Loving Can Hurt

I collect orange fish. My mom collects piano figurines. Finley The Brother-in-Law collects Rubik’s Cubes. Whenever I see a Rubik’s Cube that looks like it belongs in Finley’s collection, I buy it for him. This Christmas added two new cubes to the collection—a pastel cube like I had growing up and a tiny cube deemed the world’s smallest Rubik’s cube. I thoroughly mixed up each cube, then Finley promptly solved the puzzles. I have no idea how he did them, but he did. He said that there is a series of tricks and moves that makes solving the cubes possible. I believe him. I just don’t have the spatial and/or logical intelligence to see them.

I remember attending a workshop on different intelligences during my early years of teaching. That workshop was the first time I’d ever taken an intelligence inventory that listed musical intelligence as a real thing. I silently chuckled as I checked every indicator for musical intelligence and realized, for the first time, that the things that I think are perfectly normal—like harmonizing with the hum of an air conditioner or composing a full rhythmic composition to the sounds of the Wal-mart check out line—are only normal to those of us with a musically geared brain. The rest of the teachers at my table thought me a bit odd.

Other than musical intelligence, my intelligence indicator leaned toward both intra- and inter-personal intelligences. As an intuitive feeler, this makes a lot of sense. I genuinely care about and want to know people. I genuinely want for people what makes them the best versions of themselves. I read about these things. I study them. I stay in counseling. Yet my intelligence and my desires are where I fear that I struggle as much as I excel. Sometimes in my desire to be genuine with people and have them be genuine with me, I often go wrong—cross invisible boundary lines or fail to meet unspoken expectations—and I sometimes invoke equally as deep hatred and love in those around me.

I just got back from having my legs waxed. Some of you will remember that I embarked on my first leg-waxing journey over spring break this year. Since this December has been unseasonably hot, I decided that I’d end the year by returning to the place where my journey started. I wanted to start the new year with clean-shaven legs. Out with the old. In with the new.

As I lay on the waxing table and felt the warm wax applied to my legs, I knew what was coming next. I knew that in a few seconds I would hear and feel a rip and that it would hurt. Yet I still jumped every time the hairy wax came off my legs and I still inwardly winced, “Ouch! That hurts!”

I knew what was coming. I set myself up for it. Yet it still hurt.

I know that loving people is hard. I know that most relationships—however close or distant—will one day end—or at least fade into the background. I know that each time I open up to someone, share a bit of my story, or take a bit of someone’s story into my heart, that we each run the risk of getting hurt. I know that one day I could find myself unfriended and blocked from Facebook. I know that trust can be betrayed and my stupidities used against me. I know that out of nowhere I can receive a message telling me that I am no longer respected, that I ruined someone’s life, or that while I am a great person, I think too much and ask too many questions.
I know what could happen. I stay prepared for it. And yet it still hurts. Every time.

As 2015 comes to a close, I have over 1,100 friends on Facebook. I am surrounded by real-life friends, family members, coworkers, and church members who love me and whom I love in return. I am blessed. I am grateful beyond measure. I truly am. Please hear that. And yet the seven people who have completely blocked me from Facebook over the years are the ones that keep haunting me today.

Joe The Counselor says that this is human nature—to focus on the one 8 on the scorecard of 10’s—and I know that Joe is right. I know that relationships are two-sided. I know that I am not solely responsible for everything that happens between two or more people. I know this. I know it. I know it. And yet having a connection forcefully ripped from my life still hurts and makes me wonder if something is terribly wrong with me. Joe says that this is human nature, too—to wonder if we’re good enough even though we know, in our core, that we, in our fumbling nature, are.

Finley has the spatial and logical intelligence to solve a Rubik’s cube. The steps are clear. The tricks are straightforward. The puzzle can be solved. It is complicated, but it can be done. I don’t have that intelligence. And my inter- and intra-personal intelligences don’t come with tricks and steps that make solving problems easy.

Yet this much is clear:

I know the risks of love. Of wanting the best for people. Of building relationships that very well may fall apart. I know I will do stupid things. I know that things and people may be yanked from my life with little to no preparation while I know that other things and people will stay and fight not to be removed like the stubborn hair that grows on my toes. And so. As 2015 ends and 2016 begins, I will keep on loving. Because it is all I know to do. And it is what I want to do.

As Ed Sheeran says in song Photograph: “Loving can hurt, loving can hurt sometimes. But it’s the only thing I know. When it gets hard, you know it can get hard sometimes. It is the only thing that makes me feel alive.”

Keep loving with me, friends.
For God is love.
And Love really is the only thing that we know.
And it really is the only thing that keeps us alive.
Love is…

On The Third Day of Christmas

“JG, why are you still playing Christmas music?” Amelia the 2nd Grade Niece inquired yesterday. “Christmas is over.”

“Actually, Amelia, Christmas is not over. In the church calendar, Christmas actually starts on Christmas day and lasts for the twelve days after Christmas until January 6th when we mark the wise men coming to visit Jesus…although the wise men probably didn’t visit Jesus until he was two-years-old and he probably wasn’t in a stable…but still…we remember their coming on January 6th—Epiphany—and that’s the end of Christmas. It’s twelve days of Christmas. That’s where the song comes from.”

“Oh! I get it now!...I can actually sing the whole Twelve Days of Christmas in the right order…I should learn how to play it on the piano…” Amelia continued happily talking. And when we arrived at my aunt’s house, she did just that. She sat down and figured out how to play the entire song on the piano—silently singing it in her head—leaving the rest of the family to hear only the repetition of notes, wonder what day she was on, and hope that she would quickly arrive at five golden rings since she’d be on the homestretch from there.

Amelia is such a delightful child.

I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve her affection, but I currently hold it and will not complain.

When she arrived in Florida yesterday, Amelia hugged me and stuck by my side as if she hadn’t seen me for weeks. We spent Christmas Eve together.

When I got back to G-mama’s house after going to see Star Wars this morning, Amelia ran into my room and hugged me as if she hadn’t seen me for weeks. We spent a good bit of time together yesterday.

When we went to walk on the beach with the family today, Amelia stayed by my side, held my hand, made up songs with me, and talked with me as if we hadn’t seen each other for weeks. We had lunch together today.

If I’m honest, then I will admit that I wasn’t overly excited about going to the beach today because I wanted to take a solid nap in the World’s Most Comfortable Bed. Yet I knew something to be true:

If I didn’t go to the beach with my sister’s family, then Amelia would be sad. And it won’t always be that way. Amelia won’t always think that Aunt Dee with her super hairy legs is super cool. Instead of sitting on the couch snuggling with me while absentmindedly playing with the leg hair that hasn’t been shaved or waxed since August, Amelia will one day want to play on her phone or spend time with the friends that she thinks are the greatest people in the world.

So I went to the beach.
And neither Amelia nor I were sad.
And when we came back to G-mama’s house, Amelia played the twelve days of Christmas on the pump organ that used to belong to my great-grandmother.
And I watched as a beautiful little soul celebrated the third day of Christmas surrounded by a family who adores her.
And I thought about Jesus once being a child like her—full of energy and life—not seeing outward appearances but looking straight into eyes and hearts of love.
And I smiled.

Love

I made a B in organ. I practiced harder for that class than any other and I made a lot of progress, yet I still made a B. I was so mad. Yet I already had a blemish in my GPA from my epic B-Failure in freshman English so I tried not to let it bother me too much. (But it still did bother me.)

Grades are somewhat important in the Deaton family. While I’ve come to realize that the goal of 98 or higher on every assignment was a self-imposed goal that built a wall of unrealistic expectation and subsequent fear of failure around my heart, academic achievement is, indeed, something that is valued in my family system. Straight A’s are not demanded or rigidly enforced, but there is a desire to do well and a hope that one’s best will be honored by the grades that he or she receives.

Such is the reason that in the middle of our family Christmas celebration today, we found ourselves in a flustered discussion about a grade that Jack The Oldest Nephew received in his art class. For what was clearly an A+ project to everyone in the family and our very own Barb the Best and for what was displayed in his school’s display cabinet for a couple of months, Jack received a C.

Outraged, all of the adults were expressing comments of disbelief and discussing ways that the grade could have been adjusted, yet Jack was fine. He admitted the even he was a little surprised by the grade since he knew that the teacher liked his piece, yet he also admitted that the teacher had a rubric for all projects and that he had intentionally not completed one part of the rubric.

“He wanted us to use at least three different colors,” Jack said, “but I knew that I was making this for you, so I just wanted to use orange. It’s a coat hanger and two other kinds of wire that I twisted into the shape of a fish. I wanted it to look sort of like a Nemo fish, so I only put orange beads on part of the fins. And I cut up an orange Fanta can and wove it through this wire mesh stuff for the body.”

Somewhere in the sea of adult disbelief, I heard Jack’s mom mention that he knew that his grade might suffer for only using one color but that Jack wanted to do it anyway because he knew how much Aunt Dee would like it.

I didn’t cry in that moment but a lump formed in my throat and I got a bit teary-eyed. I’m crying now.

Jack sacrificed his grade for me.

He spent hours designing and crafting an orange fish for my collection, knowing that his work might not receive the marks that it deserved because he had intentionally gone against standard expectations.

Jack did that for me!

Have I mentioned that I’m crying?

Love came down at Christmas and lay in a humble feeding trough that held him in the first days of his growing into a man who would feed millions with words of hope, peace, purpose, and joy, even in the midst of judgment, misunderstanding, lack of appreciation, and lies.

Sometimes Love makes sacrifices that we don’t feel that we deserve or that we just can’t believe have happened even when they are staring us in the face.

And yet love does what Love must do to reach the hearts of those it cares about the most.

Jack reached my heart today with a gift more profound that anything I can explain.

Love is here.

Love is alive.

May Love be yours this Christmas.

May Love be yours tonight.

"Are We Dirty Or Something?"

This afternoon as I was stealthily trying to place this year’s mass Christmas gift in boxes (mass Christmas meaning that the gift goes to a large group of people), one of my coworkers came in and said, “What. Are we dirty or something?” I laughed and said no and then feverishly continued stuffing boxes.

This year’s mass Christmas gift that warranted my coworker’s question? A washcloth.

This year’s mass Christmas writing?

Friends: This was written for my coworkers…but I challenge you to adapt it for yourself—for whatever profession in which you find yourself—for whatever messes you clean up.

As someone working in the public schools, you clean up a lot of messes—
both figuratively and literally.
From runny noses to broken hearts,
from spilled drinks to empty bellies,
from dirty clothes to disconnected minds,
from cluttered desks to rigid tests,
you are tasked with facing and overcoming whatever obstacles may hinder learning.

Sometimes, it may seem that you are ill-equipped for this task.
And maybe, in many ways, you are.
Maybe we all are.

But maybe in the most important way possible,
you are equipped with everything you need for this task and more:
Love.

Love came down at Christmas.

This Christmas Season and in all the days to come,
may Love—
real,
sometimes tough,
always steady,
unconditional
Love—
help you clean all of the messes that you encounter
both here and beyond.

Amen.

Lost in Wonder, Love, and Praise

My parents and I led a candlelight service together last night. As we were discussing worship plans, my dad raised the all-important musical question: Are we going to sing all of the verses of the hymns or just the first and last? I said, “One thing I’ve learned this Advent Season is that we miss a lot of really good words when we don’t pay attention to or skip over the verses of familiar songs, so we’re going to sing all of them.”

On the first Sunday of Advent to fit with the theme of hope and during yesterday’s Advent service centered on peace, we sang “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear.” Other than the words of the first verse that always resonate with me—Peace on the earth, good will to men, from heaven’s all gracious king—the words that have been speaking to me this year are the second and third verses:

Yet with the woes of sing and strife the world has suffered long,
Beneath the angel strain have rolled two thousand years of wrong.
And man at war with man hears not the love song which they bring;
Oh hush the noise ye men of strife and hear the angels sing.

All ye, beneath life’s crushing load, whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow,
Look now for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing;
Oh rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing.

On the second Sunday of Advent, to fit with the theme of love, we sang these unfamiliar words to a familiar hymn-tune (Bring a Torch):

Love has come, a light in the darkness!...

Love is born! Come share in the wonder. Love is God now asleep in the hay. See the glow in the eyes of His mother; what is the name her heart is saying? Love! Love! Love is the name she whispers. Love! Love! Jesus, Immanuel.

Love has come—He never will leave us! Love is life everlasting and free. Love is Jesus within and among us; Love is the peace our hearts are seeking. Love! Love! Love is the gift of Christmas. Love! Love! Praise to you God on high!

And these:

Love divine, all loves excelling, joy of heaven to earth come down. Fix in us thy humble dwelling, all thy faithful mercies crown. Jesus, thou are all compassion, pure, unbounded love thou art. Visit us with thy salvation; enter every trembling heart.

Breathe, oh breathe, thy loving Spirit, into every troubled breast! Let us all in thee inherit, let us find the promised rest. Take away our bent to sinning; Alpha and Omega be. End of faith, as its beginning, set our hearts at liberty.

Come, Almighty, to deliver, let us all thy grace receive…Pray and praise thee without ceasing, glory in thy perfect love.

Finish, then, thy new creation; pure and spotless let us be. Let us see thy great salvation perfectly restored in thee. Changed from glory into glory till in heaven we take our place. Till we cast our crowns before thee, lost in wonder, love, and praise.

Oh God, music is such a powerful thing.
So help us as we sing, this Advent Season and beyond,
To pay attention to the words of longing and confession that have been sung by
So many people throughout the years from throughout the world.
Help us to hear—to really hear—your words of compassion, freedom, and grace and
Help us to get lost in your wonder, love, and praise.
Always.
Amen.

The Blind Leading The Blind

If you were to come to my school each morning around the time the bell rings, you would see a really beautiful thing: The blind leading the blind. Literally.

No. Students aren’t ignorantly wondering the hallways trying to figure out where to go. They know where to go. Rather, it’s one teacher helping another teacher get her students to class.

While most buses unload at the side of the school so that students can go directly to breakfast before going class, the special needs bus unloads at the front of the school where their teacher meets them.

At the beginning of the year, the teacher took the entire class to breakfast. Each student who was able would carry his/her tray back to the classroom to eat. As the year has progressed, though, the process has changed. Instead of every student going to the cafeteria, some go with the teacher to get food while some go with the vision impaired teacher to the classroom. This is where it gets beautiful.

Our vision impaired teacher, S, is blind. Seeing that our special needs teacher needed help in the mornings—and she would say that she saw it—she volunteered to help. Her job became to take a few students directly to class.

S now always takes C to class. C is non-verbal and in a wheelchair.

Most of the time S takes P, too. P is blind and the reason S comes to our school each day. I’m glad for this reason. P knows people by the sound of their keys and the feel of their bellies.

P loves C. One day after C wasn’t at school, P literally cheered when C returned and said, “I missed you.”

Because of this love, one of the things that P really enjoys doing is taking C to class.

So the picture is this: P rolling C down the hall, S following behind, singing a song that she made up. “Good morning, good morning, good morning to you.” S singing often causes C to smile and clap his hands. Did I mention that C loves music and that C can rock the beginning of the ABC song?

In those moments, it is literally the blind leading the blind leading one who cannot speak for oneself. And they are all happy. And safe. And they all belong right where they are—with us—at school—learning.

At the end of Proverbs, the writer writes “an inspired utterance his mother taught him.” In the middle of this utterance, he pens one of the most challenging yet important commands of scripture:

Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves,
for the rights of all who are destitute.
Speak up and judge fairly;
defend the rights of the poor and needy.

I’m not really sure why, but when I see S walking with P pushing C down the hall and when I hear her singing to C and imagine C’s smile and I hear P greet everyone with a friendly hello just because that’s who P is, I can’t help but think of these verses and know that there are people speaking up and living fairly and defending the rights of the least of these—not because there is anything wrong with the least of these—but simply because they can—and because they are alive—and they are loved and able to give love in return.

May we each live with boldness and courage of S, who “sees” the world clearly though she sees nothing at all; the trust and simple excitement of C, who slobber kisses hands to say, “I love you;” and the whimsical openness and love of P who genuinely cares how everyone is doing and dreams of one day becoming a bus driver and owning a boat.

Oh God, thank you for these amazing teachers.
And thank you for the beauty of the blind leading the blind.
Thank you for the beauty of the blind leading me.
Amen.