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.

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.

**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.**

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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.

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Fact: I Love You, Friend
9.14

When things fall apart.
Always, I am here. Or there.
I care about you.

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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.

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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.

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.

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.

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.*

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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.

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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.

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*

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.