit hair.]
Back up to late last December…I hadn’t shaved for quite sometime, yet my family was preparing to go on a cruise and my parents had requested that my leg hair be gone for the trip. It was a reasonable request. My legs do look much better shaven, and I’ve taken reasonable shaving requests before. I actually took a request to shave that summer I took the dare, and I shaved my legs for my birthday. It was my birthday present to everyone else!
But when I got into the bathtub on December 29, 2013, I had a full meltdown. I imagine it sounds ridiculous—especially since I actually like how clean shaven legs look and feel—but I was sobbing real tears of anguish at the thought of shaving my legs.
I sent a text to a friend that said:
If a woman doesn’t shave then she is thought disgusting. In general. I know people who are horrified if I don’t shave. Like something is wrong with me. But there’s no reason for shaving other than it’s what is expected for females in America. To me, it just takes time and resources that produce trash that fills up our landfills. And yet. I feel like I must fit the societal norm. Like if I don’t shave my legs then my family and friends will be ashamed to be around me in shorts. Most people don’t mind shaving. I get that. And I suppose that shaving isn’t a huge deal for them. It’s an extension of their shower. But I can’t shave in the shower because I’m that blind. So it takes effort. And I’d really rather do other things. Yet. I let outside forces control my actions.
I sat in the bathtub for around thirty minutes that night. I cried. I prayed. I thought. I wrote. And I got out of the tub with legs as hairy as they were when I got in. I was tired of letting outside forces control me.
I shaved on New Year’s Eve, willingly, as a symbol of getting rid of the old and welcoming the new…
On Friday afternoon, I came home from school to pack for an overnight retreat with some of the girls from my church. I was weary from a long week, so I reclined on the couch to take a little nap after changing clothes and packing. It was at that moment that I realized that I was going to the beach with unshaven legs. I thought, “Uh oh. Some of the girls may think I’m gross. I guess I should shave. But if I shave then I won’t get to nap. And I’m sleepy. And I’m going to be driving a lot this weekend. Oh well, hairy legs. You’re staying hairy. I’m taking a nap.”
The focus of the girls’ retreat was being yourself. The girls talked about the importance of knowing who God had created and was creating them to be and living into that creation instead of the creation of the world. There I was, walking around with hairy legs and shorts, personally not caring that my legs weren’t shaven, but feeling self-conscious that the girls were thinking poorly of me.
And so…I asked if I could share a testimony and told my bathtub story and declared that, sometimes, when life gets really busy and someone dies and work demands so much, we have to make choices and set priorities and that, for me, shaving is nowhere near the top of my priority list. And that’s okay.
I think the girls understood. They even asked why we shave our legs in the first place. I smiled. Then I took my hairy legs down to the dock, listened to the sound of waves and water, and silently thanked God for creating and loving me for me...hairy legs and all.
I do not, however, remember first shaving my legs. I don’t know what inspired me to do this either. I suppose I was following peer pressure. So I shaved my legs. And my leg hair has never been the same.
Not trying to gross anyone out, but, thanks to my dad, I have man legs.
One summer at camp, a friend dared me not to shave my legs for the summer. I took the dare. As I entered the movie theatre one weekend afternoon, the ticket-taker tore my ticket stub, looking down as he did, and said, “To the left, sir.” Then he looked up and realized I was a woman and was mortified. I laughed. I have man legs.
I also have terrible vision. When in the shower, I cannot see my legs well enough to accurately shave them. So I need to shave in the bathtub. Then, more often than not, I get razor burn. So I prefer to shave with an electric razor. Then, sometimes I still get razor burn.
Shaving is a pain. Literally. And it takes up time that I could use for something else—like sleeping. So all in all, shaving is not a priority for me. Is it any wonder, then, that shaving is an activity that I often skip?
[Point of clarification: I’m talking about my shaving my legs. A Garbage Pail kid that I had as a kid instilled in me an aversion to stinky arm-pit hair.]
Back up to late last December…I hadn’t shaved for quite sometime, yet my family was preparing to go on a cruise and my parents had requested that my leg hair be gone for the trip. It was a reasonable request. My legs do look much better shaven, and I’ve taken reasonable shaving requests before. I actually took a request to shave that summer I took the dare, and I shaved my legs for my birthday. It was my birthday present to everyone else!
But when I got into the bathtub on December 29, 2013, I had a full meltdown. I imagine it sounds ridiculous—especially since I actually like how clean shaven legs look and feel—but I was sobbing real tears of anguish at the thought of shaving my legs.
I sent a text to a friend that said:
If a woman doesn’t shave then she is thought disgusting. In general. I know people who are horrified if I don’t shave. Like something is wrong with me. But there’s no reason for shaving other than it’s what is expected for females in America. To me, it just takes time and resources that produce trash that fills up our landfills. And yet. I feel like I must fit the societal norm. Like if I don’t shave my legs then my family and friends will be ashamed to be around me in shorts. Most people don’t mind shaving. I get that. And I suppose that shaving isn’t a huge deal for them. It’s an extension of their shower. But I can’t shave in the shower because I’m that blind. So it takes effort. And I’d really rather do other things. Yet. I let outside forces control my actions.
I sat in the bathtub for around thirty minutes that night. I cried. I prayed. I thought. I wrote. And I got out of the tub with legs as hairy as they were when I got in. I was tired of letting outside forces control me.
I shaved on New Year’s Eve, willingly, as a symbol of getting rid of the old and welcoming the new…
On Friday afternoon, I came home from school to pack for an overnight retreat with some of the girls from my church. I was weary from a long week, so I reclined on the couch to take a little nap after changing clothes and packing. It was at that moment that I realized that I was going to the beach with unshaven legs. I thought, “Uh oh. Some of the girls may think I’m gross. I guess I should shave. But if I shave then I won’t get to nap. And I’m sleepy. And I’m going to be driving a lot this weekend. Oh well, hairy legs. You’re staying hairy. I’m taking a nap.”
The focus of the girls’ retreat was being yourself. The girls talked about the importance of knowing who God had created and was creating them to be and living into that creation instead of the creation of the world. There I was, walking around with hairy legs and shorts, personally not caring that my legs weren’t shaven, but feeling self-conscious that the girls were thinking poorly of me.
And so…I asked if I could share a testimony and told my bathtub story and declared that, sometimes, when life gets really busy and someone dies and work demands so much, we have to make choices and set priorities and that, for me, shaving is nowhere near the top of my priority list. And that’s okay.
I think the girls understood. They even asked why we shave our legs in the first place. I smiled. Then I took my hairy legs down to the dock, listened to the sound of waves and water, and silently thanked God for creating and loving me for me...hairy legs and all.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Defining Moments: Flying Orange Fish
Well over a decade ago, one of my coworker’s daughters and a mutual friend of ours stopped by my classroom to chat. While there, they each picked up an instrument—one of which was, oddly enough, a trombone—and began to play around. One thing led to another and I suggested that they come to the house to make some music and shortly after that we found ourselves having making music together every Tuesday night…
Back up even further to a rainy night at an Atlanta Braves game and find Angela and me brainstorming names for our two person band. We’d been singing together for a few years and recorded one CD, so we wanted a name other than Angela and Deanna. We threw out a plethora of names in an attempt to land on one. And the one we landed on was actually the name of a hymn medley that we put together for a church event…
While sitting on my bathroom floor—and I have no idea why we were sitting on the bathroom floor—A and I decided to singing “Amazing Grace,” “I’ll Fly Away,” and “Victory in Jesus” at our event the next day. We entitled the medley, “The Amazing Flying Victory” and it quickly became one of our most popular songs…which I suppose is why we decided to name our band The Amazing Flying Victories, or AFV for short…
Once A joined those Tuesday night music making sessions, AFV found itself with two more members. We went from one guitar or piano and two voices to the possibility of two guitars, a bass, a keyboard, a djembe, and various pieces of non-pitched percussion—with three or four voices…
I don’t remember the exact moment I decided the band needed a logo, but when that moment occurred, Barb was there with a design. We mass produced the design on each of our band notebooks, on our band suitcases, and on our t-shirts—and it was the image on our band CD. So just what was this image? A flying orange fish…
I began collecting orange fish in 2000. I had the privilege of leading a particularly meaningful worship service at camp that summer. During that worship service, I served communion on an orange fish cutting board. The collection started there…
As part of our school-wide incentive plan, classes receive an eaglet when they do something particularly right or good. During the second week of school, I decided that I would award one eaglet per day during the morning announcements. I named this eaglet the D-eaglet…
B sketched an initial design for the D-eaglet that was an eaglet holding a French horn. She also sketched a few other specialized eaglets that haven’t yet been revealed or introduced. Yet one day it hit me: I already have a design for the D-eaglet. B designed it years ago. It is uniquely me. It is simply designed and easy to produce. And it makes me happy…
The band has dissolved. The non-Angela friendships have, too. But the flying orange fish lives on as the D-eaglet. And I couldn’t be more proud.
Back up even further to a rainy night at an Atlanta Braves game and find Angela and me brainstorming names for our two person band. We’d been singing together for a few years and recorded one CD, so we wanted a name other than Angela and Deanna. We threw out a plethora of names in an attempt to land on one. And the one we landed on was actually the name of a hymn medley that we put together for a church event…
While sitting on my bathroom floor—and I have no idea why we were sitting on the bathroom floor—A and I decided to singing “Amazing Grace,” “I’ll Fly Away,” and “Victory in Jesus” at our event the next day. We entitled the medley, “The Amazing Flying Victory” and it quickly became one of our most popular songs…which I suppose is why we decided to name our band The Amazing Flying Victories, or AFV for short…
Once A joined those Tuesday night music making sessions, AFV found itself with two more members. We went from one guitar or piano and two voices to the possibility of two guitars, a bass, a keyboard, a djembe, and various pieces of non-pitched percussion—with three or four voices…
I don’t remember the exact moment I decided the band needed a logo, but when that moment occurred, Barb was there with a design. We mass produced the design on each of our band notebooks, on our band suitcases, and on our t-shirts—and it was the image on our band CD. So just what was this image? A flying orange fish…
I began collecting orange fish in 2000. I had the privilege of leading a particularly meaningful worship service at camp that summer. During that worship service, I served communion on an orange fish cutting board. The collection started there…
As part of our school-wide incentive plan, classes receive an eaglet when they do something particularly right or good. During the second week of school, I decided that I would award one eaglet per day during the morning announcements. I named this eaglet the D-eaglet…
B sketched an initial design for the D-eaglet that was an eaglet holding a French horn. She also sketched a few other specialized eaglets that haven’t yet been revealed or introduced. Yet one day it hit me: I already have a design for the D-eaglet. B designed it years ago. It is uniquely me. It is simply designed and easy to produce. And it makes me happy…
The band has dissolved. The non-Angela friendships have, too. But the flying orange fish lives on as the D-eaglet. And I couldn’t be more proud.
Monday, September 15, 2014
Defining Moments: Les Miserables
I was not happy when my youth minister announced that we were going to see Les Miserables.
I wanted to see Phantom of the Opera.
I was ignorantly dumb.
By the time intermission arrived and “One Day More” had reached its final peak, I was literally on the edge of my back-row-of-the-balcony seat.
Honestly, I didn’t fully understand the story-line. My 9th grade self didn’t follow the plot line of the French revolution and the schoolboys that would “wet themselves with blood.”
But I didn’t care.
All I knew is that I was deeply moved by my first Broadway musical and that I one day wanted to play the role of Eponine and belt out “On My Own” with such sadness of reality that I could make grown men cry.
I bought the poster. I bought the soundtrack. I learned all of the words to the original London cast’s soundtrack. And ever since that fateful moment during the summer after my freshman year, I have jumped at the opportunity to see Les Miserables. I may be wrong, but I think I’ve seen it six times on stage—and of course I saw the movie.
The ironic thing? I’m not a fan of Phantom of the Opera.
I suppose it’s no wonder, then, that when I learned that the theme of this year’s Harnett County Reading Council’s writing competition is “Dare to Dream,” I immediately began to sing, “I Dreamed A Dream.”
I sang and I wrote. Sang and wrote. Until the poem that follows emerged…22 years after original inspiration.
Thank you, old youth minister, for laying the foundation for this poem…and the many years of wonderful musical theatre that followed my first show.
------
Dare To Dream: When Tomorrow Comes
With excerpts from Les Miserables
And the music played and
the crowd cheered on and
then she sang and
I cried.
“…I dreamed a dream of times gone by
When hope was high and life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving…”
But love did die yet
God was forgiving and
she kept singing so
I wept.
“…Then I was young and unafraid
And dreams were made and used and wasted
There was no ransom to be paid
No song unsung, no wine un-tasted…”
And we had everything but
we had nothing and
I tried to sing but
I sobbed.
“…But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
As they turn your dreams to shame…”
And the tigers did come and
Shame consumed me and
I tried to sing but
I choked.
…Light slipped away…
Yet dreams are stronger than shame and
Hope is more resilient than heartache and
Sacred silence is louder than thunder and
I dared to dream again.
“…When the beating of your heart
Echoes the beating of the drums
There is a life about to start
When tomorrow comes…”
I wanted to see Phantom of the Opera.
I was ignorantly dumb.
By the time intermission arrived and “One Day More” had reached its final peak, I was literally on the edge of my back-row-of-the-balcony seat.
Honestly, I didn’t fully understand the story-line. My 9th grade self didn’t follow the plot line of the French revolution and the schoolboys that would “wet themselves with blood.”
But I didn’t care.
All I knew is that I was deeply moved by my first Broadway musical and that I one day wanted to play the role of Eponine and belt out “On My Own” with such sadness of reality that I could make grown men cry.
I bought the poster. I bought the soundtrack. I learned all of the words to the original London cast’s soundtrack. And ever since that fateful moment during the summer after my freshman year, I have jumped at the opportunity to see Les Miserables. I may be wrong, but I think I’ve seen it six times on stage—and of course I saw the movie.
The ironic thing? I’m not a fan of Phantom of the Opera.
I suppose it’s no wonder, then, that when I learned that the theme of this year’s Harnett County Reading Council’s writing competition is “Dare to Dream,” I immediately began to sing, “I Dreamed A Dream.”
I sang and I wrote. Sang and wrote. Until the poem that follows emerged…22 years after original inspiration.
Thank you, old youth minister, for laying the foundation for this poem…and the many years of wonderful musical theatre that followed my first show.
------
Dare To Dream: When Tomorrow Comes
With excerpts from Les Miserables
And the music played and
the crowd cheered on and
then she sang and
I cried.
“…I dreamed a dream of times gone by
When hope was high and life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving…”
But love did die yet
God was forgiving and
she kept singing so
I wept.
“…Then I was young and unafraid
And dreams were made and used and wasted
There was no ransom to be paid
No song unsung, no wine un-tasted…”
And we had everything but
we had nothing and
I tried to sing but
I sobbed.
“…But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
As they turn your dreams to shame…”
And the tigers did come and
Shame consumed me and
I tried to sing but
I choked.
…Light slipped away…
Yet dreams are stronger than shame and
Hope is more resilient than heartache and
Sacred silence is louder than thunder and
I dared to dream again.
“…When the beating of your heart
Echoes the beating of the drums
There is a life about to start
When tomorrow comes…”
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Defining Moments: FBC Erwin Times Three
“I hope you’re paying attention to this,” Lori declared. “You need to know how it’s done so that you can marry my girls when they get married.”
“I’m not ordained,” I replied, “so I can’t marry your girls.”
Looking somewhat surprised and confused, “You’re not ordained?”
“Nope.”
“Do you want to be?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll ordain you. Consider it done.”
And. Well. It’s done.
…
For a long time, I wouldn’t even consider working at a church. I knew too much about church politics to willingly subject myself to church ministry, and yet I somehow found myself applying for a youth ministry job in the spring of 2001. I honestly don’t remember who or what convinced me to apply for the job, but I did.
So when the music minister at FBC Erwin, Teresa, told me that her church was looking for a youth minister as well, I thought to myself, “What the heck. I’ve already applied for one job. Why not just go on and apply for this one, too.” I remember that moment and decision quite vividly—standing among my music teaching colleagues in Teresa’s then brand new office.
The interview at the first church went fine. It was a lead-the-youth-for-a-trial-lesson-and-then-answer-some-questions event. They wanted to know what I could offer their church and I told them. Nothing tricky. No curveballs. I walked away feeling fine.
The interview at FBC Erwin, though, was a doozy. After figuring out where I was supposed to be in the church, I made my way to a large conference table surrounded by lots of people. I sat down and the interview began and I found myself answering all kinds of questions—and these questions weren’t about what I could offer the church. These questions were about me. They probed by thoughts on God and the church and hit all kinds of hot topics. At one point, after the pastor asked what I’d do if one of the youth came to me struggling with same-gender attraction and I’d emphatically answered that I’d first let the kid know that he/she was loved—period—and that I’d then go from there—everyone took an audible breath—realizing how deeply intense the interview had become. I think it surprised all of us. But it was a good surprise that I really appreciated. It’s always good to know who you are working with—not just what they say they can do for you.
Walking back to my car, I found myself passing through the sanctuary alone. For those of you who know the layout of FBC Erwin, then you know that the sanctuary is in a separate building from the conference table and that it is not at all necessary to pass through it to get to the parking lot. But I didn’t know that at the time, so I went back to my car the same way that I had come, and I suddenly found myself so overwhelmed by God’s presence that I fell on my knees and wept. In that moment, I knew that I had found the place from which I’d been running.
…
I worked at FBC Erwin for three years. I led the church’s women’s retreats for many years after that. I visit with the people whenever I can—speaking, singing, or playing handbells. And I’m still in touch with most of my youth and/or their parents. In fact, I was at my youngest youth’s wedding whenever the conversation from above occurred!
After giving my testimony at the church’s business meeting last night and after hearing that the church had overwhelmingly and enthusiastically approved my ordination, I found myself moved to tears by the reality of it all. I am a public school music teacher. I am a part-time music minister. I am not working in full-time vocational ministry nor do I have a secret plan to be doing so sometime soon.
And yet…fourteen years later, the church that called me out of my pattern of running has called me out as minister.
I am deeply humbled. And grateful. And somewhat in awe of the fact that Lori decided what needed to be done and actually made it happen.
***The date and time of Little (future) Reverend Deaton’s ordination service are in the process of being determined. I’ll make an official announcement when details are hashed out.***
“I’m not ordained,” I replied, “so I can’t marry your girls.”
Looking somewhat surprised and confused, “You’re not ordained?”
“Nope.”
“Do you want to be?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll ordain you. Consider it done.”
And. Well. It’s done.
…
For a long time, I wouldn’t even consider working at a church. I knew too much about church politics to willingly subject myself to church ministry, and yet I somehow found myself applying for a youth ministry job in the spring of 2001. I honestly don’t remember who or what convinced me to apply for the job, but I did.
So when the music minister at FBC Erwin, Teresa, told me that her church was looking for a youth minister as well, I thought to myself, “What the heck. I’ve already applied for one job. Why not just go on and apply for this one, too.” I remember that moment and decision quite vividly—standing among my music teaching colleagues in Teresa’s then brand new office.
The interview at the first church went fine. It was a lead-the-youth-for-a-trial-lesson-and-then-answer-some-questions event. They wanted to know what I could offer their church and I told them. Nothing tricky. No curveballs. I walked away feeling fine.
The interview at FBC Erwin, though, was a doozy. After figuring out where I was supposed to be in the church, I made my way to a large conference table surrounded by lots of people. I sat down and the interview began and I found myself answering all kinds of questions—and these questions weren’t about what I could offer the church. These questions were about me. They probed by thoughts on God and the church and hit all kinds of hot topics. At one point, after the pastor asked what I’d do if one of the youth came to me struggling with same-gender attraction and I’d emphatically answered that I’d first let the kid know that he/she was loved—period—and that I’d then go from there—everyone took an audible breath—realizing how deeply intense the interview had become. I think it surprised all of us. But it was a good surprise that I really appreciated. It’s always good to know who you are working with—not just what they say they can do for you.
Walking back to my car, I found myself passing through the sanctuary alone. For those of you who know the layout of FBC Erwin, then you know that the sanctuary is in a separate building from the conference table and that it is not at all necessary to pass through it to get to the parking lot. But I didn’t know that at the time, so I went back to my car the same way that I had come, and I suddenly found myself so overwhelmed by God’s presence that I fell on my knees and wept. In that moment, I knew that I had found the place from which I’d been running.
…
I worked at FBC Erwin for three years. I led the church’s women’s retreats for many years after that. I visit with the people whenever I can—speaking, singing, or playing handbells. And I’m still in touch with most of my youth and/or their parents. In fact, I was at my youngest youth’s wedding whenever the conversation from above occurred!
After giving my testimony at the church’s business meeting last night and after hearing that the church had overwhelmingly and enthusiastically approved my ordination, I found myself moved to tears by the reality of it all. I am a public school music teacher. I am a part-time music minister. I am not working in full-time vocational ministry nor do I have a secret plan to be doing so sometime soon.
And yet…fourteen years later, the church that called me out of my pattern of running has called me out as minister.
I am deeply humbled. And grateful. And somewhat in awe of the fact that Lori decided what needed to be done and actually made it happen.
***The date and time of Little (future) Reverend Deaton’s ordination service are in the process of being determined. I’ll make an official announcement when details are hashed out.***
Monday, September 1, 2014
Defining Moments: Fireflies In The Dark
A few weeks ago, I wrote about the moment I realized I should return to camp in ’97. Today, I want to share a specific moment from that summer that came to mind as I sat in my church sanctuary last night.
Late one evening, I was praying on the recreation field at camp, I noticed a beautiful moon peaking through a window in the trees. As I continued praying and looking at the moon, I noticed clouds beginning to appear, covering up the light. I knew that I could learn something from the experience, so I decided to stay and learn…only I had already decided what I was going to learn. I had decided that once the clouds moved away and I was able to see the beauty of the night sky again, I would make the parallel that sometimes we cannot see God because circumstances cloud our vision but if we wait patiently and constantly seek God’s face then circumstances will pass and we will see God’s light again.
I was wrong. I didn’t need to sit there to witness that parallel because I didn’t need to learn something I already knew. I needed to learn something else:
Fireflies.
As I sat and waited for the moon to reappear that night, I noticed a firefly. Then I noticed another and another and another until I realized that I was surrounded by little lights. I noticed how small the flickers were but now much light each radiated. I observed how the fireflies’ locations were completely unpredictable. I witnessed how beautiful the fireflies made that summer night. And then it hit me: God was trying to tell me not to forget the little things; God was trying to show me that even in the midst of darkness, there is always light.
I wrote a song about my firefly experience that night and have sung the song countless times since:
Fireflies, fireflies
Rays of hope, short feelings of peace
At the right time they come
To carry us through until the day we see the sun
But I wasn’t thinking anything about that song or experience last night when I went to drop off something in the sanctuary.
After a full morning of getting back into the swing of things at church and after a very busy praise team practice, I decided to take a few minutes for myself and sit in the holy silence of the sanctuary. If you’ve never been alone in a sanctuary at night, then I highly suggest you arrange the experience. It is a truly sacred experience.
When I first walked into the space, I couldn’t see anything. I used my phone to guide me to the first pew where I placed the clipboard I was carrying and then I sat down to breathe in the silence.
A few moments later, I noticed shapes beginning to form. The communion table. The pulpit. The piano. The organ. The chairs in the choir loft. Until eventually I could see everything in the sanctuary. Slowly, very slowly, my eyes adjusted to the darkness and the light from down the hall had seeped in enough for me to see.
As I reflected on last week and the darkness that presented itself following little Sam’s unexpected death, I realized that this is how life would be for the next little while—that as we sit in darkness, breathing in holy silence, our eyes will slowly begin to adjust and we will slowly be able make sense of it all.
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,”
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
--Psalm 139: 7-12
There is no darkness too dark to consume all of life’s fireflies and sacred moments.
Praise be to God.
Late one evening, I was praying on the recreation field at camp, I noticed a beautiful moon peaking through a window in the trees. As I continued praying and looking at the moon, I noticed clouds beginning to appear, covering up the light. I knew that I could learn something from the experience, so I decided to stay and learn…only I had already decided what I was going to learn. I had decided that once the clouds moved away and I was able to see the beauty of the night sky again, I would make the parallel that sometimes we cannot see God because circumstances cloud our vision but if we wait patiently and constantly seek God’s face then circumstances will pass and we will see God’s light again.
I was wrong. I didn’t need to sit there to witness that parallel because I didn’t need to learn something I already knew. I needed to learn something else:
Fireflies.
As I sat and waited for the moon to reappear that night, I noticed a firefly. Then I noticed another and another and another until I realized that I was surrounded by little lights. I noticed how small the flickers were but now much light each radiated. I observed how the fireflies’ locations were completely unpredictable. I witnessed how beautiful the fireflies made that summer night. And then it hit me: God was trying to tell me not to forget the little things; God was trying to show me that even in the midst of darkness, there is always light.
I wrote a song about my firefly experience that night and have sung the song countless times since:
Fireflies, fireflies
Rays of hope, short feelings of peace
At the right time they come
To carry us through until the day we see the sun
But I wasn’t thinking anything about that song or experience last night when I went to drop off something in the sanctuary.
After a full morning of getting back into the swing of things at church and after a very busy praise team practice, I decided to take a few minutes for myself and sit in the holy silence of the sanctuary. If you’ve never been alone in a sanctuary at night, then I highly suggest you arrange the experience. It is a truly sacred experience.
When I first walked into the space, I couldn’t see anything. I used my phone to guide me to the first pew where I placed the clipboard I was carrying and then I sat down to breathe in the silence.
A few moments later, I noticed shapes beginning to form. The communion table. The pulpit. The piano. The organ. The chairs in the choir loft. Until eventually I could see everything in the sanctuary. Slowly, very slowly, my eyes adjusted to the darkness and the light from down the hall had seeped in enough for me to see.
As I reflected on last week and the darkness that presented itself following little Sam’s unexpected death, I realized that this is how life would be for the next little while—that as we sit in darkness, breathing in holy silence, our eyes will slowly begin to adjust and we will slowly be able make sense of it all.
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,”
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
--Psalm 139: 7-12
There is no darkness too dark to consume all of life’s fireflies and sacred moments.
Praise be to God.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Defining Moments: Alaskan Hot Tub Cruise
No. I’ve not been on an Alaskan cruise. But an Alaskan cruise still changed my life. Here’s how:
My best friend, Angela, and our friend Jacqui went on an Alaskan cruise a few years ago. While on that cruise, and while relaxing in a hot tub, Angela met Edi, and now Angela and Edi are married.
Angela and I have known each other for nineteen years. We’ve experienced half of each other’s lives together and shared both joy and sorrow.
Singing together has been one of our greatest joys even though we cannot successfully sing the correct notes of “I Don’t Need Anything But You” from Annie no matter how hard we try—and trying to sing it to Angela’s daughter, Isabelle, today was no exception!
Grieving the loss of Angela’s dad ten years ago and the sudden death of her son, Sam, on Saturday have been our greatest sorrows.
Today, as I sat at Angela’s kitchen table with Edi, I laughed after he said, “You can have that piece of cake, honey.” “Thank you, sweetheart,” I responded, and then we sat and talked.
A little while before that exchange, I sat at that same kitchen table with Isabelle and smiled as she painted my finger nails a very bright pink. She’s two-and-a-half years old and has a newly painted room thanks to the painting efforts of Deanna and Jacqui. She also has a new favorite bath-time activity thanks to Deanna—the bubble beard.
And a little while later, I sat at the kitchen table again and shared a delicious meal with Angela’s family. As I ate, I was overwhelmed by the reality that had Angela and Jacqui not gone on that Alaskan cruise then Angela would not have met Edi; and if Angela and Edi had not met and fallen in love then Isabelle wouldn’t have been born; and if Isabelle wouldn’t have been born then I wouldn’t know an extremely intelligent, full of life little girl; and if I didn’t know Isabelle then I would be sad…
And if I hadn’t known Sam, then I would be sad, too.
As Angela’s uncle said at Sam’s funeral last night, Sam’s death sucks. There are no words to explain it. There is no way to understand it. It is heartbreaking reality that will impact us for the rest of our lives. But so will Sam’s “classic” life that created sweet memories for those of us who had the privilege of holding him, singing to him, loving him, and making him smile…
One of the songs that Angela and I can sing is “Never Saw Blue Like That,” and we’ve done just that many times before. The thing that both of us really like about the song is that it does not resolve at the end. Instead, it leaves the listener hanging—wanting more—and knowing that there is more to come…
For many years, Angela and I refused to call each other “best friend.” Each of us had had bad experiences with “best friends” leaving after the title had been bestowed, so we avoided the title. But somewhere along the way, we decided to stop avoiding the title and to just call it as it was. And I’m so glad we did…because together we now know that while all things do not end as projected, all will be well and that there is beauty yet to come…and it lies in cruises and hot tubs and cake and pet names and newly painted rooms and laughter and pink finger nail polish and bubble beards.
My best friend, Angela, and our friend Jacqui went on an Alaskan cruise a few years ago. While on that cruise, and while relaxing in a hot tub, Angela met Edi, and now Angela and Edi are married.
Angela and I have known each other for nineteen years. We’ve experienced half of each other’s lives together and shared both joy and sorrow.
Singing together has been one of our greatest joys even though we cannot successfully sing the correct notes of “I Don’t Need Anything But You” from Annie no matter how hard we try—and trying to sing it to Angela’s daughter, Isabelle, today was no exception!
Grieving the loss of Angela’s dad ten years ago and the sudden death of her son, Sam, on Saturday have been our greatest sorrows.
Today, as I sat at Angela’s kitchen table with Edi, I laughed after he said, “You can have that piece of cake, honey.” “Thank you, sweetheart,” I responded, and then we sat and talked.
A little while before that exchange, I sat at that same kitchen table with Isabelle and smiled as she painted my finger nails a very bright pink. She’s two-and-a-half years old and has a newly painted room thanks to the painting efforts of Deanna and Jacqui. She also has a new favorite bath-time activity thanks to Deanna—the bubble beard.
And a little while later, I sat at the kitchen table again and shared a delicious meal with Angela’s family. As I ate, I was overwhelmed by the reality that had Angela and Jacqui not gone on that Alaskan cruise then Angela would not have met Edi; and if Angela and Edi had not met and fallen in love then Isabelle wouldn’t have been born; and if Isabelle wouldn’t have been born then I wouldn’t know an extremely intelligent, full of life little girl; and if I didn’t know Isabelle then I would be sad…
And if I hadn’t known Sam, then I would be sad, too.
As Angela’s uncle said at Sam’s funeral last night, Sam’s death sucks. There are no words to explain it. There is no way to understand it. It is heartbreaking reality that will impact us for the rest of our lives. But so will Sam’s “classic” life that created sweet memories for those of us who had the privilege of holding him, singing to him, loving him, and making him smile…
One of the songs that Angela and I can sing is “Never Saw Blue Like That,” and we’ve done just that many times before. The thing that both of us really like about the song is that it does not resolve at the end. Instead, it leaves the listener hanging—wanting more—and knowing that there is more to come…
For many years, Angela and I refused to call each other “best friend.” Each of us had had bad experiences with “best friends” leaving after the title had been bestowed, so we avoided the title. But somewhere along the way, we decided to stop avoiding the title and to just call it as it was. And I’m so glad we did…because together we now know that while all things do not end as projected, all will be well and that there is beauty yet to come…and it lies in cruises and hot tubs and cake and pet names and newly painted rooms and laughter and pink finger nail polish and bubble beards.
Monday, August 25, 2014
Defining Moments: Texting Love and Heartbreak
I began texting on January 13, 2006.
I remember the day and those first texting moments because they occurred while I was waiting for Griffin to enter this world.
Even though I still have what most people consider a dumb phone, things have changed drastically in my texting life since those first moments of filling in the blanks. Yes. I actually wrote out 160 blanks so that I could maximize the messages that I was planning to send!
I now have unlimited texting and send thousands of texts per month. I no longer have to look at what I’m writing to write something that actually makes sense. And I no longer use my phone to talk to people on a regular basis; instead, for better or for worse, my people and I usually just write.
So I knew something was off when I received a text Saturday that said, “Call me. It’s an emergency.”
And it was an emergency.
So I called.
And in the days since that call, I have written countless texts that I never imagined I’d write—some of which have turned into accidental poetry:
I just keeping shaking my head.
I don’t even know how to think.
Like my thoughts don’t formulate.
I start to speak and nothing really comes out.
There’s nowhere to begin or end.
There’s just no making sense of this.
One of which makes me cry every time I think of it:
He’s dead.
Another of which is the most important thing you or I can ever say to one another:
I love you so much.
I suppose it sounds trivial to say that the day I began to text was a defining moment in my life. Yet right now, during one of the most heart-breaking times of my life, I am beyond grateful to be able to communicate to those I love, anytime I want, middle of the night included:
I’m with you.
You are never, ever alone.
We will make it through this. Together. Somehow.
I love you so much.
I love you so very, very much…
------
My best friend’s five-month old son, Sam, died Saturday afternoon. This is the link to his obituary. Please pray for his family: http://www.oppfh.com/new_view.php?id=5341434
I remember the day and those first texting moments because they occurred while I was waiting for Griffin to enter this world.
Even though I still have what most people consider a dumb phone, things have changed drastically in my texting life since those first moments of filling in the blanks. Yes. I actually wrote out 160 blanks so that I could maximize the messages that I was planning to send!
I now have unlimited texting and send thousands of texts per month. I no longer have to look at what I’m writing to write something that actually makes sense. And I no longer use my phone to talk to people on a regular basis; instead, for better or for worse, my people and I usually just write.
So I knew something was off when I received a text Saturday that said, “Call me. It’s an emergency.”
And it was an emergency.
So I called.
And in the days since that call, I have written countless texts that I never imagined I’d write—some of which have turned into accidental poetry:
I just keeping shaking my head.
I don’t even know how to think.
Like my thoughts don’t formulate.
I start to speak and nothing really comes out.
There’s nowhere to begin or end.
There’s just no making sense of this.
One of which makes me cry every time I think of it:
He’s dead.
Another of which is the most important thing you or I can ever say to one another:
I love you so much.
I suppose it sounds trivial to say that the day I began to text was a defining moment in my life. Yet right now, during one of the most heart-breaking times of my life, I am beyond grateful to be able to communicate to those I love, anytime I want, middle of the night included:
I’m with you.
You are never, ever alone.
We will make it through this. Together. Somehow.
I love you so much.
I love you so very, very much…
------
My best friend’s five-month old son, Sam, died Saturday afternoon. This is the link to his obituary. Please pray for his family: http://www.oppfh.com/new_view.php?id=5341434
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Defining Moments: The Birkenstock
It was my sophomore year of high school, 1992.
My brother was a freshman at NC State.
His childhood best friend, Heath, was too.
I suppose it was at college that Heath found Birkenstocks?
A large, urban college is much different than small, rural Tabor City where we grew up.
Or it could have been a fad of the times?
Either way, it was Heath who introduced me to the Birkenstock,
And it was Heath who let me know that imitation Birkenstocks don’t come close to the real thing.
I got my first pair of real Birkenstocks at the beginning of my junior year, 1993.
I had moved to a new school in a new town and I wanted some new shoes.
My new school had a no strapless shoe rule, so I had to get shoes with a back strap.
I chose a classic Birkenstock design,
Three strap sandals, brown leather, wide foot-bed with heel cup, raised arch, and toe grip, size 38.
I wore that pair of sandals almost every day of my junior and senior years of high school.
When it was hot, I wore them with no shoes.
When it was cold, I wore them with socks.
I had no idea that I was setting up my foot to become so used to the Birkenstock foot-bed that it would be difficult to ever find any other comfortable shoes.
Since buying that first pair of Birkenstocks (thank you, Mom and Dad),
I have purchased many others.
I may despise buying clothes for myself,
But I will pay for a good pair of shoes—
Even if most people think they are ugly—
And I will pray that God will use them for good things.
Wearing shoes in which my feet feel free is important to me.
My feet hold me up.
They carry me.
They make it possible for me to do the things I desire to do—
The biggest of which is to love those around me.
…How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings, who proclaim salvation…
I still have my original pair of Birkenstocks.
They’re well-worn and may soon fall apart if I don’t take them to be repaired.
(I plan to take them to be repaired.)
They carry in them many years of life and memories…
To which the beginning my tenth year of teaching was added tonight
As I stood in the hallway and greeted hundreds of students and parents while wearing
My first pair of Birkenstocks, now 21-years-old.
My brother was a freshman at NC State.
His childhood best friend, Heath, was too.
I suppose it was at college that Heath found Birkenstocks?
A large, urban college is much different than small, rural Tabor City where we grew up.
Or it could have been a fad of the times?
Either way, it was Heath who introduced me to the Birkenstock,
And it was Heath who let me know that imitation Birkenstocks don’t come close to the real thing.
I got my first pair of real Birkenstocks at the beginning of my junior year, 1993.
I had moved to a new school in a new town and I wanted some new shoes.
My new school had a no strapless shoe rule, so I had to get shoes with a back strap.
I chose a classic Birkenstock design,
Three strap sandals, brown leather, wide foot-bed with heel cup, raised arch, and toe grip, size 38.
I wore that pair of sandals almost every day of my junior and senior years of high school.
When it was hot, I wore them with no shoes.
When it was cold, I wore them with socks.
I had no idea that I was setting up my foot to become so used to the Birkenstock foot-bed that it would be difficult to ever find any other comfortable shoes.
Since buying that first pair of Birkenstocks (thank you, Mom and Dad),
I have purchased many others.
I may despise buying clothes for myself,
But I will pay for a good pair of shoes—
Even if most people think they are ugly—
And I will pray that God will use them for good things.
Wearing shoes in which my feet feel free is important to me.
My feet hold me up.
They carry me.
They make it possible for me to do the things I desire to do—
The biggest of which is to love those around me.
…How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings, who proclaim salvation…
I still have my original pair of Birkenstocks.
They’re well-worn and may soon fall apart if I don’t take them to be repaired.
(I plan to take them to be repaired.)
They carry in them many years of life and memories…
To which the beginning my tenth year of teaching was added tonight
As I stood in the hallway and greeted hundreds of students and parents while wearing
My first pair of Birkenstocks, now 21-years-old.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Defining Moments: Yes, You Should Teach
By the time I reached my junior year at Meredith College,
I pretty much hated music—
which was a problem—
because I was going to school to be a music teacher.
Not only that,
I was going to school on a scholarship contingent upon my teaching after graduation,
so I found myself doubly stuck—
and it was a terrible feeling.
Throughout my time at Meredith,
I attended chapel services each Wednesday morning.
One particular morning,
while sitting alone in the balcony and
harboring particularly negative feelings toward both music and teaching,
I felt a punch in the gut and
heard a statement I will never forget.
The speaker, having worked various jobs and served in various ministries before landing on her ultimate call, said:
“God called me to the mission field of the public schools.”
And so God has called me.
Twice.
-----
Music is the passion that burns within my soul
The passion of God’s arms—the piece that makes me whole
But lately I can’t find the beat
Lately I just can’t sing
Lately I just don’t feel the way I used to feel
The way I used to feel
Help me, help me
Help me find the music once again
Help me, help me
I want to be your face and I want to share your grace
To those who might hear, to those who might see
So Lord help me
I pretty much hated music—
which was a problem—
because I was going to school to be a music teacher.
Not only that,
I was going to school on a scholarship contingent upon my teaching after graduation,
so I found myself doubly stuck—
and it was a terrible feeling.
Throughout my time at Meredith,
I attended chapel services each Wednesday morning.
One particular morning,
while sitting alone in the balcony and
harboring particularly negative feelings toward both music and teaching,
I felt a punch in the gut and
heard a statement I will never forget.
The speaker, having worked various jobs and served in various ministries before landing on her ultimate call, said:
“God called me to the mission field of the public schools.”
And so God has called me.
Twice.
-----
Music is the passion that burns within my soul
The passion of God’s arms—the piece that makes me whole
But lately I can’t find the beat
Lately I just can’t sing
Lately I just don’t feel the way I used to feel
The way I used to feel
Help me, help me
Help me find the music once again
Help me, help me
I want to be your face and I want to share your grace
To those who might hear, to those who might see
So Lord help me
Thursday, August 14, 2014
What May Be A Defining Moment In The Making: Sunday Morning’s Visitor
Discerning the difference between defining moments and poignant moments has been interesting over the past few weeks. Honestly, I’ve wondered if I’ve gotten some the moments wrong, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter to anyone but me. So today’s moment—which is a story still in the making—could quite possibly be a defining moment for me…or it could just be a poignant moment. We’ll see as I sort through the thoughts and feelings that have been brewing ever since receiving the following text on Tuesday morning:
Oh, Deanna. I think our visitor from church on Sunday morning was arrested yesterday. Or if it wasn’t him, then it was his twin.
As I was finishing worship set-up for Sunday morning, I noticed a visitor coming into the church. The ushers greeted him and gave him a bulletin. He happily spoke back. Then he walked into the church, did the sign of the cross as he entered, and found a seat midway up the right side of the church. The couple in front of him welcomed him and engaged him in conversation. I went to say welcome and found myself quickly engaged in a conversation about whether or not Crocs hurt my feet. Mine do not; our visitor’s do. I pointed out our visitor to Patrick. Patrick greeted him as well. He seemed very happy to be with us on Sunday, observing everyone who walked by him, smiling at everyone who smiled back.
For the past many months, so much of what Patrick has preached has been about the importance of sharing the love of Christ with everyone—even, and maybe especially even, those who are different—those from the community—those who did not grow up in our faith culture. And our visitor was different. I knew by his sign of the cross. I knew by his ragged shirt and shorts. I knew by how he made little noises during the service. I knew by the plastic grocery bag in which he carried his stuff.
After the service, I asked our visitor if he needed a sturdier bag for his stuff. He said that would be great, especially since some other members of the church were taking him to the food pantry. I went to my car to get two of the reusable shopping bags that I keep in my trunk, then I set out to find him. He was walking toward the exit at the far end of the parking lot when I spotted him again. I walked as quickly as I could to catch up with him, and as I helped him put his, now, two plastic bags in the sturdier bags, he was so grateful. He asked my name. I told him. I asked his name. He told me. We shook hands. We parted ways. I stopped to talk to a church member who asked our visitor’s name. I’m pretty sure the church member offered him a ride home even though he said he lived just down the road.
I was standing in the rain the entire time.
So when I received my friend’s text on Tuesday morning, I was somewhat shocked. Our visitor from church on Sunday morning was arrested on Monday for felony hit and run. I later found out that he’s been arrested for before for driving under the influence.
Yesterday, another of my friends sent me a statement that she’d seen on a church sign: You never know what’s going on behind closed doors. I read the statement as one of skepticism and judgment. She read it as a call to pray for those around us because we don’t know what people are experiencing behind closed doors. I like her interpretation much, much better.
I told her the story of our visitor on Sunday morning. She said, “Oh wow. I think it’s touching that a man in desperate need of help was actually seeking it at church. Maybe he was seeking a shelter of love.” I agreed with her. And she agreed with me that our little church actually did what a church should do. And yet…our visitor was arrested for felony hit and run the next day.
Like I wrote at the beginning of this note, this story is still unfolding. I haven’t yet been able to name why it is affecting me so much. But it is. I keep thinking about it a lot—wondering if there was more we could have done for Russell—that’s our Sunday morning visitor’s name—if there is more we can do—if having an AA group in the church/community would be viable—wondering about the people walk into church completely broken—both visitors and members alike—wondering what is going on behind closed doors—behind the eyes that we see—and wondering how we can affect change when sometimes we are presented with just one moment.
This is going to sound ridiculous, but I find myself wanting to find Russell and give him a hug. I find myself wanting to know his story and what led to him to where he is. Addiction is a terrible monster. It is not something easily controlled and it is littered sometimes with more failure than success. But I believe it is possible to overcome. And somehow, more than anything this week, I want our Sunday morning visitor to know that it’s possible, too.
So was that text a defining moment in my my life? Will it somehow influence or change the course of my existence? I don’t know. But either way, it is sitting heavy with me now and is something that I likely will never forget.
Oh, Deanna. I think our visitor from church on Sunday morning was arrested yesterday. Or if it wasn’t him, then it was his twin.
As I was finishing worship set-up for Sunday morning, I noticed a visitor coming into the church. The ushers greeted him and gave him a bulletin. He happily spoke back. Then he walked into the church, did the sign of the cross as he entered, and found a seat midway up the right side of the church. The couple in front of him welcomed him and engaged him in conversation. I went to say welcome and found myself quickly engaged in a conversation about whether or not Crocs hurt my feet. Mine do not; our visitor’s do. I pointed out our visitor to Patrick. Patrick greeted him as well. He seemed very happy to be with us on Sunday, observing everyone who walked by him, smiling at everyone who smiled back.
For the past many months, so much of what Patrick has preached has been about the importance of sharing the love of Christ with everyone—even, and maybe especially even, those who are different—those from the community—those who did not grow up in our faith culture. And our visitor was different. I knew by his sign of the cross. I knew by his ragged shirt and shorts. I knew by how he made little noises during the service. I knew by the plastic grocery bag in which he carried his stuff.
After the service, I asked our visitor if he needed a sturdier bag for his stuff. He said that would be great, especially since some other members of the church were taking him to the food pantry. I went to my car to get two of the reusable shopping bags that I keep in my trunk, then I set out to find him. He was walking toward the exit at the far end of the parking lot when I spotted him again. I walked as quickly as I could to catch up with him, and as I helped him put his, now, two plastic bags in the sturdier bags, he was so grateful. He asked my name. I told him. I asked his name. He told me. We shook hands. We parted ways. I stopped to talk to a church member who asked our visitor’s name. I’m pretty sure the church member offered him a ride home even though he said he lived just down the road.
I was standing in the rain the entire time.
So when I received my friend’s text on Tuesday morning, I was somewhat shocked. Our visitor from church on Sunday morning was arrested on Monday for felony hit and run. I later found out that he’s been arrested for before for driving under the influence.
Yesterday, another of my friends sent me a statement that she’d seen on a church sign: You never know what’s going on behind closed doors. I read the statement as one of skepticism and judgment. She read it as a call to pray for those around us because we don’t know what people are experiencing behind closed doors. I like her interpretation much, much better.
I told her the story of our visitor on Sunday morning. She said, “Oh wow. I think it’s touching that a man in desperate need of help was actually seeking it at church. Maybe he was seeking a shelter of love.” I agreed with her. And she agreed with me that our little church actually did what a church should do. And yet…our visitor was arrested for felony hit and run the next day.
Like I wrote at the beginning of this note, this story is still unfolding. I haven’t yet been able to name why it is affecting me so much. But it is. I keep thinking about it a lot—wondering if there was more we could have done for Russell—that’s our Sunday morning visitor’s name—if there is more we can do—if having an AA group in the church/community would be viable—wondering about the people walk into church completely broken—both visitors and members alike—wondering what is going on behind closed doors—behind the eyes that we see—and wondering how we can affect change when sometimes we are presented with just one moment.
This is going to sound ridiculous, but I find myself wanting to find Russell and give him a hug. I find myself wanting to know his story and what led to him to where he is. Addiction is a terrible monster. It is not something easily controlled and it is littered sometimes with more failure than success. But I believe it is possible to overcome. And somehow, more than anything this week, I want our Sunday morning visitor to know that it’s possible, too.
So was that text a defining moment in my my life? Will it somehow influence or change the course of my existence? I don’t know. But either way, it is sitting heavy with me now and is something that I likely will never forget.
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