Cut from the same cloth
Woven from threads of love, hope
Yet each one unique
You. Your neighbors. Your family and friends. Those you have yet to meet.
We are all cut from the same fabric of humanity.
Skin and bone, flesh and blood.
Fear and worry, hope and possibility.
So this Christmas, as you pause to reflect upon the story of Jesus joining the ranks of humanity, remember that you are part of something bigger and know that your life and work matter.
You are both cut from and in the process of helping weave the fabric of humanity.
May you feel the strands of Love that are woven into you and
May you weave strands of hope, joy, and peace into the lives around you,
Each one the same, yet each one unique.
Thursday, December 22, 2016
Monday, December 5, 2016
A Trip To The Walmart
I skipped my Thursday post again last week. I was out for a night on the town with my friend Stacey.
Stacey is blind. She was my guest speaker in my special needs class that night. After class, as we were heading home, Stacey and I decided that neither of us wanted to cook when we got home. First Friday was last Friday. Stacey and I were both supposed to take desserts or sweets. After working all day and sitting in class that night, we didn’t have baking in us. So we went to the Walmart.
Going to the Walmart with someone who is blind is interesting. As I searched the clearance aisle for good finds, I found myself saying, “Look at this!” Then I remembered that Stacey couldn’t see with her eyes, so I put the item in Stacey’s hands so that she could see with her hands. The most interesting of these finds was a huge mouse trap. I triple checked to make sure the trap wasn’t going to go off when I gave it to Stacey to see. It didn’t. And she agreed that it was a huge mouse trap! Don’t worry. I didn’t buy it.
After we’d walked the aisles of the Walmart—that Stacey had memorized—and found everything we needed to provide proper desserts and sweets for Friday—including a fruit cake—we went to the checkout line. I wish I could have recorded the people behind me as they watched Stacey in the checkout line. True to form, she did everything herself—unloaded her cart—stacked it on the conveyor belt—separated her stuff from mine—and paid with her card. The paying part was what got the onlookers. Without seeing a thing with her eyes, Stacey got out her card, put the chip into the reader, and completed her transaction. The people behind me just watched. She didn’t have to sign her name on Thursday night. I asked what she’d have done had she had to sign her name. She said that she’d have just tried to get an S on the screen and then scribble everything else. I told her that I basically did the same thing—just put a D and scribbled the rest of my name on a screen.
“Miss D, we need to do this more often,” announced Stacey as we made the final leg of our journey. I agreed. And the next time we hang out, I’ll feel more comfortable leading Stacey to the passenger side of my car and I’ll remember to describe the weird things I’m seeing as I drive instead of saying, “What is that?!”
There are people in this world who inspire us simply by being themselves. Stacey is one of those people to me.
Stacey is blind. She was my guest speaker in my special needs class that night. After class, as we were heading home, Stacey and I decided that neither of us wanted to cook when we got home. First Friday was last Friday. Stacey and I were both supposed to take desserts or sweets. After working all day and sitting in class that night, we didn’t have baking in us. So we went to the Walmart.
Going to the Walmart with someone who is blind is interesting. As I searched the clearance aisle for good finds, I found myself saying, “Look at this!” Then I remembered that Stacey couldn’t see with her eyes, so I put the item in Stacey’s hands so that she could see with her hands. The most interesting of these finds was a huge mouse trap. I triple checked to make sure the trap wasn’t going to go off when I gave it to Stacey to see. It didn’t. And she agreed that it was a huge mouse trap! Don’t worry. I didn’t buy it.
After we’d walked the aisles of the Walmart—that Stacey had memorized—and found everything we needed to provide proper desserts and sweets for Friday—including a fruit cake—we went to the checkout line. I wish I could have recorded the people behind me as they watched Stacey in the checkout line. True to form, she did everything herself—unloaded her cart—stacked it on the conveyor belt—separated her stuff from mine—and paid with her card. The paying part was what got the onlookers. Without seeing a thing with her eyes, Stacey got out her card, put the chip into the reader, and completed her transaction. The people behind me just watched. She didn’t have to sign her name on Thursday night. I asked what she’d have done had she had to sign her name. She said that she’d have just tried to get an S on the screen and then scribble everything else. I told her that I basically did the same thing—just put a D and scribbled the rest of my name on a screen.
“Miss D, we need to do this more often,” announced Stacey as we made the final leg of our journey. I agreed. And the next time we hang out, I’ll feel more comfortable leading Stacey to the passenger side of my car and I’ll remember to describe the weird things I’m seeing as I drive instead of saying, “What is that?!”
There are people in this world who inspire us simply by being themselves. Stacey is one of those people to me.
Monday, November 28, 2016
On Things That Just Happen
Few weeks ago, I declared that I was not going to skip Thanksgiving this year. I announced that I would be talking about thankfulness with my students and that we would be singing a song entitled, “We Are Thankful.” We did. And we discussed things that we were thankful to have, to be, to do, and to be hopeful for in the future.
As I gave examples of each of these categories to my classes, I said things like, “I am thankful to have my computer and my car. I am thankful to have my glasses and a house…I am thankful to be a daughter and an aunt. I am thankful to be a teacher and a friend…I am thankful that I get to play the piano and guitar. I am thankful that I get to go to my nephew’s ballgames and my niece’s recitals…And I am thankful that one day I will be a better teacher. But when I was younger, when I grew up, I wanted to be a zookeeper.” And after I gave examples of each category, my students talked. And I listened. I let a sense of Thanksgiving fill my heart.
I didn’t post last Thursday. I let our crazy Thanksgiving family portrait speak for itself and went to bed happy and exhausted after a good day with family. I spent the next two days doing homework for ten hours a day and then emerged yesterday to go to both church and to visit my best friend on her birthday. The latter was an unplanned visit, but it was a visit I wanted to make. After all, the zookeeper needed to visit her astronaut A on her big day.
My best friend’s birthday always falls over Thanksgiving break. Believe it or not, I have a vivid memory of Thanksgiving break around 20 years ago. I was home from my studies at Meredith and it was cold outside. A’s birthday was coming and I didn’t know what to get her, so I got out my guitar and wrote her a song. I typed up and printed out the lyrics and glued them onto an old blue clock. I decorated the clock with shiny stickers and colored decorations with pencil doodles. I have no idea why I decided that presenting the lyrics on an old clock was a good idea. But I did it. And I clearly remember it to this day.
I wrote:
Two little girls from two country towns and two different dreams
When she grows one wants to be a zookeeper and the other wants to walk in space
But each goes to church on Sunday to learn about the word of God
And each one prays one common prayer, that God will send her a friend from above
Two college girls from two country towns and two different dreams
The astronaut wants to be an elementary teacher and the zookeeper just wants to sing
But each one still goes to church to learn about the word of God
And each one still prays one common prayer, that God will send her a friend from above
On a rock in the woods up in the mountains sit two children of God
They look below them and see peaceful waters flowing over the rocks and down the hill
The astronaut cries, “Please don’t walk in front of me,” and the zookeeper cries, “Please not behind,”
Just walk beside me and be my friend so that together we’ll sink or swim
Two grown girls from two different towns and two different lives
The zookeeper teaches music class and the astronaut helps raise a small child
But each one still goes to church to learn about the meaning of love
And each one still prays one common prayer, “Thank you God for the friend from above.”
A few months ago, A and I sang the song to A’s older daughter. Her daughter grinned from ear to ear. That same daughter grinned yesterday as she played with the teddy bear that I put in A’s present bag because I knew that the bag would be invaded by said daughter.
What A’s daughter did not see was the fancy Hallmark card that I gave her mother. And on the inside, I wrote two haiku:
Some things just happen ~ No marked beginning or end ~ Such is our story
We are all grown up ~ Astronaut and zookeeper ~ Still thankful for friends
And I am thankful. For friends and family and time and good meals and children and laughter and cars and words and journeys and love.
You?
As I gave examples of each of these categories to my classes, I said things like, “I am thankful to have my computer and my car. I am thankful to have my glasses and a house…I am thankful to be a daughter and an aunt. I am thankful to be a teacher and a friend…I am thankful that I get to play the piano and guitar. I am thankful that I get to go to my nephew’s ballgames and my niece’s recitals…And I am thankful that one day I will be a better teacher. But when I was younger, when I grew up, I wanted to be a zookeeper.” And after I gave examples of each category, my students talked. And I listened. I let a sense of Thanksgiving fill my heart.
I didn’t post last Thursday. I let our crazy Thanksgiving family portrait speak for itself and went to bed happy and exhausted after a good day with family. I spent the next two days doing homework for ten hours a day and then emerged yesterday to go to both church and to visit my best friend on her birthday. The latter was an unplanned visit, but it was a visit I wanted to make. After all, the zookeeper needed to visit her astronaut A on her big day.
My best friend’s birthday always falls over Thanksgiving break. Believe it or not, I have a vivid memory of Thanksgiving break around 20 years ago. I was home from my studies at Meredith and it was cold outside. A’s birthday was coming and I didn’t know what to get her, so I got out my guitar and wrote her a song. I typed up and printed out the lyrics and glued them onto an old blue clock. I decorated the clock with shiny stickers and colored decorations with pencil doodles. I have no idea why I decided that presenting the lyrics on an old clock was a good idea. But I did it. And I clearly remember it to this day.
I wrote:
Two little girls from two country towns and two different dreams
When she grows one wants to be a zookeeper and the other wants to walk in space
But each goes to church on Sunday to learn about the word of God
And each one prays one common prayer, that God will send her a friend from above
Two college girls from two country towns and two different dreams
The astronaut wants to be an elementary teacher and the zookeeper just wants to sing
But each one still goes to church to learn about the word of God
And each one still prays one common prayer, that God will send her a friend from above
On a rock in the woods up in the mountains sit two children of God
They look below them and see peaceful waters flowing over the rocks and down the hill
The astronaut cries, “Please don’t walk in front of me,” and the zookeeper cries, “Please not behind,”
Just walk beside me and be my friend so that together we’ll sink or swim
Two grown girls from two different towns and two different lives
The zookeeper teaches music class and the astronaut helps raise a small child
But each one still goes to church to learn about the meaning of love
And each one still prays one common prayer, “Thank you God for the friend from above.”
A few months ago, A and I sang the song to A’s older daughter. Her daughter grinned from ear to ear. That same daughter grinned yesterday as she played with the teddy bear that I put in A’s present bag because I knew that the bag would be invaded by said daughter.
What A’s daughter did not see was the fancy Hallmark card that I gave her mother. And on the inside, I wrote two haiku:
Some things just happen ~ No marked beginning or end ~ Such is our story
We are all grown up ~ Astronaut and zookeeper ~ Still thankful for friends
And I am thankful. For friends and family and time and good meals and children and laughter and cars and words and journeys and love.
You?
Monday, November 21, 2016
When Broken
When Broken…11.21.16
An internal auditor came to speak to us during class tonight. In typical nerd fashion, I found her information quite fascinating, and I not only took a lot of notes but I also asked a lot of questions. I will spare everyone the details, but I must share this: If ever you see any part of the Fraud Triangle, then consider it a red flag. “And just what is the Fraud Triangle?” you ask. Well, here is your answer:
Point One: Pressure. Pressure can cause a person of integrity to commit fraud even though he/she ordinarily would not. Most people live their lives with good intentions but intense pressure can tempt us in ways we didn’t think possible. Medical bills, addiction, living beyond means, unexpected death. Any or all of those things can put undue pressure on a person and cause him/her to think, “If I can just pay of this bill—if I can just control this situation—if I can just take care of this—then I can rid of this pressure and then start over.”
Point Two: Rationalization. A person will only willingly work so hard before he/she feels that he/she deserves some type of validation or encouragement. When that validation or encouragement doesn’t come through healthy avenues, then sometimes we start to think thoughts like, “I don’t get paid enough for everything that I do, and it doesn’t look like I’m ever going to, so I might as well take what I deserve.”
Point Three: Opportunity. When there is a crack in the system—a loophole—an occasion for secrecy—a thought of, “Well, no one is watching…”—and pressure and/or rationalization are whispering in a person’s ear, sometimes temptation is too strong and a person gives into the opportunity to break the rules—whatever the rules may be.
People will do crazy things when they are broken.
All people. Not just those that we think of as “different” or “other” or “immoral” or “them.”
Under any circumstance. Not just shady situations.
No one is above pressure, rationalization, or opportunity.
No one is above just flat out messing up when we are broken.
So maybe we should stop judging so readily and start extending grace more freely.
And maybe we should start asking for and receiving help when we find ourselves gliding along the lines of a triangle like fraud.
An internal auditor came to speak to us during class tonight. In typical nerd fashion, I found her information quite fascinating, and I not only took a lot of notes but I also asked a lot of questions. I will spare everyone the details, but I must share this: If ever you see any part of the Fraud Triangle, then consider it a red flag. “And just what is the Fraud Triangle?” you ask. Well, here is your answer:
Point One: Pressure. Pressure can cause a person of integrity to commit fraud even though he/she ordinarily would not. Most people live their lives with good intentions but intense pressure can tempt us in ways we didn’t think possible. Medical bills, addiction, living beyond means, unexpected death. Any or all of those things can put undue pressure on a person and cause him/her to think, “If I can just pay of this bill—if I can just control this situation—if I can just take care of this—then I can rid of this pressure and then start over.”
Point Two: Rationalization. A person will only willingly work so hard before he/she feels that he/she deserves some type of validation or encouragement. When that validation or encouragement doesn’t come through healthy avenues, then sometimes we start to think thoughts like, “I don’t get paid enough for everything that I do, and it doesn’t look like I’m ever going to, so I might as well take what I deserve.”
Point Three: Opportunity. When there is a crack in the system—a loophole—an occasion for secrecy—a thought of, “Well, no one is watching…”—and pressure and/or rationalization are whispering in a person’s ear, sometimes temptation is too strong and a person gives into the opportunity to break the rules—whatever the rules may be.
People will do crazy things when they are broken.
All people. Not just those that we think of as “different” or “other” or “immoral” or “them.”
Under any circumstance. Not just shady situations.
No one is above pressure, rationalization, or opportunity.
No one is above just flat out messing up when we are broken.
So maybe we should stop judging so readily and start extending grace more freely.
And maybe we should start asking for and receiving help when we find ourselves gliding along the lines of a triangle like fraud.
Saturday, November 12, 2016
From A Tired Brain
Traffic jam of thought
So much to say yet nothing
Words at a stand-still
And that’s all I’ve got. Except for this:
I’ve got good people
Strong, resilient, determined
Diverse, beautiful
So much to say yet nothing
Words at a stand-still
And that’s all I’ve got. Except for this:
I’ve got good people
Strong, resilient, determined
Diverse, beautiful
Monday, November 7, 2016
Never Any Less
“I always have one main goal for all of the classes I teach. I want my students to leave my class with more poker chips than they came with.” --Alice Hammel, Teaching Music to Students with Autism
Imagine that each of us is born with a certain amount of poker chips. As we go through our first years of life, people constantly add to our pile or take away from our pile. They add to it by paying attention to us, talking to us, spending time with us, saying kind things to us, making sure that we have everything we need. They take away from it by ignoring us, yelling us, saying mean things to us, not caring when we are lacking that which we need.
By the time we enter Kindergarten, we arrive with different numbers of chips. Some of us arrive with a bunch. Some of us arrive with only a few.
As with those who gamble, those of us who have a bunch of chips are more willing to take risks and try new things because we have more to fall back on if we mess up or lose. If, however, we only have a few chips, then we are less likely to take risks. Things become more calculated and we have to decide what we are willing to risk and what we are determined to hold onto.
The same holds true for the rest of our lives.
I have a new goal for all of the classes I teach—and all of the relationships I keep. I want my students to leave my class and my people to leave my presence with more poker chips in their love tank buckets than they came with—and never any less.
Never any less.
Imagine that each of us is born with a certain amount of poker chips. As we go through our first years of life, people constantly add to our pile or take away from our pile. They add to it by paying attention to us, talking to us, spending time with us, saying kind things to us, making sure that we have everything we need. They take away from it by ignoring us, yelling us, saying mean things to us, not caring when we are lacking that which we need.
By the time we enter Kindergarten, we arrive with different numbers of chips. Some of us arrive with a bunch. Some of us arrive with only a few.
As with those who gamble, those of us who have a bunch of chips are more willing to take risks and try new things because we have more to fall back on if we mess up or lose. If, however, we only have a few chips, then we are less likely to take risks. Things become more calculated and we have to decide what we are willing to risk and what we are determined to hold onto.
The same holds true for the rest of our lives.
I have a new goal for all of the classes I teach—and all of the relationships I keep. I want my students to leave my class and my people to leave my presence with more poker chips in their love tank buckets than they came with—and never any less.
Never any less.
Friday, November 4, 2016
One Of Those Days
Today was not my best day. Actually, Thursdays in general are tough. I begin and end my days with challenging classes and the ones in between aren’t always easy. Sometimes it’s okay. Sometimes it bothers me. Today it bothered me. I felt like students not following directions and students being disrespectful was not part of a larger system or pattern of behavior but single-handedly my fault.
Today, I kept hearing professors and workshop presenters say that if kids are consistently “acting up” then it’s up to the teacher to change something in what he/she is doing—because the lessons must not be good enough or the rules not clear enough or the discipline not consistent enough.
And I kept thinking, “This must be my fault. Ms. X can keep them quiet. They seem to respect her. They must not respect me. Class must be boring. I guess I really am a boring music teacher.”
On other days, I hear professors and workshop presenters say that perfectly still silence does not always equal learning. I hear them affirming that kids learn through movement, discussion, and singing and I know that my classes are full of students with special needs and that students with special needs need special considerations. I know that I’m a reflective teacher. I know that I care about my kids. I know that my kids—at least most of them—know that I care about them. I know that what happens in my 40 minutes per week with my students is directly affected by what happens in their classrooms—that their classroom teacher’s discipline structure (or lack thereof) influences their behavior everywhere else in the school. I have watched this reality play out for 13 years.
But today wasn’t one of those days.
I know that I’m weary. I know that no amount of work seems to get me caught up with the stuff I need to do for school, church, or graduate school—not to mention the things that I want to do with my friends and family. I know that I am beyond burdened by some of my students’ lives. Kids are being exposed to perverted, harmful, and dangerous situations younger and younger and I just want to scream at a society that is so broken that on one hand it encourages children to believe that adults are stupid and that they are entitled to anything they want but on the other hand ignores children or treats them as disposable toys. I know that these factors contributed to the negative self talk that planted itself in my head this morning as I watched a challenging child roll onto the floor, put his arms in his shirt, and attempt to do the worm with the rest of his body while the rest of the class watched the distraction. Nothing could make him get up. Nothing could keep the rest of the class focused. And nothing could keep me from thinking, “Is this my fault? This must be my fault. I must not be strict enough.”
Last night, as I was anticipating this day, I updated the serenity prayer. I posted it in my status on Facebook, but I want to include it at the bottom of this note. Because maybe you aren’t a teacher, but maybe you work a job or have a family situation in which you sometimes feel helpless. Maybe you have tried the things you know to try but maybe they just aren’t working. And maybe your self-talk gets pretty negative, too, and maybe on days like today it leaves you feeling so very defeated. So maybe you need to rewrite this prayer for yourself. And maybe together if we keep praying, a loving, steady, just God will put all things in order—even if it’s only within our own minds, hearts, and souls.
God grant me the serenity to accept the students I cannot change;
The courage to influence those whom I can;
And the wisdom to know the difference.
Teaching one lesson at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting disrespectful and overly talkative classes as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as Jesus did, this sinful world full of broken people
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that You can and will make all things right
if I surrender to Love--
That I may be reasonably happy with my life's work
and supremely happy with You forever in the next.
Amen.
Today, I kept hearing professors and workshop presenters say that if kids are consistently “acting up” then it’s up to the teacher to change something in what he/she is doing—because the lessons must not be good enough or the rules not clear enough or the discipline not consistent enough.
And I kept thinking, “This must be my fault. Ms. X can keep them quiet. They seem to respect her. They must not respect me. Class must be boring. I guess I really am a boring music teacher.”
On other days, I hear professors and workshop presenters say that perfectly still silence does not always equal learning. I hear them affirming that kids learn through movement, discussion, and singing and I know that my classes are full of students with special needs and that students with special needs need special considerations. I know that I’m a reflective teacher. I know that I care about my kids. I know that my kids—at least most of them—know that I care about them. I know that what happens in my 40 minutes per week with my students is directly affected by what happens in their classrooms—that their classroom teacher’s discipline structure (or lack thereof) influences their behavior everywhere else in the school. I have watched this reality play out for 13 years.
But today wasn’t one of those days.
I know that I’m weary. I know that no amount of work seems to get me caught up with the stuff I need to do for school, church, or graduate school—not to mention the things that I want to do with my friends and family. I know that I am beyond burdened by some of my students’ lives. Kids are being exposed to perverted, harmful, and dangerous situations younger and younger and I just want to scream at a society that is so broken that on one hand it encourages children to believe that adults are stupid and that they are entitled to anything they want but on the other hand ignores children or treats them as disposable toys. I know that these factors contributed to the negative self talk that planted itself in my head this morning as I watched a challenging child roll onto the floor, put his arms in his shirt, and attempt to do the worm with the rest of his body while the rest of the class watched the distraction. Nothing could make him get up. Nothing could keep the rest of the class focused. And nothing could keep me from thinking, “Is this my fault? This must be my fault. I must not be strict enough.”
Last night, as I was anticipating this day, I updated the serenity prayer. I posted it in my status on Facebook, but I want to include it at the bottom of this note. Because maybe you aren’t a teacher, but maybe you work a job or have a family situation in which you sometimes feel helpless. Maybe you have tried the things you know to try but maybe they just aren’t working. And maybe your self-talk gets pretty negative, too, and maybe on days like today it leaves you feeling so very defeated. So maybe you need to rewrite this prayer for yourself. And maybe together if we keep praying, a loving, steady, just God will put all things in order—even if it’s only within our own minds, hearts, and souls.
God grant me the serenity to accept the students I cannot change;
The courage to influence those whom I can;
And the wisdom to know the difference.
Teaching one lesson at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting disrespectful and overly talkative classes as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as Jesus did, this sinful world full of broken people
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that You can and will make all things right
if I surrender to Love--
That I may be reasonably happy with my life's work
and supremely happy with You forever in the next.
Amen.
Monday, October 31, 2016
Don't Give Up. Persevere!
The boys came to visit on Saturday. When I got home from class, they were there. We had a good time hanging out. Playing games together, laughing, and talking. My dad made the boys laugh so hard while we played Crazy Bridge (our family card game) that all they doubled over in hysterics. I laughed, too. But what made me laugh the most was my oldest nephew trying to convince everyone that one could grow out of an allergy if he simply exposed himself to it long enough.
H: “You can’t grow out of an allergy, J.”
J: “Yes you can. Remember when I had a shrimp allergy? I decided to attack it head on. I pushed through. I persevered. And now I can eat shrimp without getting sick!”
H: “You were never allergic to shrimp.”
J: “Yes I was. But I worked hard. I didn’t give up. And you’re not going to give up either. So here’s my new training regiment for you. You’re going to take off your shirt and roll around in the grass for 10 minutes a day. Then pretty soon you’ll be over your grass allergy.”
A little while later, while the boys were playing a game of football that they invented during the NC State game that our Wolfpack lost miserably, my youngest nephew found himself tackled on the floor. Giggling happily, he said, “I’m working on overcoming my allergy to Bullet!”
*I smile*
I think Jack may have been a little misguided in his advice to his younger brothers. Granted, we were all laughing during his declaration of perseverance and his prescription for H overcoming his grass allergy, yet his words really stuck with me: “I pushed through. I kept going. I didn’t give up. I persevered.”
This afternoon, in between school and school, I was really tired. As I sat at my little desk in the little hut where I’m a Monday guest, I wanted to do nothing more than, well, nothing. But then I heard my nephew say, “I pushed through. I kept going. I didn’t give up. I persevered.”
So…I sat at my little desk in the little hut where I’m a Monday guest, I got out my Willard, and I worked. And the longer I worked, the less tired and more content I became…because I was accomplishing tasks on the never-ending to do list.
There is a time for rest. I try hard to carve out a weekly day of Sabbath and to include daily activities that give me life.
There are times to surrender. Sometimes it’s best to let go of something we like or an idea that we think is wonderful—especially if it just keeps making us sick—like shrimp or grass or mushrooms.
But there are also times to work—to use the minutes given to us to produce something bigger than ourselves.
J may have spoken his words of perseverance facetiously on Saturday night, but somehow I think he knows what they truly mean. And I pray, oh do I pray, that he—and my other nephews—and niece—and students—and you, friends—will do just what he said when the going gets rough but there is success on the other side:
Push through.
Keep going.
Don’t give up.
Persevere.
Succeed.
Eat shrimp.
Roll in the grass.
Celebrate!
Then pat yourself on the back—
albeit itchy from trying—
and rest in the successful peace of a job well done.
H: “You can’t grow out of an allergy, J.”
J: “Yes you can. Remember when I had a shrimp allergy? I decided to attack it head on. I pushed through. I persevered. And now I can eat shrimp without getting sick!”
H: “You were never allergic to shrimp.”
J: “Yes I was. But I worked hard. I didn’t give up. And you’re not going to give up either. So here’s my new training regiment for you. You’re going to take off your shirt and roll around in the grass for 10 minutes a day. Then pretty soon you’ll be over your grass allergy.”
A little while later, while the boys were playing a game of football that they invented during the NC State game that our Wolfpack lost miserably, my youngest nephew found himself tackled on the floor. Giggling happily, he said, “I’m working on overcoming my allergy to Bullet!”
*I smile*
I think Jack may have been a little misguided in his advice to his younger brothers. Granted, we were all laughing during his declaration of perseverance and his prescription for H overcoming his grass allergy, yet his words really stuck with me: “I pushed through. I kept going. I didn’t give up. I persevered.”
This afternoon, in between school and school, I was really tired. As I sat at my little desk in the little hut where I’m a Monday guest, I wanted to do nothing more than, well, nothing. But then I heard my nephew say, “I pushed through. I kept going. I didn’t give up. I persevered.”
So…I sat at my little desk in the little hut where I’m a Monday guest, I got out my Willard, and I worked. And the longer I worked, the less tired and more content I became…because I was accomplishing tasks on the never-ending to do list.
There is a time for rest. I try hard to carve out a weekly day of Sabbath and to include daily activities that give me life.
There are times to surrender. Sometimes it’s best to let go of something we like or an idea that we think is wonderful—especially if it just keeps making us sick—like shrimp or grass or mushrooms.
But there are also times to work—to use the minutes given to us to produce something bigger than ourselves.
J may have spoken his words of perseverance facetiously on Saturday night, but somehow I think he knows what they truly mean. And I pray, oh do I pray, that he—and my other nephews—and niece—and students—and you, friends—will do just what he said when the going gets rough but there is success on the other side:
Push through.
Keep going.
Don’t give up.
Persevere.
Succeed.
Eat shrimp.
Roll in the grass.
Celebrate!
Then pat yourself on the back—
albeit itchy from trying—
and rest in the successful peace of a job well done.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
Today Is Enough
I usually stay after class on Monday and Thursday nights to either do homework or work on these notes. I like having an academic space to myself. It’s peaceful and makes me feel very scholarly, not to mention it doesn’t allow me to climb into my bed and sleep. Tonight, however, I knew that staying after class was not an option. I accidently left my travel charger at church, so when Willard’s battery ran down toward the end of class, Willard was out of commission until I got home. So…I went to dinner with a friend I hadn’t seen in awhile, and it was nice—sitting, eating, talking, catching up.
As I thought about this unusual Thursday night meal on the way home tonight, I thought back to the note I wrote a few weeks ago about showing up. I thought about how extremely important relationships are and how essential it is to make time for them. I thought about how grateful I was to find myself without a computer charger on the same day that thoughts of cinnamon flavored coffee prompted me to write my friend who is allergic to cinnamon and make plans to have a late, cinnamon-free dinner. And then I found myself thinking about a couple of my students who made my heart swell with pride this afternoon.
I’ve heard a lot of really difficult things this week. In context of Red Ribbon Week, I’ve listened to stories of bullying and drug use that have left me feeling sad. So this afternoon, when I watched two of my students who started the year giving me nothing but attitude and trouble doing their best to pay attention and listen while a good portion of the rest of their class acted as if I wasn’t even there, I found myself feeling a small amount of joy. These two students were part of a group of students who I’d asked to do an alternative music assignment in a separate setting one week. Instead of filing away their written work as busy work, I decided to read it carefully and write encouraging, interactive comments on their papers. I returned their papers to them and wondered if the comments had made a difference.
I don’t know if it was the comments, or a conscious decision on my part to more intentionally try to show loving-kindness, or an attitude shift in my heart that helped me remember that even my toughest kids are still just kids, or if it was my deliberately speaking to these particular students each morning and calling them over for the hugs that many other students daily seek out…but something seems to have shifted in the students about which I speak, and they have actually started to show an interest in music—which is something they had not done in three years—and a respect for me as their teacher—which is something they hadn’t done either.
After class, I called over one of the students and asked, point blank, what had caused the behavior change. “I got suspended because of how I had been acting, and I don’t want to get suspended again.” Part of this student’s suspension was because of behaviors in my class. I guess the suspension served its purpose…yet I have to believe that something more has shifted inside this student. Either way, I gently placed my hands on the students’ shoulders and spoke aloud how proud I was of the change—how proud I was that I was finally able to see the goodness that I knew was there. As I spoke, my eyes filled with tears that I quickly denied when another student said, “Are you crying?!”
A friend once told me that her job as a residential social worker was to love the hell out of her clients. I immediately took the phrase to heart and decided to make that one of my goals as a teacher. And guess what, friends? I’m learning—really learning—that the only way to truly do this is through relationships. And I’m being reminded that relationships take time—sometimes even years—to grow to the place where walls begin to come down and trust begins to peak through. My cinnamon-averse friend and I had to work to that place of trust. But we arrived. And had a good dinner tonight. Maybe some of my students and I are arriving, too? Or if nothing else, we arrived today. And for now, today is enough.
As I thought about this unusual Thursday night meal on the way home tonight, I thought back to the note I wrote a few weeks ago about showing up. I thought about how extremely important relationships are and how essential it is to make time for them. I thought about how grateful I was to find myself without a computer charger on the same day that thoughts of cinnamon flavored coffee prompted me to write my friend who is allergic to cinnamon and make plans to have a late, cinnamon-free dinner. And then I found myself thinking about a couple of my students who made my heart swell with pride this afternoon.
I’ve heard a lot of really difficult things this week. In context of Red Ribbon Week, I’ve listened to stories of bullying and drug use that have left me feeling sad. So this afternoon, when I watched two of my students who started the year giving me nothing but attitude and trouble doing their best to pay attention and listen while a good portion of the rest of their class acted as if I wasn’t even there, I found myself feeling a small amount of joy. These two students were part of a group of students who I’d asked to do an alternative music assignment in a separate setting one week. Instead of filing away their written work as busy work, I decided to read it carefully and write encouraging, interactive comments on their papers. I returned their papers to them and wondered if the comments had made a difference.
I don’t know if it was the comments, or a conscious decision on my part to more intentionally try to show loving-kindness, or an attitude shift in my heart that helped me remember that even my toughest kids are still just kids, or if it was my deliberately speaking to these particular students each morning and calling them over for the hugs that many other students daily seek out…but something seems to have shifted in the students about which I speak, and they have actually started to show an interest in music—which is something they had not done in three years—and a respect for me as their teacher—which is something they hadn’t done either.
After class, I called over one of the students and asked, point blank, what had caused the behavior change. “I got suspended because of how I had been acting, and I don’t want to get suspended again.” Part of this student’s suspension was because of behaviors in my class. I guess the suspension served its purpose…yet I have to believe that something more has shifted inside this student. Either way, I gently placed my hands on the students’ shoulders and spoke aloud how proud I was of the change—how proud I was that I was finally able to see the goodness that I knew was there. As I spoke, my eyes filled with tears that I quickly denied when another student said, “Are you crying?!”
A friend once told me that her job as a residential social worker was to love the hell out of her clients. I immediately took the phrase to heart and decided to make that one of my goals as a teacher. And guess what, friends? I’m learning—really learning—that the only way to truly do this is through relationships. And I’m being reminded that relationships take time—sometimes even years—to grow to the place where walls begin to come down and trust begins to peak through. My cinnamon-averse friend and I had to work to that place of trust. But we arrived. And had a good dinner tonight. Maybe some of my students and I are arriving, too? Or if nothing else, we arrived today. And for now, today is enough.
Monday, October 24, 2016
Communicate Love
“You all are a whole lot more stressed than I am. Then again, I have the plan in my head and you don’t.”
I heard those words come out of my mouth at the exact moment I saw the word OVERCOMMUNICATE flash before my eyes. Just before going to church to lead the music at a missions celebration, I had read a paragraph about the importance of communication in leadership.
There I was, the music minister, trying to get the choir ready to sing, yet I hadn’t even communicated with my mom, the accompanist, about the exact order of songs that we were going to sing.
And why hadn’t I done this? Because I hadn’t even communicated the final decision to myself.
I have a lot of blank books. I’m afraid to write in them. I don’t want to mess up the pages.
For years, I wouldn’t write down my lesson plans until after I’d taught them. I was afraid that my plan would go wrong.
When I was doing a lot of concerts, I often started the concerts without having a set playlist. I had an idea. But I was afraid I’d have a new idea mid-concert and then feel stuck.
I like to have a plan. But I like to be able to change the plan to fit the exact moment that it is executed.
Which…isn’t always good when working with a group.
The statement that I made at the beginning of this post was very true. My choir was stressed about what they were getting ready to do, but I wasn’t worried. I knew that they could—and would—sing well and sing the right songs at the right time—but they didn’t know it because I hadn’t communicated it to them. I had told them bits of pieces of information—each of which escaped my mouth as a plan entered my brain—but the plan hadn’t come together in their minds.
So…I started at the beginning, went step by step, laid out the plan, got everyone on the “same sheet of music” (literally), prayed, and then we went into the sanctuary and sang as well as we’d ever sung.
Lest I not communicate this properly: I am proud of my choir. I am proud to work with my choir. I believe in my choir. And I never doubt my choir—even when they doubt themselves.
I will work on my communication skills both at church and school. I will work to be a better professional leader. But I think I’ll also work to be a better communicator of appreciation, thanksgiving, and kindness. I hope you’ll join me. And I hope that together we’ll over-communicate love.
I heard those words come out of my mouth at the exact moment I saw the word OVERCOMMUNICATE flash before my eyes. Just before going to church to lead the music at a missions celebration, I had read a paragraph about the importance of communication in leadership.
There I was, the music minister, trying to get the choir ready to sing, yet I hadn’t even communicated with my mom, the accompanist, about the exact order of songs that we were going to sing.
And why hadn’t I done this? Because I hadn’t even communicated the final decision to myself.
I have a lot of blank books. I’m afraid to write in them. I don’t want to mess up the pages.
For years, I wouldn’t write down my lesson plans until after I’d taught them. I was afraid that my plan would go wrong.
When I was doing a lot of concerts, I often started the concerts without having a set playlist. I had an idea. But I was afraid I’d have a new idea mid-concert and then feel stuck.
I like to have a plan. But I like to be able to change the plan to fit the exact moment that it is executed.
Which…isn’t always good when working with a group.
The statement that I made at the beginning of this post was very true. My choir was stressed about what they were getting ready to do, but I wasn’t worried. I knew that they could—and would—sing well and sing the right songs at the right time—but they didn’t know it because I hadn’t communicated it to them. I had told them bits of pieces of information—each of which escaped my mouth as a plan entered my brain—but the plan hadn’t come together in their minds.
So…I started at the beginning, went step by step, laid out the plan, got everyone on the “same sheet of music” (literally), prayed, and then we went into the sanctuary and sang as well as we’d ever sung.
Lest I not communicate this properly: I am proud of my choir. I am proud to work with my choir. I believe in my choir. And I never doubt my choir—even when they doubt themselves.
I will work on my communication skills both at church and school. I will work to be a better professional leader. But I think I’ll also work to be a better communicator of appreciation, thanksgiving, and kindness. I hope you’ll join me. And I hope that together we’ll over-communicate love.
Thursday, October 20, 2016
Gigantic Pumpkin
I’ve never really woken up today. I have a very vague memory of getting dressed and packing up my things this morning, but I don’t recall laying in bed beforehand, hitting the snooze button, and waiting for my multiple of five. I think these must be the moments when my waking up actually occurs, so not remembering them today has stuck with me all day. I didn’t just feel zombie-like stumbling around my kitchen for breakfast, but I felt zombie-like through all of my classes, lunch, duty, and class tonight. Not bad. Not ill. Not like I needed to do things over. Just zombie-like—ready to crawl back into my bed and return to sleep until the next violin played to signal that it is time to wake up and dance.
Like yours, I would guess, my to-do list is stupidly long. My to-do list is always stupidly long. I have things to do for home, for school, for church, for graduate school, for my family, for my friends, and for the charities and organizations that I support. If I catch up with one then I fall behind with everything else but if I try to keep up with everything at once then something inevitably still falls behind. So I just do my best and hope that I don’t miss something major—like a jeans day. Missing jeans day would be such a waste.
Recently, my school computer, Willamina, has been so kind as to not close the 40 or so tabs on the 6 or so different windows of Google Chrome that I use to teach my classes. It’s been nice not to have to open the same tabs day in and day out and it’s been nice not having to cringe every time a video opens, wondering if a commercial for Poo-Pourri or a violent movie is going to pop up for the kids to see. But today all of my windows were closed when Willamina woke up. I guess maybe she didn’t want to wake up either. So there I was during my planning period today trying to get ready for Kindergarten, 3rd, and 4th grades, but I was in such a zombie-like state that all I wanted to do was eat potato chips and yawn. Evidently zombies like potato chips.
Nonetheless, I drudged forth, and as I opened pictures of a pumpkin and a jack-o-lantern for my Kindergarteners, I decided that I’d look for a short little video clip on pumpkins or jack-o-lanterns. After all, the pictures I’d been showing wouldn’t pin to my Pinterest page, and if the links don’t pin to my Pinterest page, then how am I supposed to find them on the days when Willamina doesn’t properly wake up? :-)
Then it happened. I woke up. For 10 minutes. For 10 minutes, I alertly and focusfully watched videos about growing gigantic pumpkins. Gigantic pumpkins fascinate me! They look like monsters from outer space who fly themselves to earth and then are so tired from their flight that they just stay plopped where they land. They’re huge and grotesque and warty and orange and green and white and so extremely cool! I don’t have any idea what their purpose is—other than winning county and state fairs or making cool little pumpkin boats—but I think it would be fun to grow one…and thanks to my 10 minutes of alertness today, I know a little of how to make that happen—not that I will make it happen—I just know the theory of what it takes—and I know that my Kindergarteners are as fascinated by gigantic pumpkins as I.
Some days, friends, we have it together. We make such huge dents in our to do list that we go to bed feeling like we’ve almost busted the piñata that will certainly burst soon and provide us with moments of great delight. Other days, though, we blindly and aimlessly swing our sticks in the air, completely missing the piñata all together.
Today was the latter for me. Not bad. Not overly frustrating. Not like I need to do things over. Just kind of there. Like a beautifully ugly gigantic pumpkin.
And the neat thing? It’s all perfectly okay.
Like yours, I would guess, my to-do list is stupidly long. My to-do list is always stupidly long. I have things to do for home, for school, for church, for graduate school, for my family, for my friends, and for the charities and organizations that I support. If I catch up with one then I fall behind with everything else but if I try to keep up with everything at once then something inevitably still falls behind. So I just do my best and hope that I don’t miss something major—like a jeans day. Missing jeans day would be such a waste.
Recently, my school computer, Willamina, has been so kind as to not close the 40 or so tabs on the 6 or so different windows of Google Chrome that I use to teach my classes. It’s been nice not to have to open the same tabs day in and day out and it’s been nice not having to cringe every time a video opens, wondering if a commercial for Poo-Pourri or a violent movie is going to pop up for the kids to see. But today all of my windows were closed when Willamina woke up. I guess maybe she didn’t want to wake up either. So there I was during my planning period today trying to get ready for Kindergarten, 3rd, and 4th grades, but I was in such a zombie-like state that all I wanted to do was eat potato chips and yawn. Evidently zombies like potato chips.
Nonetheless, I drudged forth, and as I opened pictures of a pumpkin and a jack-o-lantern for my Kindergarteners, I decided that I’d look for a short little video clip on pumpkins or jack-o-lanterns. After all, the pictures I’d been showing wouldn’t pin to my Pinterest page, and if the links don’t pin to my Pinterest page, then how am I supposed to find them on the days when Willamina doesn’t properly wake up? :-)
Then it happened. I woke up. For 10 minutes. For 10 minutes, I alertly and focusfully watched videos about growing gigantic pumpkins. Gigantic pumpkins fascinate me! They look like monsters from outer space who fly themselves to earth and then are so tired from their flight that they just stay plopped where they land. They’re huge and grotesque and warty and orange and green and white and so extremely cool! I don’t have any idea what their purpose is—other than winning county and state fairs or making cool little pumpkin boats—but I think it would be fun to grow one…and thanks to my 10 minutes of alertness today, I know a little of how to make that happen—not that I will make it happen—I just know the theory of what it takes—and I know that my Kindergarteners are as fascinated by gigantic pumpkins as I.
Some days, friends, we have it together. We make such huge dents in our to do list that we go to bed feeling like we’ve almost busted the piñata that will certainly burst soon and provide us with moments of great delight. Other days, though, we blindly and aimlessly swing our sticks in the air, completely missing the piñata all together.
Today was the latter for me. Not bad. Not overly frustrating. Not like I need to do things over. Just kind of there. Like a beautifully ugly gigantic pumpkin.
And the neat thing? It’s all perfectly okay.
Monday, October 17, 2016
On Showing Up
On our way to the fair on Friday night, my coworkers and I got into a pretty deep conversation. We talked about our journeys and how each of us tends to deal with things as they come our way—serious things like sickness and death and not-so-serious things like what to do when you realize you have a rip in your pants in the middle of the day. We deal with things as they come our way—and they come our way at different times and different places—which is how they need to come our way lest we stay overwhelmed.
But sometimes we get overwhelmed nonetheless. So sometimes it’s hard to show up for our own lives. And sometimes it’s even harder to show up for other people’s lives. And sometimes showing up literally means just showing up—being physically present. But other times, showing up means more than that—sometimes showing up is arriving physically and mentally and emotionally.
And when people show up—when they really show up—or when we really show up—that showing up must be honored—that dealing with life and deeply living life must be honored.
I keep finding myself being reminded of this truth. So I hope you will forgive me for, once again, reminding you of this truth as well…in modified haiku form, of course.
Work always shows up
Papers, projects, deadlines. More.
But people do not.
So when they do—when they show up:
Work can always wait.
God: Thank you for the people who show up for me, and thank you for the moments when I remember to slow down and show up for people as well. You always show up for us. Help us always to show up for others. Amen. And Amen.
But sometimes we get overwhelmed nonetheless. So sometimes it’s hard to show up for our own lives. And sometimes it’s even harder to show up for other people’s lives. And sometimes showing up literally means just showing up—being physically present. But other times, showing up means more than that—sometimes showing up is arriving physically and mentally and emotionally.
And when people show up—when they really show up—or when we really show up—that showing up must be honored—that dealing with life and deeply living life must be honored.
I keep finding myself being reminded of this truth. So I hope you will forgive me for, once again, reminding you of this truth as well…in modified haiku form, of course.
Work always shows up
Papers, projects, deadlines. More.
But people do not.
So when they do—when they show up:
Work can always wait.
God: Thank you for the people who show up for me, and thank you for the moments when I remember to slow down and show up for people as well. You always show up for us. Help us always to show up for others. Amen. And Amen.
Thursday, October 13, 2016
AIG Egg Beater
Because of the aftermath of Hurricane Matthew, we may not have another teacher workday this year. That being said, I’ve been doing everything I can do to utilize these days. So far, my days have been spent organizing responsibilities outside of my classroom. Yesterday, I worked to organize our school-wide writing challenge and classroom incentive plan. Today, I worked on a promotional brochure for the school, wrote a lot of e-mails, discussed our school improvement plan, and did quite a bit of research on AIG. AIG is an area that I don’t know a lot about, and it’s an area for which I have chosen to do a project for my classes at Campbell.
AIG: Academically and Intellectually Gifted.
Formerly AG: Academically Gifted.
Formerly GT: Gifted and Talented.
Growing up, I was labeled as Gifted and Talented. I have two memories relating specifically to this label.
1) In elementary school (sometime between 4th and 8th grades), my friends and I were pulled for a GT class. It was cold in the trailer where we went for class and for some reason the teacher left us alone for a few minutes. While she was gone, my friends and I found an old fashioned egg beater/hand mixer—the kind that you crank by hand. Naturally, my friends and I chased each other around the trailer trying to attack each other with the egg beater.
2) Governor’s School. Because of my GT label, I was able to go to Governor’s School. I went for six weeks during the summer after my sophomore year. That summer was life-changing in many ways, not the least of which was introducing me to my horn instructor that would eventually lead me to Meredith College. That summer was the also the first time that I truly understood that there were people my age who were not Christian and had not grown up influenced by Christian belief.
So even though I benefited from the GT label, I have only those memories of the program, and while I know that the program has changed a lot over the years—which is subtly shown in the name changes—I don’t know a lot about what has changed—or what was even there in the first place! GT was bound to be more than an egg-beater chase!
Hence the project.
I got to choose from four categories: Limited English Proficient, Behaviorally Challenged, Poverty, or AIG. I was undecided between the last three categories until the sign-up sheet came to me. I was last to sign the sheet, and no one else had signed up for AIG, so AIG it was. I deal with the effects of challenging behaviors and poverty every day. In fact, I deal with them so much that I don’t even know where to begin to do a specific project. But AIG is something I can learn about and do. I think. So I will try.
Part of my job is to figure out how to see and teach all of my students because all of my students are worth it. Highest, lowest, and everything in between. Maybe I should get an egg beater, though, just in case.
AIG: Academically and Intellectually Gifted.
Formerly AG: Academically Gifted.
Formerly GT: Gifted and Talented.
Growing up, I was labeled as Gifted and Talented. I have two memories relating specifically to this label.
1) In elementary school (sometime between 4th and 8th grades), my friends and I were pulled for a GT class. It was cold in the trailer where we went for class and for some reason the teacher left us alone for a few minutes. While she was gone, my friends and I found an old fashioned egg beater/hand mixer—the kind that you crank by hand. Naturally, my friends and I chased each other around the trailer trying to attack each other with the egg beater.
2) Governor’s School. Because of my GT label, I was able to go to Governor’s School. I went for six weeks during the summer after my sophomore year. That summer was life-changing in many ways, not the least of which was introducing me to my horn instructor that would eventually lead me to Meredith College. That summer was the also the first time that I truly understood that there were people my age who were not Christian and had not grown up influenced by Christian belief.
So even though I benefited from the GT label, I have only those memories of the program, and while I know that the program has changed a lot over the years—which is subtly shown in the name changes—I don’t know a lot about what has changed—or what was even there in the first place! GT was bound to be more than an egg-beater chase!
Hence the project.
I got to choose from four categories: Limited English Proficient, Behaviorally Challenged, Poverty, or AIG. I was undecided between the last three categories until the sign-up sheet came to me. I was last to sign the sheet, and no one else had signed up for AIG, so AIG it was. I deal with the effects of challenging behaviors and poverty every day. In fact, I deal with them so much that I don’t even know where to begin to do a specific project. But AIG is something I can learn about and do. I think. So I will try.
Part of my job is to figure out how to see and teach all of my students because all of my students are worth it. Highest, lowest, and everything in between. Maybe I should get an egg beater, though, just in case.
Thursday, October 6, 2016
How Full Is Your Bucket?
A few years ago, I went to a one-day training on The Five Love Languages. I have led staff trainings on the love languages and included a ranking system on my school’s secret pal forms each year. I truly believe in the love languages and know exactly what I need for my “love tank” to be filled—words of affirmation and physical touch. I also know exactly what I don’t need—exactly what shuts me down: negative words.
A few days ago, I finished reading the book How Full Is Your Bucket? for class. It reminds me of the concept of filling the love tank in The Five Love Languages. In fact, I wonder if one influenced the other. Either way, this book got to me. Clear, simple, and direct, the book was a perfectly-timed reminder that if anything is going to change in this world then it is going to have to come from a place of positive emotion.
Today’s culture is one of negativity—of nit-picking—of making rules because personal aesthetic has been upset. Daily interactions and activity tend to be more bucket draining than filling. And not just for the adults. For kids as well.
I teach over 700 kids each week. Sometimes, some of those over 700 students push the boundaries a little too far. I must confess, though, when I give my boundary-pushing students written alternate assignments, I usually do not return their papers; I sometimes don’t even get a chance to read them. I usually file them away in a folder entitled “discipline” in case I need to return to them one day.
Recently, on a morning when I was feeling a bit discouraged and my bucket was rather empty (in the language of the book I just read), I looked at a stack of papers that some boundary-pushing students had completed the day before. In that moment, I thought, “I hope these kids never feel like I feel right now. But I bet they do. I bet that their buckets stay close to empty. Maybe I should start trying to more intentionally fill my students’ buckets.”
So I put the rest of my to-do list on hold for a moment, took out a pen, and wrote positive comments on my students’ papers. I found ways to compliment their work. I agreed with comments and asked curious questions about answers. In so many words, I let them know that while I didn’t approve of the actions that led to the alternate assignment, I did approve of them. I let them know that I was interested in their thoughts. And then I found the students and returned their papers. I have no idea if my comments meant anything to my students or not. But the sheer act of writing the comments helped me fill my own bucket just a bit…if that’s even possible…and it helped me have a much more positive day.
On the first awards day of my first year at my school, my principal asked me to “sing a little song.” I didn’t have a little song to sing, so I wrote one. I wrote one about the school and what I thought we could be. When I finished singing that morning, teachers had tears in their eyes as they stood and clapped. “You have no idea how long we’ve needed to hear something positive,” they later said. “Thank you.” I had unknowingly added drops to their buckets. Teaching is hard work.
That year, I made it my goal to do whatever I could do to increase staff morale—to keep adding drops to buckets. I have continued that goal into my fourth year at my school—organizing treat days and First Friday events off campus, coordinating Secret Pals, providing daily coffee/tea, working to keep the workroom clean, listening to teachers whenever they need to talk.
Tomorrow is our first treat day of the year. Even though the hurricane is going to cut our educational day short, we’re still going to have treats. Treat days are some of my favorite days. Sometimes simple things like food nourish the soul. Sometimes free drinks literally add drops to the bucket.
I am an encourager. I know this. It is one of my top spiritual gifts. And what I’ve realized after reading How Full Is Your Bucket? is that even though I sometimes find myself very discouraged, I must continue to find ways to encourage the people around me—especially my colleagues and students—even when it is hard and my bucket is next to empty.
What book have you read that has challenged you lately? What life-altering things have you been learning? What things have you been doing to add drops to people’s buckets?
A few days ago, I finished reading the book How Full Is Your Bucket? for class. It reminds me of the concept of filling the love tank in The Five Love Languages. In fact, I wonder if one influenced the other. Either way, this book got to me. Clear, simple, and direct, the book was a perfectly-timed reminder that if anything is going to change in this world then it is going to have to come from a place of positive emotion.
Today’s culture is one of negativity—of nit-picking—of making rules because personal aesthetic has been upset. Daily interactions and activity tend to be more bucket draining than filling. And not just for the adults. For kids as well.
I teach over 700 kids each week. Sometimes, some of those over 700 students push the boundaries a little too far. I must confess, though, when I give my boundary-pushing students written alternate assignments, I usually do not return their papers; I sometimes don’t even get a chance to read them. I usually file them away in a folder entitled “discipline” in case I need to return to them one day.
Recently, on a morning when I was feeling a bit discouraged and my bucket was rather empty (in the language of the book I just read), I looked at a stack of papers that some boundary-pushing students had completed the day before. In that moment, I thought, “I hope these kids never feel like I feel right now. But I bet they do. I bet that their buckets stay close to empty. Maybe I should start trying to more intentionally fill my students’ buckets.”
So I put the rest of my to-do list on hold for a moment, took out a pen, and wrote positive comments on my students’ papers. I found ways to compliment their work. I agreed with comments and asked curious questions about answers. In so many words, I let them know that while I didn’t approve of the actions that led to the alternate assignment, I did approve of them. I let them know that I was interested in their thoughts. And then I found the students and returned their papers. I have no idea if my comments meant anything to my students or not. But the sheer act of writing the comments helped me fill my own bucket just a bit…if that’s even possible…and it helped me have a much more positive day.
On the first awards day of my first year at my school, my principal asked me to “sing a little song.” I didn’t have a little song to sing, so I wrote one. I wrote one about the school and what I thought we could be. When I finished singing that morning, teachers had tears in their eyes as they stood and clapped. “You have no idea how long we’ve needed to hear something positive,” they later said. “Thank you.” I had unknowingly added drops to their buckets. Teaching is hard work.
That year, I made it my goal to do whatever I could do to increase staff morale—to keep adding drops to buckets. I have continued that goal into my fourth year at my school—organizing treat days and First Friday events off campus, coordinating Secret Pals, providing daily coffee/tea, working to keep the workroom clean, listening to teachers whenever they need to talk.
Tomorrow is our first treat day of the year. Even though the hurricane is going to cut our educational day short, we’re still going to have treats. Treat days are some of my favorite days. Sometimes simple things like food nourish the soul. Sometimes free drinks literally add drops to the bucket.
I am an encourager. I know this. It is one of my top spiritual gifts. And what I’ve realized after reading How Full Is Your Bucket? is that even though I sometimes find myself very discouraged, I must continue to find ways to encourage the people around me—especially my colleagues and students—even when it is hard and my bucket is next to empty.
What book have you read that has challenged you lately? What life-altering things have you been learning? What things have you been doing to add drops to people’s buckets?
Monday, October 3, 2016
15 Minutes At A Time
I got to campus early tonight. Starbucks is currently selling the delicious chile mocha, and I was craving one after a long (but decent) day of teaching.
I had a plan. I would drop off my stuff in the classroom, walk to Starbucks to get my coffee, and then go back to the classroom to take stock of where I was with my assignments.
On my way to dropping of my stuff, though, I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in a couple of months. After hugs, we stood and talked for about 15 minutes.
As I was talking to her, I saw my former college minister and mentor whom I hadn’t seen in years! She was on campus for a special event and I happened to be standing near her car as she prepared to leave. After hugs, we stood and talked for about 15 minutes.
It was so great to catch up with both of those friends.
After dropping off my things, I bumped into a classmate who had also arrived early. She had had a family emergency last week and needed to share the details of what had transpired. For about 15 minutes, I listened as she shared how God had worked in her family’s life. Empty Starbucks cup staring at me, I silently reminded myself that this was more important than coffee—that these are the moments where life happens.
Once finished giving testimony to God’s hand in her life, my classmate asked where she could find the library reserves. I told her I’d be happy to show her because…well…they are very close to Starbucks.
So we walked to Starbucks. And I got my iced chile mocha. And as we were leaving, another classmate walked in. I greeted her with open arms. We waited with her until her drink had been made. All-in-all, I was in Starbucks for about 15 minutes—talking up a storm to my classmates and the baristas.
We got to class with about 15 minutes to spare. I didn’t get a chance to take stock of where I was in my assignments. But that didn’t matter. I had gotten a chance to do life with people—to hug and talk and listen and laugh…and to celebrate that my voice is strong enough that I can talk (although I know that I still need to rest it whenever possible—even if that means putting myself in time out a few times a day).
Friends: Plans are good—especially when trying to maneuver many moving pieces and keep them from crashing into one another. But sometimes life has a way of interrupting our plans and refreshing our spirits through people—through conversations—through celebrations—15 unplanned minutes at a time.
I am so thankful.
I had a plan. I would drop off my stuff in the classroom, walk to Starbucks to get my coffee, and then go back to the classroom to take stock of where I was with my assignments.
On my way to dropping of my stuff, though, I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in a couple of months. After hugs, we stood and talked for about 15 minutes.
As I was talking to her, I saw my former college minister and mentor whom I hadn’t seen in years! She was on campus for a special event and I happened to be standing near her car as she prepared to leave. After hugs, we stood and talked for about 15 minutes.
It was so great to catch up with both of those friends.
After dropping off my things, I bumped into a classmate who had also arrived early. She had had a family emergency last week and needed to share the details of what had transpired. For about 15 minutes, I listened as she shared how God had worked in her family’s life. Empty Starbucks cup staring at me, I silently reminded myself that this was more important than coffee—that these are the moments where life happens.
Once finished giving testimony to God’s hand in her life, my classmate asked where she could find the library reserves. I told her I’d be happy to show her because…well…they are very close to Starbucks.
So we walked to Starbucks. And I got my iced chile mocha. And as we were leaving, another classmate walked in. I greeted her with open arms. We waited with her until her drink had been made. All-in-all, I was in Starbucks for about 15 minutes—talking up a storm to my classmates and the baristas.
We got to class with about 15 minutes to spare. I didn’t get a chance to take stock of where I was in my assignments. But that didn’t matter. I had gotten a chance to do life with people—to hug and talk and listen and laugh…and to celebrate that my voice is strong enough that I can talk (although I know that I still need to rest it whenever possible—even if that means putting myself in time out a few times a day).
Friends: Plans are good—especially when trying to maneuver many moving pieces and keep them from crashing into one another. But sometimes life has a way of interrupting our plans and refreshing our spirits through people—through conversations—through celebrations—15 unplanned minutes at a time.
I am so thankful.
Thursday, September 29, 2016
One Finger Touch Hug
Amy and I met at camp.
Hugs are a common greeting at camp.
For years, Amy and I hugged whenever our paths crossed.
Then I learned that Amy really doesn’t like hugs.
She was just being kind—to me and everyone else in the world.
So I stopped hugging Amy.
But one day I needed a hug.
Amy knew it.
Amy said, “Do you need a hug?”
Pitifully, I said, “Yes.”
So Amy reached out her pointer finger and touched me on the top of my arm.
It was an ET phone home gesture.
My pointer finger just wasn’t ready to connect on the other end.
“There,” she said smiling.
I needed a hug so badly in that moment, that I actually felt the little touch expand over my body.
Then I laughed.
A pointer finger touch hug—
That is classic Amy.
Amy is partially deaf.
I talk about Amy whenever I teach about Beethoven.
Beethoven slowly lost his hearing until he was completely deaf.
I know that I talk about Amy whenever I talk about Beethoven.
It is a natural connection that allows me to intelligently talk about how Beethoven could read lips.
This morning, as I was greeting students in the hallway, I saw a 5th grade boy try to hug a 5th grade girl.
It was a very innocent hug—one of those, “I haven’t seen you in awhile and it’s good to see you” hugs—but the girl was having nothing of it.
As she stood there with her arm outstretched, I heard her say my name.
I thought she said that she was giving a Ms. Deaton hug and I thought that she had confused me with another teacher who prefers to give high-fives.
But then I realized what she was actually saying and doing:
“I’m giving one of Ms. Deaton’s friend’s hugs.”
And she was.
She was giving an Amy pointer finger touch hug!!!!!
I have NO IDEA when I told my students about Amy’s hug!
I have no idea WHY I told my students about Amy’s hug!
Did I tell a class? Were we talking about ways we can share peace?
Did I tell a small group of students? Were we talking about boundaries?
Did I just tell her? Did something she said spark a memory?
I really don’t know!
But I know that she remembered my words.
And I know the whole thing makes me smile.
God: Thank for friends and for laughter. And thank you for giving me the opportunity to share my life and stories with my students. Help them always to remember the positive—to latch on to the good—and to spread love and peace in this world…even if it’s one pointer finger hug at a time. Amen.
Hugs are a common greeting at camp.
For years, Amy and I hugged whenever our paths crossed.
Then I learned that Amy really doesn’t like hugs.
She was just being kind—to me and everyone else in the world.
So I stopped hugging Amy.
But one day I needed a hug.
Amy knew it.
Amy said, “Do you need a hug?”
Pitifully, I said, “Yes.”
So Amy reached out her pointer finger and touched me on the top of my arm.
It was an ET phone home gesture.
My pointer finger just wasn’t ready to connect on the other end.
“There,” she said smiling.
I needed a hug so badly in that moment, that I actually felt the little touch expand over my body.
Then I laughed.
A pointer finger touch hug—
That is classic Amy.
Amy is partially deaf.
I talk about Amy whenever I teach about Beethoven.
Beethoven slowly lost his hearing until he was completely deaf.
I know that I talk about Amy whenever I talk about Beethoven.
It is a natural connection that allows me to intelligently talk about how Beethoven could read lips.
This morning, as I was greeting students in the hallway, I saw a 5th grade boy try to hug a 5th grade girl.
It was a very innocent hug—one of those, “I haven’t seen you in awhile and it’s good to see you” hugs—but the girl was having nothing of it.
As she stood there with her arm outstretched, I heard her say my name.
I thought she said that she was giving a Ms. Deaton hug and I thought that she had confused me with another teacher who prefers to give high-fives.
But then I realized what she was actually saying and doing:
“I’m giving one of Ms. Deaton’s friend’s hugs.”
And she was.
She was giving an Amy pointer finger touch hug!!!!!
I have NO IDEA when I told my students about Amy’s hug!
I have no idea WHY I told my students about Amy’s hug!
Did I tell a class? Were we talking about ways we can share peace?
Did I tell a small group of students? Were we talking about boundaries?
Did I just tell her? Did something she said spark a memory?
I really don’t know!
But I know that she remembered my words.
And I know the whole thing makes me smile.
God: Thank for friends and for laughter. And thank you for giving me the opportunity to share my life and stories with my students. Help them always to remember the positive—to latch on to the good—and to spread love and peace in this world…even if it’s one pointer finger hug at a time. Amen.
Monday, September 26, 2016
Giving Voice To Fear
Well. Having no voice is turning out to be a interestingly frustrating experience. I lost my voice walking around Highland last Monday, but it didn’t come back while I walked around Highland today.
Two half days last week; an early incorporation of videos that I usually don’t teach with until much later; a guest speaker; no singing at all—even at choir practice or during Sunday morning worship; no extracurricular activities that would tempt me to use my voice; an entire day in bed reading on Saturday—with my eyes!; a vaporizer, essential oils, pain medication, anti-inflammatory medicine, cold medication, nasal spray, hot tea, cold tea, lemon, honey, cloves, and water later…I still don’t have a voice.
And I don’t mean that my voice sounds weak. I truly don’t have a voice unless I force out sound by pushing my diaphragm as hard as I can—and I know that this is not good for me.
This started as my normal cold two Friday nights ago—sore throat, runny nose, hopes for one clear nostril to sleep, eventually into a little cough. But it settled on my vocal chords last Monday and decided not to move. I haven’t been to the doctor. Laryngitis can normally last one to two weeks. But I fear that a trip to the doctor is in store if things don’t clear up soon.
If I’m honest, then I must admit losing my voice is one of my biggest fears. Truly losing it. Have a vocal cord rupture or paralyze. Having nodes or nodules. Having to have a scope inserted down my throat so that doctors can see what’s going on. I gag just thinking about it.
One of my music teacher colleagues showed us the procedure where doctors looked at her vocal cords. While it was sort of neat to see the vocal cord vibrate—and only one vibrated because the other was so enlarged—it made me a little sick watching the scope get to where the camera could see. My colleague had to go on vocal rest for an entire month. Not just teaching vocal rest. Everything vocal rest. Home. Church. Grocery store. The North Carolina Symphony. Everywhere. I remember it vividly. She wore a button that something like, “Please excuse me for not speaking. The doctors have me on vocal rest.” Vocal rest, folks, means any type of sound from the mouth—whispering included. Having to be wise about my words this week, I’ve imagined what it must have been like for my colleague…and what I’ve imagined has been awful.
So I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned that the same was going to happen with me. I hope it won’t. I hope that this is just a bought of laryngitis and that it will clear up in due time. I hope that this is a wake-up call that one of my biggest fears could come true if I don’t take better care of my voice. How many teachers actually do take care of their voices, though? I can’t think of many. My colleague does. She must. She knows the consequence.
I was supposed to sing at a revival last night. I played piano and horn instead. I am thankful for a mom who could go with me and save my musical butt. I’m supposed to lead my graduate school class in a song for our group presentation next week. What happens if I still can’t sing? I’m thankful that I found a singer in my group at revival last night; she was leading the praise songs. But still. That’s my job. My duty. I don’t want to let the group down. I don’t want to let my students down either. I have too much that I want to teach. Not long lectures. But questions. Guidelines. Suggestions. Encouragement. I had a kid tell me last week that students in her class were laughing at me when I made the morning announcements because I sound so ridiculous. I don’t want to sound ridiculous. I don’t want kids to laugh at me. But I can’t even use my voice to explain that laughing at people whose voice is different doesn’t show kindness or respect. I feel like I’d be wasting my words. And when you’re afraid that your vocal cords are dying, every word counts.
I am a teacher. I teach music. I am a music minister and worship leader. I lead music. I am a minister. I share words. I am an extravert. I thrive off of conversation. Yet all of that is stunted with no voice. And when I’m teaching my students about the four different ways they can use their voices, I can only actually properly demonstrate one.
Though it may not seem as such, I don’t write this to sound pitiful. I know that having no voice is such a minor thing compared to so many others. I know that woe-is-not-me. But I needed to confess a fear that I’ve been afraid to admit. I needed to cry these tears and pray this prayer that only confession and admission of fear can pray.
God, in this forced quiet, help me to listen more, to be more creative, to learn anew the power of words, and to find the voice that exists beyond inflamed vocal cords. I love you. And I’m really trying to not let fear and frustration spin out of control. Amen.
Two half days last week; an early incorporation of videos that I usually don’t teach with until much later; a guest speaker; no singing at all—even at choir practice or during Sunday morning worship; no extracurricular activities that would tempt me to use my voice; an entire day in bed reading on Saturday—with my eyes!; a vaporizer, essential oils, pain medication, anti-inflammatory medicine, cold medication, nasal spray, hot tea, cold tea, lemon, honey, cloves, and water later…I still don’t have a voice.
And I don’t mean that my voice sounds weak. I truly don’t have a voice unless I force out sound by pushing my diaphragm as hard as I can—and I know that this is not good for me.
This started as my normal cold two Friday nights ago—sore throat, runny nose, hopes for one clear nostril to sleep, eventually into a little cough. But it settled on my vocal chords last Monday and decided not to move. I haven’t been to the doctor. Laryngitis can normally last one to two weeks. But I fear that a trip to the doctor is in store if things don’t clear up soon.
If I’m honest, then I must admit losing my voice is one of my biggest fears. Truly losing it. Have a vocal cord rupture or paralyze. Having nodes or nodules. Having to have a scope inserted down my throat so that doctors can see what’s going on. I gag just thinking about it.
One of my music teacher colleagues showed us the procedure where doctors looked at her vocal cords. While it was sort of neat to see the vocal cord vibrate—and only one vibrated because the other was so enlarged—it made me a little sick watching the scope get to where the camera could see. My colleague had to go on vocal rest for an entire month. Not just teaching vocal rest. Everything vocal rest. Home. Church. Grocery store. The North Carolina Symphony. Everywhere. I remember it vividly. She wore a button that something like, “Please excuse me for not speaking. The doctors have me on vocal rest.” Vocal rest, folks, means any type of sound from the mouth—whispering included. Having to be wise about my words this week, I’ve imagined what it must have been like for my colleague…and what I’ve imagined has been awful.
So I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned that the same was going to happen with me. I hope it won’t. I hope that this is just a bought of laryngitis and that it will clear up in due time. I hope that this is a wake-up call that one of my biggest fears could come true if I don’t take better care of my voice. How many teachers actually do take care of their voices, though? I can’t think of many. My colleague does. She must. She knows the consequence.
I was supposed to sing at a revival last night. I played piano and horn instead. I am thankful for a mom who could go with me and save my musical butt. I’m supposed to lead my graduate school class in a song for our group presentation next week. What happens if I still can’t sing? I’m thankful that I found a singer in my group at revival last night; she was leading the praise songs. But still. That’s my job. My duty. I don’t want to let the group down. I don’t want to let my students down either. I have too much that I want to teach. Not long lectures. But questions. Guidelines. Suggestions. Encouragement. I had a kid tell me last week that students in her class were laughing at me when I made the morning announcements because I sound so ridiculous. I don’t want to sound ridiculous. I don’t want kids to laugh at me. But I can’t even use my voice to explain that laughing at people whose voice is different doesn’t show kindness or respect. I feel like I’d be wasting my words. And when you’re afraid that your vocal cords are dying, every word counts.
I am a teacher. I teach music. I am a music minister and worship leader. I lead music. I am a minister. I share words. I am an extravert. I thrive off of conversation. Yet all of that is stunted with no voice. And when I’m teaching my students about the four different ways they can use their voices, I can only actually properly demonstrate one.
Though it may not seem as such, I don’t write this to sound pitiful. I know that having no voice is such a minor thing compared to so many others. I know that woe-is-not-me. But I needed to confess a fear that I’ve been afraid to admit. I needed to cry these tears and pray this prayer that only confession and admission of fear can pray.
God, in this forced quiet, help me to listen more, to be more creative, to learn anew the power of words, and to find the voice that exists beyond inflamed vocal cords. I love you. And I’m really trying to not let fear and frustration spin out of control. Amen.
Thursday, September 15, 2016
I Stepped On A Slug
I want to make an impact
Today I did not succeed
Furrowed brow forehead
Monday I could laugh.
Tuesday and Wednesday, I tried.
Thursday was too much.
I stepped on a slug.
It was slimy and squishy.
It went splat. Eww. Gross.
Crammed full to-do list
Never ahead but behind
Homework out my ears
-----
Excuse me, but I was wondering if
You could teach me about love.
I'm really confused.
I hear people say that they love
food and games and toys and cars
Yet I see people hurting each other on the news
And my mom and dad never say, "I love you."
My dad is never home;
He stays at work a lot.
I guess that work makes him happy,
And he really likes the woman who has the office beside him.
And my mom always says she doesn't feel good;
She has headaches almost every day.
I wish her head would feel better
And that I didn't have to clean up paper bags and bottles.
I wish she’d be happy to see me at the bus stop
And hug me like my friends’ moms do.
I think that they are supposed to love each other
And love me,
Right?
But they hardly speak and they just get mad when I struggle to read at school
And they send me to my room to play on my computer or watch TV or play video games.
Is it okay for me to love my computer, TV, and video games?
I think I'll save my lunch money and buy my dad a new car.
I heard him tell the neighbor that he loves his new SUV.
Then maybe he’ll come home early one night and we can all go to McDonald's together and get a happy meal.
Is it okay for me to love Happy Meals?
They do make me happy.
Today I did not succeed
Furrowed brow forehead
Monday I could laugh.
Tuesday and Wednesday, I tried.
Thursday was too much.
I stepped on a slug.
It was slimy and squishy.
It went splat. Eww. Gross.
Crammed full to-do list
Never ahead but behind
Homework out my ears
-----
Excuse me, but I was wondering if
You could teach me about love.
I'm really confused.
I hear people say that they love
food and games and toys and cars
Yet I see people hurting each other on the news
And my mom and dad never say, "I love you."
My dad is never home;
He stays at work a lot.
I guess that work makes him happy,
And he really likes the woman who has the office beside him.
And my mom always says she doesn't feel good;
She has headaches almost every day.
I wish her head would feel better
And that I didn't have to clean up paper bags and bottles.
I wish she’d be happy to see me at the bus stop
And hug me like my friends’ moms do.
I think that they are supposed to love each other
And love me,
Right?
But they hardly speak and they just get mad when I struggle to read at school
And they send me to my room to play on my computer or watch TV or play video games.
Is it okay for me to love my computer, TV, and video games?
I think I'll save my lunch money and buy my dad a new car.
I heard him tell the neighbor that he loves his new SUV.
Then maybe he’ll come home early one night and we can all go to McDonald's together and get a happy meal.
Is it okay for me to love Happy Meals?
They do make me happy.
Monday, September 5, 2016
In The Aftermath of Murder
Maybe I’m a bit OCD, but I don’t like to have notifications lingering on my phone. So on Friday afternoon when I finally had a chance to look at my phone, I immediately opened Facebook to address the 12 notifications that were alerting me. After clearing the notifications, I absentmindedly began scrolling down my page. I liked a few pictures, skimmed past a few advertisements, and then stopped when I got to a post by my friend Sarah. Sarah had posted a tribute to her mother, whom I knew, and I was curious to know what occasion we were celebrating—a retirement, a major birthday, an award, something else? As I read the tribute and felt somewhat encouraged by the impact that an elementary music teacher and active church member and mom had made on the writer’s life, I suddenly found myself stunned into disbelief by the following words: “Mrs. Carol was murdered in her home last night.” For the next fifteen minutes, I sat in my elementary music classroom with my jaw dropped in shock.
……
A few years ago, Sarah’s dad died suddenly from a heart attack. He was on his daily run when he crumpled onto the side walk and died. When I visited the house and funeral home in the days following that loss, the family was deeply saddened and shocked. But this?! Mrs. Carol hadn’t been sick, or didn’t have a major stroke or heart incident, and she hadn’t been in tragic accident—all of those things horrible in and of themselves. She had been murdered. Killed. On purpose. In her home. In the house where I had last seen her. In the house where I had spent countless hours in the early years of my adolescence before my family and I moved two hours away.
……
My friendship with Sarah was actually a bi-product of my friendship with her older sister, Ellen. Ellen and I came to know each other through piano and band competitions, and we later spent a summer together at Summer Ventures in Math and Science and visited with one another a couple of times during college. I played my horn in Ellen’s wedding and visited her home in Charlotte after she had her first child. Over the years, as is too often the case with those we love, we lost touch, yet Ellen often comes to mind. She once wrote me a very silly song that I can still hear her singing: “Dee! I love you, Dee! I really do! I love you. De-ann-a!” When I look at those words and hear her voice, I can’t help but smile.
And Sarah. Well, Sarah, the younger sister who I imagine looked up to the older sister and her friends, once gave me a poem that endeared me to her forever: “To live you must be loved. To be loved you must love. To love you must know the Lord.” That poem hung in my room for years until it made it into a book of quotes that profoundly influenced my life. Sarah and I reconnected at her dad’s visitation. We have been friends on Facebook for the past four years. For whatever reason, her posts are ones that often come up on my newsfeed. I am glad. I like to see how she is changing the world.
I fell asleep thinking about Sarah and Ellen (and their brother Max) on both Friday and Saturday nights. I fell asleep trying to make sense of their mother’s horrific death. I fell asleep praying that unexplainable light surrounded her and somehow calmed her spirit and lifted her pain in the midst of unspeakable evil. I fell asleep knowing that every person who is senselessly murdered has a family left in the aftermath and I fell asleep with my heart breaking for their heartache and grief. I fell asleep angry yet full of love and prayers for peace.
……
When I arrived at the visitation yesterday, I knew that I had nothing to say. What do you say? No amount of pastoral counseling or chaplaincy training prepares you for something like this. So I just hugged Sarah, and I held Ellen’s hand, and I stood in the family’s presence silently sending out light, love, strength, and peace as I watched grief finally settle upon the children after being strong for well over two hours of visitation.
Then I drove away sobbing. The dam that had been holding back the tears since that moment of disbelief on Friday afternoon had finally broken. And then I wrote. Haiku. Because I didn’t know—I don’t know—what else to do.
Two hours is nothing ~ The pain of this tragedy ~ Is overwhelming
I have no words. (Pause) ~ That’s okay. There are no words. ~ You have hugs and tears.
I don’t understand. ~ A life devoted to Love ~ Senselessly murdered
Assault on women. ~ Attack for sport. Turns him on. ~ Where did life go wrong?
Brother and sisters ~ Too soon without a mom. Gone. ~ Weeping arm in arm.
…….
Friends: Please keep Sarah, Ellen, Max and the rest of the family in your thoughts and prayers. Also pray for the neighbor who found Mrs. Carol’s body and everyone who will feel her absence so poignantly. Mrs. Carol was stabbed to death and her car stolen by a man who had broken parole and previously been convicted of assault on women. Pray whatever else you will, too. And then make it your commitment to Love in such a way that broken lives are transformed and healed. If Love is going to win, then we must make it so…We must follow in the footsteps of the One who has already made it so…
……
A few years ago, Sarah’s dad died suddenly from a heart attack. He was on his daily run when he crumpled onto the side walk and died. When I visited the house and funeral home in the days following that loss, the family was deeply saddened and shocked. But this?! Mrs. Carol hadn’t been sick, or didn’t have a major stroke or heart incident, and she hadn’t been in tragic accident—all of those things horrible in and of themselves. She had been murdered. Killed. On purpose. In her home. In the house where I had last seen her. In the house where I had spent countless hours in the early years of my adolescence before my family and I moved two hours away.
……
My friendship with Sarah was actually a bi-product of my friendship with her older sister, Ellen. Ellen and I came to know each other through piano and band competitions, and we later spent a summer together at Summer Ventures in Math and Science and visited with one another a couple of times during college. I played my horn in Ellen’s wedding and visited her home in Charlotte after she had her first child. Over the years, as is too often the case with those we love, we lost touch, yet Ellen often comes to mind. She once wrote me a very silly song that I can still hear her singing: “Dee! I love you, Dee! I really do! I love you. De-ann-a!” When I look at those words and hear her voice, I can’t help but smile.
And Sarah. Well, Sarah, the younger sister who I imagine looked up to the older sister and her friends, once gave me a poem that endeared me to her forever: “To live you must be loved. To be loved you must love. To love you must know the Lord.” That poem hung in my room for years until it made it into a book of quotes that profoundly influenced my life. Sarah and I reconnected at her dad’s visitation. We have been friends on Facebook for the past four years. For whatever reason, her posts are ones that often come up on my newsfeed. I am glad. I like to see how she is changing the world.
I fell asleep thinking about Sarah and Ellen (and their brother Max) on both Friday and Saturday nights. I fell asleep trying to make sense of their mother’s horrific death. I fell asleep praying that unexplainable light surrounded her and somehow calmed her spirit and lifted her pain in the midst of unspeakable evil. I fell asleep knowing that every person who is senselessly murdered has a family left in the aftermath and I fell asleep with my heart breaking for their heartache and grief. I fell asleep angry yet full of love and prayers for peace.
……
When I arrived at the visitation yesterday, I knew that I had nothing to say. What do you say? No amount of pastoral counseling or chaplaincy training prepares you for something like this. So I just hugged Sarah, and I held Ellen’s hand, and I stood in the family’s presence silently sending out light, love, strength, and peace as I watched grief finally settle upon the children after being strong for well over two hours of visitation.
Then I drove away sobbing. The dam that had been holding back the tears since that moment of disbelief on Friday afternoon had finally broken. And then I wrote. Haiku. Because I didn’t know—I don’t know—what else to do.
Two hours is nothing ~ The pain of this tragedy ~ Is overwhelming
I have no words. (Pause) ~ That’s okay. There are no words. ~ You have hugs and tears.
I don’t understand. ~ A life devoted to Love ~ Senselessly murdered
Assault on women. ~ Attack for sport. Turns him on. ~ Where did life go wrong?
Brother and sisters ~ Too soon without a mom. Gone. ~ Weeping arm in arm.
…….
Friends: Please keep Sarah, Ellen, Max and the rest of the family in your thoughts and prayers. Also pray for the neighbor who found Mrs. Carol’s body and everyone who will feel her absence so poignantly. Mrs. Carol was stabbed to death and her car stolen by a man who had broken parole and previously been convicted of assault on women. Pray whatever else you will, too. And then make it your commitment to Love in such a way that broken lives are transformed and healed. If Love is going to win, then we must make it so…We must follow in the footsteps of the One who has already made it so…
Monday, August 29, 2016
Beginning of the Year Prayer
As I lay in bed trying to fall asleep last night, I decided to take Jesus on a tour of the school. I started at one end of the hall and imagined walking beside him, introducing him to teachers (including to ones who worked in the rooms in years past), and showing him the classrooms. I imagined him breathing light, love, and peace into every room, and I imagined him doing the same in the hallways.
We went everywhere in the school together last night, Jesus and I. It took us a little while as my thoughts took tangents and convinced us to stand somewhere and consider particular subjects or concerns, but we eventually made it through campus and I eventually fell asleep.
I think I’ll take this tour with Jesus again tonight. And tomorrow night. And maybe tomorrow during the day. And maybe the next day. Because even though I cannot speak his name aloud, I truly believe that without Jesus’ love, light, and peace, things just get messy.
Each year, I put a prayer on my desk so that I can see it each day. I’ve updated the prayer over time—added, deleted, modified according to year. And so tonight I do the same—I update last year’s prayer. And instead of praying only for me—for I—I am praying for we—for us—because we are in this together.
Almighty God, you have blessed us with the joy and care of children.
Give us calm strength and patient wisdom as we work with them, that we may teach them to see and love what is just, true, and good in this unsteady and confusing world.
Help us show them that doing right gives more life than doing wrong and that goodness and light have the power to overcome the dark.
Help us to help them take heartache and failure not as measures of their worth but as chances for fresh starts.
Grant each of us, God, students and teachers alike, in all of our doubts and uncertainties, the ability to rest and the courage to do what is best.
Give us insight.
Surround us with grace.
Empower us with the boldness and goodness to be firm, fair, and consistent.
Feed us as we feed our students, and help us to grow in content knowledge, pedagogy, and self-understanding as we seek to be life-long learners not just of curriculum and teaching but of life itself.
And most of all, God, fill us with love that is contagious…today, tomorrow, and in all the days to come.
Amen.
Now…to walk with Jesus around the school and into sleep.
And amen.
We went everywhere in the school together last night, Jesus and I. It took us a little while as my thoughts took tangents and convinced us to stand somewhere and consider particular subjects or concerns, but we eventually made it through campus and I eventually fell asleep.
I think I’ll take this tour with Jesus again tonight. And tomorrow night. And maybe tomorrow during the day. And maybe the next day. Because even though I cannot speak his name aloud, I truly believe that without Jesus’ love, light, and peace, things just get messy.
Each year, I put a prayer on my desk so that I can see it each day. I’ve updated the prayer over time—added, deleted, modified according to year. And so tonight I do the same—I update last year’s prayer. And instead of praying only for me—for I—I am praying for we—for us—because we are in this together.
Almighty God, you have blessed us with the joy and care of children.
Give us calm strength and patient wisdom as we work with them, that we may teach them to see and love what is just, true, and good in this unsteady and confusing world.
Help us show them that doing right gives more life than doing wrong and that goodness and light have the power to overcome the dark.
Help us to help them take heartache and failure not as measures of their worth but as chances for fresh starts.
Grant each of us, God, students and teachers alike, in all of our doubts and uncertainties, the ability to rest and the courage to do what is best.
Give us insight.
Surround us with grace.
Empower us with the boldness and goodness to be firm, fair, and consistent.
Feed us as we feed our students, and help us to grow in content knowledge, pedagogy, and self-understanding as we seek to be life-long learners not just of curriculum and teaching but of life itself.
And most of all, God, fill us with love that is contagious…today, tomorrow, and in all the days to come.
Amen.
Now…to walk with Jesus around the school and into sleep.
And amen.
Thursday, August 25, 2016
I Like Spreadsheets, But You Might Not. And That’s Okay
I spent my day doing the administrative work that goes into planning and keeping up with:
• First Friday Festivities (which include a morning food component and a night-time activity),
• Secret Pal,
• Eaglet Trees (a school-wide class incentive program that involves tracking data, displaying it on a bulletin board, and communicating it to PTO), and
• The Morning Announcements (for which I must compile a list of everyone’s birthday, make and distribute a schedule for classes to help with the announcements, set up a template from which to read the announcements, and make up writing/drawing prompts for each week).
I then went to my first class of my Master of School Administration program and proceeded to stay after class to work on my school webpage for a couple of hours (https://sites.google.com/a/harnett.k12.nc.us/deaton/home). I have no idea what possessed me to work on my school webpage, but working on it forced me to complete some of the work that I didn’t complete during the school day, so I am grateful.
Before school started, I attended a PTO meeting. Something came up about budgeting, so I showed the treasurer my budget sheet. She said, “Is that for your personal records?!” I sheepishly said, “Yes.” She said, “Wow. I feel dumb!”
As I was updating the school phone list yesterday—it comes alphabetically but I like to reorganize it by grade level/team so that I know who works with whom—our administrative assistant looked at me and said, “I don’t understand this. You’re an artist. You’re not supposed to be so organized.” I chuckled and said, “I’m a musician and music is very structured, so I guess my brain is, too.”
My family picks on me because I make a spreadsheet every chance I get. My aunt needed to write on a calendar to visualize our Scandinavian Adventure. I needed to make a spreadsheet.
I thought my assistant principal was crazy yesterday when she said she enjoyed making the master schedule for the school. While glancing at the master schedule to isolate just the music schedule is a bit overwhelming to me, I found myself today feeling a small bit of the enjoyment that my assistant principal feels while I created the master food schedule for First Fridays. I was stupidly content systematically copying and pasting group names into different rows and columns.
I suddenly think about Barb-The-Art-Teacher-Who-No-Longer-Works-With-Me-But-Who-Will-Always-Be-My-Art-Teacher-In-My-Heart and about how just the thought of making a spreadsheet makes her cringe. I bet many of you have cringed while reading this note. And I smile.
I’m having a moment similar to the moments I have when I go to the dentist:
To put it simply, I am so thankful that each of us is different and that, in large part, we have the opportunity to live into those differences and build lives around work, activities, and routines that fit with who we are.
Yet, I’m thankful, too, that as Maya Angelou says:
[There are] obvious differences
between each sort and type,
but we are more alike, my friends
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
Maybe I should go make a spreadsheet of oxymorons.
• First Friday Festivities (which include a morning food component and a night-time activity),
• Secret Pal,
• Eaglet Trees (a school-wide class incentive program that involves tracking data, displaying it on a bulletin board, and communicating it to PTO), and
• The Morning Announcements (for which I must compile a list of everyone’s birthday, make and distribute a schedule for classes to help with the announcements, set up a template from which to read the announcements, and make up writing/drawing prompts for each week).
I then went to my first class of my Master of School Administration program and proceeded to stay after class to work on my school webpage for a couple of hours (https://sites.google.com/a/harnett.k12.nc.us/deaton/home). I have no idea what possessed me to work on my school webpage, but working on it forced me to complete some of the work that I didn’t complete during the school day, so I am grateful.
Before school started, I attended a PTO meeting. Something came up about budgeting, so I showed the treasurer my budget sheet. She said, “Is that for your personal records?!” I sheepishly said, “Yes.” She said, “Wow. I feel dumb!”
As I was updating the school phone list yesterday—it comes alphabetically but I like to reorganize it by grade level/team so that I know who works with whom—our administrative assistant looked at me and said, “I don’t understand this. You’re an artist. You’re not supposed to be so organized.” I chuckled and said, “I’m a musician and music is very structured, so I guess my brain is, too.”
My family picks on me because I make a spreadsheet every chance I get. My aunt needed to write on a calendar to visualize our Scandinavian Adventure. I needed to make a spreadsheet.
I thought my assistant principal was crazy yesterday when she said she enjoyed making the master schedule for the school. While glancing at the master schedule to isolate just the music schedule is a bit overwhelming to me, I found myself today feeling a small bit of the enjoyment that my assistant principal feels while I created the master food schedule for First Fridays. I was stupidly content systematically copying and pasting group names into different rows and columns.
I suddenly think about Barb-The-Art-Teacher-Who-No-Longer-Works-With-Me-But-Who-Will-Always-Be-My-Art-Teacher-In-My-Heart and about how just the thought of making a spreadsheet makes her cringe. I bet many of you have cringed while reading this note. And I smile.
I’m having a moment similar to the moments I have when I go to the dentist:
To put it simply, I am so thankful that each of us is different and that, in large part, we have the opportunity to live into those differences and build lives around work, activities, and routines that fit with who we are.
Yet, I’m thankful, too, that as Maya Angelou says:
[There are] obvious differences
between each sort and type,
but we are more alike, my friends
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
Maybe I should go make a spreadsheet of oxymorons.
I Like Spreadsheets, But You Might Not. And That’s Okay
I spent my day doing the administrative work that goes into planning and keeping up with:
• First Friday Festivities (which include a morning food component and a night-time activity),
• Secret Pal,
• Eaglet Trees (a school-wide class incentive program that involves tracking data, displaying it on a bulletin board, and communicating it to PTO), and
• The Morning Announcements (for which I must compile a list of everyone’s birthday, make and distribute a schedule for classes to help with the announcements, set up a template from which to read the announcements, and make up writing/drawing prompts for each week).
I then went to my first class of my Master of School Administration program and proceeded to stay after class to work on my school webpage for a couple of hours (https://sites.google.com/a/harnett.k12.nc.us/deaton/home). I have no idea what possessed me to work on my school webpage, but working on it forced me to complete some of the work that I didn’t complete during the school day, so I am grateful.
Before school started, I attended a PTO meeting. Something came up about budgeting, so I showed the treasurer my budget sheet. She said, “Is that for your personal records?!” I sheepishly said, “Yes.” She said, “Wow. I feel dumb!”
As I was updating the school phone list yesterday—it comes alphabetically but I like to reorganize it by grade level/team so that I know who works with whom—our administrative assistant looked at me and said, “I don’t understand this. You’re an artist. You’re not supposed to be so organized.” I chuckled and said, “I’m a musician and music is very structured, so I guess my brain is, too.”
My family picks on me because I make a spreadsheet every chance I get. My aunt needed to write on a calendar to visualize our Scandinavian Adventure. I needed to make a spreadsheet.
I thought my assistant principal was crazy yesterday when she said she enjoyed making the master schedule for the school. While glancing at the master schedule to isolate just the music schedule is a bit overwhelming to me, I found myself today feeling a small bit of the enjoyment that my assistant principal feels while I created the master food schedule for First Fridays. I was stupidly content systematically copying and pasting group names into different rows and columns.
I suddenly think about Barb-The-Art-Teacher-Who-No-Longer-Works-With-Me-But-Who-Will-Always-Be-My-Art-Teacher-In-My-Heart and about how just the thought of making a spreadsheet makes her cringe. I bet many of you have cringed while reading this note. And I smile.
I’m having a moment similar to the moments I have when I go to the dentist:
To put it simply, I am so thankful that each of us is different and that, in large part, we have the opportunity to live into those differences and build lives around work, activities, and routines that fit with who we are.
Yet, I’m thankful, too, that as Maya Angelou says:
[There are] obvious differences
between each sort and type,
but we are more alike, my friends
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
Maybe I should go make a spreadsheet of oxymorons.
• First Friday Festivities (which include a morning food component and a night-time activity),
• Secret Pal,
• Eaglet Trees (a school-wide class incentive program that involves tracking data, displaying it on a bulletin board, and communicating it to PTO), and
• The Morning Announcements (for which I must compile a list of everyone’s birthday, make and distribute a schedule for classes to help with the announcements, set up a template from which to read the announcements, and make up writing/drawing prompts for each week).
I then went to my first class of my Master of School Administration program and proceeded to stay after class to work on my school webpage for a couple of hours (https://sites.google.com/a/harnett.k12.nc.us/deaton/home). I have no idea what possessed me to work on my school webpage, but working on it forced me to complete some of the work that I didn’t complete during the school day, so I am grateful.
Before school started, I attended a PTO meeting. Something came up about budgeting, so I showed the treasurer my budget sheet. She said, “Is that for your personal records?!” I sheepishly said, “Yes.” She said, “Wow. I feel dumb!”
As I was updating the school phone list yesterday—it comes alphabetically but I like to reorganize it by grade level/team so that I know who works with whom—our administrative assistant looked at me and said, “I don’t understand this. You’re an artist. You’re not supposed to be so organized.” I chuckled and said, “I’m a musician and music is very structured, so I guess my brain is, too.”
My family picks on me because I make a spreadsheet every chance I get. My aunt needed to write on a calendar to visualize our Scandinavian Adventure. I needed to make a spreadsheet.
I thought my assistant principal was crazy yesterday when she said she enjoyed making the master schedule for the school. While glancing at the master schedule to isolate just the music schedule is a bit overwhelming to me, I found myself today feeling a small bit of the enjoyment that my assistant principal feels while I created the master food schedule for First Fridays. I was stupidly content systematically copying and pasting group names into different rows and columns.
I suddenly think about Barb-The-Art-Teacher-Who-No-Longer-Works-With-Me-But-Who-Will-Always-Be-My-Art-Teacher-In-My-Heart and about how just the thought of making a spreadsheet makes her cringe. I bet many of you have cringed while reading this note. And I smile.
I’m having a moment similar to the moments I have when I go to the dentist:
To put it simply, I am so thankful that each of us is different and that, in large part, we have the opportunity to live into those differences and build lives around work, activities, and routines that fit with who we are.
Yet, I’m thankful, too, that as Maya Angelou says:
[There are] obvious differences
between each sort and type,
but we are more alike, my friends
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
Maybe I should go make a spreadsheet of oxymorons.
Monday, August 22, 2016
Estonia and Poland--Haikus from The Trip
***I may have lost mostly of my photos from my Scandinavian Adventure—the verdict is still out—but thankfully my notes and poems were backed up in that mysterious cloud of invisible information—and some of those notes included a few pictures! As seen in my middle of the night revelation that has resulted in my enrolling in graduate school (see last Thursday’s note), even though I was very far away from real life, my brain continued to think and my heart continued to feel deeply about things having nothing to do with the trip. Some of those “feels” (as a good friend would say) are seen here.***
Friday, 7.22.16, Tallin, Estonia
Today's my birthday
I am in a foreign place
This is rather neat
Professor Umbridge
She clears her throat like Umbridge
God grant me patience
If he wants to try
Let him try. Challenged is not
Incapable. At all.
Large Crowds of people
Pouring through the doors. Tourists.
If only worship.
7.23.16, Sea Day Poems
The day is lazy
A much needed day of rest
Vacation is hard
I want to be more
Than a negative mem'ry
There was so much more
I often wonder
Are the trails I leave behind
Lasting or fading
7.24.16, Gdansk, Poland
Morning bells ringing
Chiming the hour with bright song
Tickling the senses
Sometimes holding on
Suffocates pathways of breath.
Inhale. Let go. Breathe.
I’ve made huge mistakes
Turned left on a one way street
Yet some things were right
Friday, 7.22.16, Tallin, Estonia
Today's my birthday
I am in a foreign place
This is rather neat
Professor Umbridge
She clears her throat like Umbridge
God grant me patience
If he wants to try
Let him try. Challenged is not
Incapable. At all.
Large Crowds of people
Pouring through the doors. Tourists.
If only worship.
7.23.16, Sea Day Poems
The day is lazy
A much needed day of rest
Vacation is hard
I want to be more
Than a negative mem'ry
There was so much more
I often wonder
Are the trails I leave behind
Lasting or fading
7.24.16, Gdansk, Poland
Morning bells ringing
Chiming the hour with bright song
Tickling the senses
Sometimes holding on
Suffocates pathways of breath.
Inhale. Let go. Breathe.
I’ve made huge mistakes
Turned left on a one way street
Yet some things were right
Sunday, August 21, 2016
Strangely At Peace
Last night, I played guitar for a women's worship service at a local story. I listened to a woman give testimony of a life filled with hardship being transformed by God's steady presence and grace. Shortly after hearing her story and responding by reading aloud a passage of scripture from my phone, my phone started an update that I honestly do not recall initiating. After talking with someone knowledgeable about iPhones and trying about 10 times to complete the update and/or restore, my phone is still frozen and will do nothing. I got my old phone reactivated until I could go to an Apple Store.
A lot has changed in my life over the past couple of months. I've said a lot of goodbyes to people at school and church. Things that were steady and certain are no longer so. Change is not my strong suit. Losing things and letting go is not my best gift. I'm the girl who is perfectly content with a 9-year-old computer, a 16-year-old car, and sheets that I've slept on since I was a kid, and I'm the girl who still has pictures of long-ago friends hanging on the mirror in her room so that I don't forget to remember and pray.
And so my phone locking up and me possibly losing all of my pictures from the Scandinavian Adventure that I still cannot find words about which to speak...It feels like another quiet release--another letting go that I wasn't expecting--another unwanted yet somehow needed exercise to stretch my soul. I am sad. And I would love for the phone to be healed so that I don't have spend ridiculous amounts of money on insurance, chargers, cases, etc. for a new phone. But...I am strangely at peace.
I am humbly and gently reminded that this world is so much bigger than phones and that the same God whose steady presence and grace has guided last night's speaker through much hardship is the same God whose steady presence and grace has guided me through the same. That same God will guide you, too, friend. And tonight, as I prepare to go to work tomorrow at a school that feels like a different place, with a phone that is much less smart than the one I was getting used to, I am so grateful.
A lot has changed in my life over the past couple of months. I've said a lot of goodbyes to people at school and church. Things that were steady and certain are no longer so. Change is not my strong suit. Losing things and letting go is not my best gift. I'm the girl who is perfectly content with a 9-year-old computer, a 16-year-old car, and sheets that I've slept on since I was a kid, and I'm the girl who still has pictures of long-ago friends hanging on the mirror in her room so that I don't forget to remember and pray.
And so my phone locking up and me possibly losing all of my pictures from the Scandinavian Adventure that I still cannot find words about which to speak...It feels like another quiet release--another letting go that I wasn't expecting--another unwanted yet somehow needed exercise to stretch my soul. I am sad. And I would love for the phone to be healed so that I don't have spend ridiculous amounts of money on insurance, chargers, cases, etc. for a new phone. But...I am strangely at peace.
I am humbly and gently reminded that this world is so much bigger than phones and that the same God whose steady presence and grace has guided last night's speaker through much hardship is the same God whose steady presence and grace has guided me through the same. That same God will guide you, too, friend. And tonight, as I prepare to go to work tomorrow at a school that feels like a different place, with a phone that is much less smart than the one I was getting used to, I am so grateful.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
A 3AM Conversation That Changed My Life (With Haikus)
It took me most of the trip to get used to the time difference. With the exception of the two days that we were in St. Petersburg, we were six hours ahead of home; in St. Petersburg, we were seven. When I was getting up, everyone here was either in bed or getting ready for bed. When I was going to bed, everyone here was preparing for supper or enjoying a late afternoon storm. When I was touring the world, everyone here was exploring dream land or beginning to explore what the workforce would present him/her with for the day.
I suppose it’s no wonder, then, that I had a fully functioning conversation with one of my friends on July 20th at 3:00 in the morning.
I’m not exactly sure what caused me to wake up at 3am—I suppose it was the sound of the text coming through—but I had indeed been asleep but was at that moment awake, my body clock sensing 9pm. I will admit: sometimes a text will awaken me and I will do my best to carry on a text conversation, but it will come out completely incoherent because, well, I’m asleep. For instance, I fell asleep yesterday afternoon and awoke when I heard a ding accompanied with this question: “How was your TOY interview? How do you feel?” I responded: “I don’t know that I’ll win becussd of my luck is school Invigorating but I was myself and the osslicsyiom too. J fix my best.”
So there I was, lying in my bed en route to Russia, fully awake but not in the mental space to have been premeditating thought, having the following conversation as a continuation of a previous talk about her going to graduate school:
Friend: I’m considering an online program so I can do it in my home and not in an intimidating classroom.
Me: I’ve been secretly thinking about going back…I’ve not talked about it at all.
Friend: For what?
Me: School administration.
Friend: I thought so. You’re terrific at public speaking. You could totally lead faculty meetings.
Me: Well thank you.
*We then wandered off topic for about ten minutes, but I was feverishly counting syllables and write the following haikus*
Crazy idea
In the middle of the night
Falling into place
It’s making sense now
The diverse path I have trod
A call coming clear
Racing heart running fast
To the edge of excitement
It is time to leap
A profound moment
Or is this a vivid dream
Only time will tell
Everything that’s me
Has been leading to this time
I think I’m ready
Keeping the haikus to myself, I came back around to the conversation by saying this: I will be contacting Campbell when I get home. It’s probably too late to start in the Fall. But I think I am heading back to school, friend. It’s as if some pieces of my life just shifted into place. At 3am. Thank you.
Then my friend inserted clapping hands and the emoji for a-okay, and I fell asleep.
I didn’t mention this experience until a week after returning from my trip (which was over two weeks after the above conversation occurred). Unlike the text that I found on my phone yesterday when I woke up from my nap, I remembered the conversation vividly—yet my conscious self filled my subconscious self with all kinds of doubts to refute the certainty of that night. I secretly researched the program and contacted Campbell and found out what I needed to do to enroll in classes. I talked myself out of it. I talked myself back into it. I felt good about the things I might learn in class; I really do like administrative things. I felt really weird to think about having the title principal attached to my name; it still feels weird and I’m not even sure it’s what will happen. I imagined myself failing. I imagined myself succeeding. But what I couldn’t imagine was going through this semester without being in class one night per week—which is somewhat insane considering that a lot of things are going to be very different and unknown at both school and church with changes in staff and personnel.
My acceptance letter into the School of Education at Campbell University was mailed today. As soon as I settle upon a class, I will be enrolled in the Master of School Administration program. My top spiritual gift is administration. I guess it’s time to do something with that little known fact that made its voice clear at 3am in the middle of the Baltic Sea, on a vacation that truly changed my life.
I suppose it’s no wonder, then, that I had a fully functioning conversation with one of my friends on July 20th at 3:00 in the morning.
I’m not exactly sure what caused me to wake up at 3am—I suppose it was the sound of the text coming through—but I had indeed been asleep but was at that moment awake, my body clock sensing 9pm. I will admit: sometimes a text will awaken me and I will do my best to carry on a text conversation, but it will come out completely incoherent because, well, I’m asleep. For instance, I fell asleep yesterday afternoon and awoke when I heard a ding accompanied with this question: “How was your TOY interview? How do you feel?” I responded: “I don’t know that I’ll win becussd of my luck is school Invigorating but I was myself and the osslicsyiom too. J fix my best.”
So there I was, lying in my bed en route to Russia, fully awake but not in the mental space to have been premeditating thought, having the following conversation as a continuation of a previous talk about her going to graduate school:
Friend: I’m considering an online program so I can do it in my home and not in an intimidating classroom.
Me: I’ve been secretly thinking about going back…I’ve not talked about it at all.
Friend: For what?
Me: School administration.
Friend: I thought so. You’re terrific at public speaking. You could totally lead faculty meetings.
Me: Well thank you.
*We then wandered off topic for about ten minutes, but I was feverishly counting syllables and write the following haikus*
Crazy idea
In the middle of the night
Falling into place
It’s making sense now
The diverse path I have trod
A call coming clear
Racing heart running fast
To the edge of excitement
It is time to leap
A profound moment
Or is this a vivid dream
Only time will tell
Everything that’s me
Has been leading to this time
I think I’m ready
Keeping the haikus to myself, I came back around to the conversation by saying this: I will be contacting Campbell when I get home. It’s probably too late to start in the Fall. But I think I am heading back to school, friend. It’s as if some pieces of my life just shifted into place. At 3am. Thank you.
Then my friend inserted clapping hands and the emoji for a-okay, and I fell asleep.
I didn’t mention this experience until a week after returning from my trip (which was over two weeks after the above conversation occurred). Unlike the text that I found on my phone yesterday when I woke up from my nap, I remembered the conversation vividly—yet my conscious self filled my subconscious self with all kinds of doubts to refute the certainty of that night. I secretly researched the program and contacted Campbell and found out what I needed to do to enroll in classes. I talked myself out of it. I talked myself back into it. I felt good about the things I might learn in class; I really do like administrative things. I felt really weird to think about having the title principal attached to my name; it still feels weird and I’m not even sure it’s what will happen. I imagined myself failing. I imagined myself succeeding. But what I couldn’t imagine was going through this semester without being in class one night per week—which is somewhat insane considering that a lot of things are going to be very different and unknown at both school and church with changes in staff and personnel.
My acceptance letter into the School of Education at Campbell University was mailed today. As soon as I settle upon a class, I will be enrolled in the Master of School Administration program. My top spiritual gift is administration. I guess it’s time to do something with that little known fact that made its voice clear at 3am in the middle of the Baltic Sea, on a vacation that truly changed my life.
Monday, August 15, 2016
Icelandic Haikus
***I wrote a lot of haikus while on my Scandinavian Adventure. I seem currently to be treading in the middle of haiku sea. Sometimes I was inspired by what I saw, sometimes by something someone said, sometimes something that happened, sometimes because my mind is just always turning. The following haikus are from Iceland.***
7.14.16—En route to Iceland
Tiny little dot
Moving fast across the sea
Adventure begins
7.15.16—Iceland Day One (Thingvellir National Park, The Geysirs, Gullfoss Waterfall)
This raging water
May be the most beautiful
I have ever seen
Rich diversity
I am beyond overwhelmed
And simply amazed
Volcano erupt
Mold and decorate the land
Green moss, brown boulders
Little grazing sheep
Roam where you may, all over
Just come when I call
Don’t punish the slaves
Swedish law arrests the “Johns”
We should do the same
We need the church. It’s
Not community, rites. It’s
The Body of Christ.
7.16.16—Iceland Day Two (Reykjavik City Tour, Hallgrims Church, The Blue Lagoon)
I know one language
Right now I feel ignorant
Dumb American
It’s a big small world
People everywhere the same
Yet very diff’rent
Middle of nowhere
Floating salty blue lagoon
Happy accident
Very thorough guide
Thank you for information
Communication’s key
Put me on a bus
If I ever need to rest
Natural sleep aid
Words are our weapons
Our people don’t carry guns
These are our heroes
Modesty? No need.
We are all women here. Still,
Where is my towel?
I was fast asleep
I did not mean to hit you
Forgive me, oh please?
Time to go to bed
Morning will come in three hours
It’s quite light outside
(So what)
For the large organ
For the large bells and steeple
For lines of tourists
(No wonder)
Jesus turned tables
People think the church is dead
Few attempt to come
(Church is)
Alive in people
Thriving when God’s Spirit moves
More than large buildings
7.14.16—En route to Iceland
Tiny little dot
Moving fast across the sea
Adventure begins
7.15.16—Iceland Day One (Thingvellir National Park, The Geysirs, Gullfoss Waterfall)
This raging water
May be the most beautiful
I have ever seen
Rich diversity
I am beyond overwhelmed
And simply amazed
Volcano erupt
Mold and decorate the land
Green moss, brown boulders
Little grazing sheep
Roam where you may, all over
Just come when I call
Don’t punish the slaves
Swedish law arrests the “Johns”
We should do the same
We need the church. It’s
Not community, rites. It’s
The Body of Christ.
7.16.16—Iceland Day Two (Reykjavik City Tour, Hallgrims Church, The Blue Lagoon)
I know one language
Right now I feel ignorant
Dumb American
It’s a big small world
People everywhere the same
Yet very diff’rent
Middle of nowhere
Floating salty blue lagoon
Happy accident
Very thorough guide
Thank you for information
Communication’s key
Put me on a bus
If I ever need to rest
Natural sleep aid
Words are our weapons
Our people don’t carry guns
These are our heroes
Modesty? No need.
We are all women here. Still,
Where is my towel?
I was fast asleep
I did not mean to hit you
Forgive me, oh please?
Time to go to bed
Morning will come in three hours
It’s quite light outside
(So what)
For the large organ
For the large bells and steeple
For lines of tourists
(No wonder)
Jesus turned tables
People think the church is dead
Few attempt to come
(Church is)
Alive in people
Thriving when God’s Spirit moves
More than large buildings
Poetic Thoughts from Sweden, Finland, and Russia
***You never know what will inspire a haiku (or some other type of short poem). A beautiful landscape. Sunset. Building. A rude person. A rich person. A beautiful person. An unreadable sign and language. Inspiration is all around us. Just look for people counting syllables on their fingers. They are probably using following inspiration onto the haiku sea.***
7.17.16—From Iceland to Sweden
No need to jump line
Didn’t learn in primary
Skipping is not nice
We are so wasteful
Consuming, devouring. More.
It is sickening
This is new to me
I have no traveled the world
This really is privilege
Don’t take for granted
Movie in my hand
Move on my screen
I think I will go to sleep
Underground exits
Not just in video games
Curves and lights exist
7.18.16—Stockholm, Sweden, and the Boat
Diverse people. Real.
Diff’rent lives, different views.
One voice. One God. Strength.
In darkness.
You are there, God.
In brilliant color.
You are beautiful, God.
Let me blow you a kiss.
7.19.16—Helsinki and Porvoo, Finland, and the Boat
History is important
Not everything new is good
Be careful moving forward
Underneath riches
Everything is not okay
You are human too
Stripped naked. Stripped bare.
No honors. No awards. No
Make-up, titles, labels. No
Pretense. Just human.
Late, brilliant color
Magnificent, deep, beauty
Baltic Sea nights
Do not try so hard
Who are you when you are “off”
Do you even know?
Out on these blue seas
I hope you find yourself here
Peace is yours to take
7.20.16—St. Petersburg, Russia
Wide open spaces
Room to grow happiness
The landscape looks sad
Is this how you feel?
Seeing but not seeing words.
I will help you read.
7.17.16—From Iceland to Sweden
No need to jump line
Didn’t learn in primary
Skipping is not nice
We are so wasteful
Consuming, devouring. More.
It is sickening
This is new to me
I have no traveled the world
This really is privilege
Don’t take for granted
Movie in my hand
Move on my screen
I think I will go to sleep
Underground exits
Not just in video games
Curves and lights exist
7.18.16—Stockholm, Sweden, and the Boat
Diverse people. Real.
Diff’rent lives, different views.
One voice. One God. Strength.
In darkness.
You are there, God.
In brilliant color.
You are beautiful, God.
Let me blow you a kiss.
7.19.16—Helsinki and Porvoo, Finland, and the Boat
History is important
Not everything new is good
Be careful moving forward
Underneath riches
Everything is not okay
You are human too
Stripped naked. Stripped bare.
No honors. No awards. No
Make-up, titles, labels. No
Pretense. Just human.
Late, brilliant color
Magnificent, deep, beauty
Baltic Sea nights
Do not try so hard
Who are you when you are “off”
Do you even know?
Out on these blue seas
I hope you find yourself here
Peace is yours to take
7.20.16—St. Petersburg, Russia
Wide open spaces
Room to grow happiness
The landscape looks sad
Is this how you feel?
Seeing but not seeing words.
I will help you read.
Monday, August 8, 2016
One Orange Croc in Front of the Other
When I was in Jacksonville in June for Operation Surprise G-mama, my aunt June Gail (now otherwise known as the Fred who took me to Europe in July) took me to buy new shoes. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have concerned myself with buying new shoes. I have a lot of shoes in my closet and most of them are in decent shape. But on this day, I actually did need new shoes: I needed a new pair of waterproof shoes because I had worn out every other pair that I had. My pink Keens have a noticeably broken side, my brown Crocs with the cute Jibbetz have no traction, my orange and yellow Croc flip flops have no traction, and my waterproof Birkenstocks are no longer wearable because the glue holding the shoe together has come lose. So, alas, I really did need a new pair of waterproof shoes.
The store that we went to didn’t have the shoes that JG took me specifically to buy and it didn’t have a pair of Keens like the pink ones that I have worn to the point of fashionable death, but it did have Crocs. So I bought a pair of orange Crocs, and I have since worn those Crocs to Europe and back.
As I write this note today, I am looking at the Atlantic Ocean from the East Coast of America. I am with a group of kids and adults from a church that I’ve been working with for one week every summer for the past decade. For nine years, we met at a lovely retreat center in the mountains of North Carolina, yet this year we have come together at the coast. This week always serves as a marker for me—a definite point of keeping time—a clear unit of tracing where life has taken me in the year since the group and I last met.
To say that a lot has happened since last year’s camp is an understatement. I completed another year of school, taught the best of my life, was named Teacher of the Year, but then had to say goodbye to most of my friends as they packed up their rooms at JES and went somewhere else. I learned new and meaningful music with the choir and praise team, planned moving worship services, began dreaming for the future of Antioch, but then had to say goodbye to my pastor as he packed up his family to move back to Texas. I surprised my grandmother for her birthday, went to a beautiful lake in NC for family vacation, helped run another successful Nana camp, and then had the opportunity to travel across the Atlantic Ocean and see it from the other side.
For someone who loves words, the words are not coming to express everything that I am feeling today.
As I walked on the beach a bit earlier, looking for sea glass, I caught myself rehearsing what I should write today. I came up with a plethora of different beginnings —some poignant, some cute—and topics—the importance of community for shared memory, a story shared in worship last night—but I couldn’t land on one, definite thing. Then I looked at my feet—the same feet that had worn those orange Crocs that I could see shining ahead in the sand—and I heard a very clear voice say, “Stop trying to figure everything out, Deanna. Just be present right here, right now, in this moment, on the beach. Feel the sand on your feet. Listen to the waves crash. Hear the children’s laughter. Watch the selfless dedication of chaperones. Life is happening right here. Not just in the awe-inspiring memories of your summer or in the anxiety-inspiring thoughts of the new year. Your note will come. Sharing your stories will come. Future days will come. But right now, just be here with me.”
When I got my orange Crocs at the beginning of the summer, I had no idea where they would take me. I had a vague notion of what it would mean to travel the world and I knew the itineraries of family vacation, the Scandinavian Adventure, and this camp, but I had no idea that at the end of it all, the foundation of my world would have expanded and that my life would be changed in ways I cannot yet express. All I knew was that I needed new waterproof shoes.
Maybe all we need to know is how to put one foot in front of the other—barefoot, dry-shoed, or bright-orange-waterproof shoed—and stay present in the moment, trusting that God will guide us to the next moment, on this side of the Atlantic or beyond.
I am overwhelmed
With gratitude. My humble
Heart sings thanks and praise.
Amen.
The store that we went to didn’t have the shoes that JG took me specifically to buy and it didn’t have a pair of Keens like the pink ones that I have worn to the point of fashionable death, but it did have Crocs. So I bought a pair of orange Crocs, and I have since worn those Crocs to Europe and back.
As I write this note today, I am looking at the Atlantic Ocean from the East Coast of America. I am with a group of kids and adults from a church that I’ve been working with for one week every summer for the past decade. For nine years, we met at a lovely retreat center in the mountains of North Carolina, yet this year we have come together at the coast. This week always serves as a marker for me—a definite point of keeping time—a clear unit of tracing where life has taken me in the year since the group and I last met.
To say that a lot has happened since last year’s camp is an understatement. I completed another year of school, taught the best of my life, was named Teacher of the Year, but then had to say goodbye to most of my friends as they packed up their rooms at JES and went somewhere else. I learned new and meaningful music with the choir and praise team, planned moving worship services, began dreaming for the future of Antioch, but then had to say goodbye to my pastor as he packed up his family to move back to Texas. I surprised my grandmother for her birthday, went to a beautiful lake in NC for family vacation, helped run another successful Nana camp, and then had the opportunity to travel across the Atlantic Ocean and see it from the other side.
For someone who loves words, the words are not coming to express everything that I am feeling today.
As I walked on the beach a bit earlier, looking for sea glass, I caught myself rehearsing what I should write today. I came up with a plethora of different beginnings —some poignant, some cute—and topics—the importance of community for shared memory, a story shared in worship last night—but I couldn’t land on one, definite thing. Then I looked at my feet—the same feet that had worn those orange Crocs that I could see shining ahead in the sand—and I heard a very clear voice say, “Stop trying to figure everything out, Deanna. Just be present right here, right now, in this moment, on the beach. Feel the sand on your feet. Listen to the waves crash. Hear the children’s laughter. Watch the selfless dedication of chaperones. Life is happening right here. Not just in the awe-inspiring memories of your summer or in the anxiety-inspiring thoughts of the new year. Your note will come. Sharing your stories will come. Future days will come. But right now, just be here with me.”
When I got my orange Crocs at the beginning of the summer, I had no idea where they would take me. I had a vague notion of what it would mean to travel the world and I knew the itineraries of family vacation, the Scandinavian Adventure, and this camp, but I had no idea that at the end of it all, the foundation of my world would have expanded and that my life would be changed in ways I cannot yet express. All I knew was that I needed new waterproof shoes.
Maybe all we need to know is how to put one foot in front of the other—barefoot, dry-shoed, or bright-orange-waterproof shoed—and stay present in the moment, trusting that God will guide us to the next moment, on this side of the Atlantic or beyond.
I am overwhelmed
With gratitude. My humble
Heart sings thanks and praise.
Amen.
Monday, July 11, 2016
Stanley Sends Fred to Europe
Well, folks. A big decision was made today. After traveling with me around the States and to Jamaica and the Bahamas, Stanley has decided that he will not be traveling with me to Europe. He feels like he needs to stay home to oversee my parents as they oversee the workers who are building my dad a home office. This evening, as they overlooked the building site, Stanley and little brother Fred discussed the trip, and Stanley gave Fred the wings he needs to fly. That’s right, everyone: Fred is going to Europe.
Some of you may be thinking, “Dee, I didn’t even know you were going to Europe.” I know. It’s hard to believe. But I am going to Europe. I leave Wednesday. I am both excited and nervous. And I haven’t yet started to pack.
Two years ago, my aunt asked if I’d be willing to travel with her to the Scandinavian region of the world. Being the geographical dummy that I am, I didn’t know where Scandinavia was, but I happily agreed to being June Gail’s travel companion. Why not? Not many opportunities like this arise.
One year ago, my aunt asked if I’d be willing to leave a couple of days early to go to Iceland. Sure! Why not? Again, not many opportunities like this arise.
And what is this opportunity?
It’s a 15-day Viking Sea Cruise around the Baltic Sea with a three day prelude in Iceland.
My aunt, who has traveled around the world, has spent many hours studying the places that we will be going and talking with both her travel agent and representatives of Viking Cruise Lines. Together, we spent an entire Saturday planning our excursions, and we have a jam-packed itinerary. I am fully prepared to be exhausted upon my return—and maybe during the trip—but I’m also prepared to do everything I can to experience as much as I can. Because, well, not many opportunities like this arise.
I’m nervous about getting motion sick. I’m nervous about eating something that makes me sick on my stomach. Okay. I’m nervous about getting any kind of sick. I’m nervous about missing a flight or missing the boat. I’m nervous about losing important documents. I’m nervous about being so far away from friends and family. I’m concerned about the divisions in this country. But. I think I may be more excited to see more of the world.
And what of the world will I see? You might want to pull up a map for this :
Reykjavick, Iceland: Thingvellir National Park, Geysir Hot Springs and included lunch, Gullfoss Waterfall, Kerid Crater, Blue Lagoon
Stockholm, Sweden: Meet The Royal Swedish Opera, Stockholm City Tour
Helsinki, Finland: Tour of Helsinki, Porvoo and Haikko Manor
St. Petersburg, Russia: Catherine Palace and Gardens, Panoramic city tour, Church of our Savior on Spilled Blood, St. Petersburg Ballet, Hermitage Museum, Peterhof, Hydrofoil across Gulf of Finland
Tallin, Estonia: Old Town Tallin and Manor Houses
Gdansk, Poland: Gdansk City Tour
Berlin, Germany: Sachsenhausen and Berlin Tour
Copenhagen, Denmark: Copenhagan City Tour, Tivoli Gardens, Evening Jazz Cruise Through Copenhagen
Alborg, Denmark: Wild West Coast and Lighthouse Tour
Stavenger, Norway: Stavenger Walking Tour and Oil Museum
Flam, Norway: A Panoramic Half-Day Railway Trip and Flam and Osterbo Mountain Lodge Tour
Bergen, Norway: Fantoft Stave Church and Grieg's House and Recital
Mamers, United States: VBS 2016
The Viking Sea does include complimentary internet access, and I have upgraded my phone so that I can more easily keep in contact and post pictures of Stanley’s little brother, Fred. So…I will try to keep in touch, but…I’m going to try harder to be fully present on this trip.
Keep us in your thoughts and prayers. And believe me when I say that I know how extremely fortunate I am to have this opportunity and that I, personally, am praying that I will be able to use this trip to bless others. Somehow. In some way. Amen.
Some of you may be thinking, “Dee, I didn’t even know you were going to Europe.” I know. It’s hard to believe. But I am going to Europe. I leave Wednesday. I am both excited and nervous. And I haven’t yet started to pack.
Two years ago, my aunt asked if I’d be willing to travel with her to the Scandinavian region of the world. Being the geographical dummy that I am, I didn’t know where Scandinavia was, but I happily agreed to being June Gail’s travel companion. Why not? Not many opportunities like this arise.
One year ago, my aunt asked if I’d be willing to leave a couple of days early to go to Iceland. Sure! Why not? Again, not many opportunities like this arise.
And what is this opportunity?
It’s a 15-day Viking Sea Cruise around the Baltic Sea with a three day prelude in Iceland.
My aunt, who has traveled around the world, has spent many hours studying the places that we will be going and talking with both her travel agent and representatives of Viking Cruise Lines. Together, we spent an entire Saturday planning our excursions, and we have a jam-packed itinerary. I am fully prepared to be exhausted upon my return—and maybe during the trip—but I’m also prepared to do everything I can to experience as much as I can. Because, well, not many opportunities like this arise.
I’m nervous about getting motion sick. I’m nervous about eating something that makes me sick on my stomach. Okay. I’m nervous about getting any kind of sick. I’m nervous about missing a flight or missing the boat. I’m nervous about losing important documents. I’m nervous about being so far away from friends and family. I’m concerned about the divisions in this country. But. I think I may be more excited to see more of the world.
And what of the world will I see? You might want to pull up a map for this :
Reykjavick, Iceland: Thingvellir National Park, Geysir Hot Springs and included lunch, Gullfoss Waterfall, Kerid Crater, Blue Lagoon
Stockholm, Sweden: Meet The Royal Swedish Opera, Stockholm City Tour
Helsinki, Finland: Tour of Helsinki, Porvoo and Haikko Manor
St. Petersburg, Russia: Catherine Palace and Gardens, Panoramic city tour, Church of our Savior on Spilled Blood, St. Petersburg Ballet, Hermitage Museum, Peterhof, Hydrofoil across Gulf of Finland
Tallin, Estonia: Old Town Tallin and Manor Houses
Gdansk, Poland: Gdansk City Tour
Berlin, Germany: Sachsenhausen and Berlin Tour
Copenhagen, Denmark: Copenhagan City Tour, Tivoli Gardens, Evening Jazz Cruise Through Copenhagen
Alborg, Denmark: Wild West Coast and Lighthouse Tour
Stavenger, Norway: Stavenger Walking Tour and Oil Museum
Flam, Norway: A Panoramic Half-Day Railway Trip and Flam and Osterbo Mountain Lodge Tour
Bergen, Norway: Fantoft Stave Church and Grieg's House and Recital
Mamers, United States: VBS 2016
The Viking Sea does include complimentary internet access, and I have upgraded my phone so that I can more easily keep in contact and post pictures of Stanley’s little brother, Fred. So…I will try to keep in touch, but…I’m going to try harder to be fully present on this trip.
Keep us in your thoughts and prayers. And believe me when I say that I know how extremely fortunate I am to have this opportunity and that I, personally, am praying that I will be able to use this trip to bless others. Somehow. In some way. Amen.
Thursday, July 7, 2016
The Art That Surrounds Me
If you’ve never been to my house, then you’ve never 1) been barked at by Bullet [who is super cute but incredibly protective and therefore inhospitable], 2) heard my mom play her piano [which is an incredible experience], 3) had my dad share one of his breakfast table sermons [which are often profound], or 4) experienced an aesthetic overload when visiting my living quarters upstairs.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m intuitive, feeling, blue, or just plain sentimental, but I like to surround myself with visual reminders of the people I love, the things I’ve experienced, or the words and images that inspire me.
Earlier today, when mom and I saw a storefront building for sale, I joked that we should buy it so that I could live in the apartment upstairs and use the downstairs for my art gallery.
I have a lot of art.
As I write these words tonight, I’m sitting in the orange fish art room. I have a huge fish that Barb the Art Teacher painted me for being Teacher of the Year the first time around, a multi-textured fish that Jack the Nephew made for me in 7th grade art class and another little finger painted fish that Jack made when he was 4, a yard art piece that Holli Who Lived In Laos painted orange for me, four surrealist prints that various friends have given me, and quite a few other pieces as well. They probably aren’t worth much to anyone but me, but to me they are worth so very much.
Then there is my room. The art work on my walls is an eclectic mix that holds pieces from as far back as high school. Currently, I have the pieces in my room grouped by subject/artist. I have a section of paintings that my friend Karen painted for the women’s retreats we used to attend. I have a section of drawings by a local artist that I stumbled upon in Vass. I have a Jesus section—that includes Laughing Jesus and a modern interpretation of the poem Footprints. I have a Fabio Napoleoni wall. I have a cross wall. I have a miscellaneous wall. I even have a wall-border of paper plates that I colored in college.
I have words in my room, too.
Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will direct your paths. Proverbs 3:5-6 [Not only one of my favorite verses, but also cross stitched especially for me.]
Embrace yourself as you are. Celebrate yourself as you long to be.
It’s not about controlling. It’s about being present, being open, being aware—and allowing it to come.
The baby in the womb was the maker of the moon.
And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.
Just keep swimming.
There are others words. Poems that people have written and shared with me. Words that I hold close to my heart.
And there are pieces of pottery. Ornaments. A Scentsy warmer. Orange fish and other collectibles.
Every piece of art in my room has a story that has influenced my story, just like every piece of art in this room has a story as well. And every time I look at the pieces, those stories and the people who helped make the stories run through my head—and I find myself remembering and praying and feeling the full gamut of emotions that they bring. And I am grateful. I am so very grateful.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m intuitive, feeling, blue, or just plain sentimental, but I like to surround myself with visual reminders of the people I love, the things I’ve experienced, or the words and images that inspire me.
Earlier today, when mom and I saw a storefront building for sale, I joked that we should buy it so that I could live in the apartment upstairs and use the downstairs for my art gallery.
I have a lot of art.
As I write these words tonight, I’m sitting in the orange fish art room. I have a huge fish that Barb the Art Teacher painted me for being Teacher of the Year the first time around, a multi-textured fish that Jack the Nephew made for me in 7th grade art class and another little finger painted fish that Jack made when he was 4, a yard art piece that Holli Who Lived In Laos painted orange for me, four surrealist prints that various friends have given me, and quite a few other pieces as well. They probably aren’t worth much to anyone but me, but to me they are worth so very much.
Then there is my room. The art work on my walls is an eclectic mix that holds pieces from as far back as high school. Currently, I have the pieces in my room grouped by subject/artist. I have a section of paintings that my friend Karen painted for the women’s retreats we used to attend. I have a section of drawings by a local artist that I stumbled upon in Vass. I have a Jesus section—that includes Laughing Jesus and a modern interpretation of the poem Footprints. I have a Fabio Napoleoni wall. I have a cross wall. I have a miscellaneous wall. I even have a wall-border of paper plates that I colored in college.
I have words in my room, too.
Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will direct your paths. Proverbs 3:5-6 [Not only one of my favorite verses, but also cross stitched especially for me.]
Embrace yourself as you are. Celebrate yourself as you long to be.
It’s not about controlling. It’s about being present, being open, being aware—and allowing it to come.
The baby in the womb was the maker of the moon.
And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.
Just keep swimming.
There are others words. Poems that people have written and shared with me. Words that I hold close to my heart.
And there are pieces of pottery. Ornaments. A Scentsy warmer. Orange fish and other collectibles.
Every piece of art in my room has a story that has influenced my story, just like every piece of art in this room has a story as well. And every time I look at the pieces, those stories and the people who helped make the stories run through my head—and I find myself remembering and praying and feeling the full gamut of emotions that they bring. And I am grateful. I am so very grateful.
Monday, July 4, 2016
It Is For Freedom
I confess. It’s easier not to write. I got off schedule during the last week of school because after working on an end-of-year computer requirement that involved writing for at least 8 hours each day I was, quite frankly, tired of looking at the computer. In fact, if I remember correctly, when I got home that Thursday night, I was so tired of everything that I plopped onto the couch and didn’t move for over three hours. Then I went to Florida to surprise non-internet using G-mama, to kid-sit Griffin the Nephew and Amelia the Niece, and on family vacation where internet connection was hit or miss. I could have written each of those nights. It was possible. But, like I said, it’s easier not to write. It’s easier not to do things that take time, discipline, vulnerability, and sacrifice.
Honestly, I’ve given serious thought to discontinuing these Monday and Thursday posts. I started writing them six years ago as a means of letting people know that those of us in full-time vocational ministry were not super-humans but regular-humans that experience life just like everyone else, and while I ended my work in full-time vocational ministry 2012, I’ve kept writing. I’ve kept writing because I knew it was a discipline that was good—a simple spiritual discipline of sorts—not a spiritual discipline listed in Foster’s Celebration of Discipline—but a discipline nonetheless. Yet many times my non-super-human self finds itself wondering, “What’s the point of posting each week? I don’t have anything profound to say. I write about Bullet and my family and school most of the time. And when I do write something spiritually or emotionally significant, most people don’t read it, so why put the words out there? Why not just stop?”
Before Mister Pastor Patrick announced that he and his family were returning home to live in Texas, he had scheduled yesterday and next Sunday as vacation time and asked my dad to fill the pulpit on those two Sundays. So my dad spoke yesterday and preached about freedom—about a people’s challenge to use their freedom not to take care of themselves and build up their own riches but to honor God and take care of one another.
In setting up the sermon for the children, Rebecca the Children’s Minister asked the children to recite the last line of The Star Spangled Banner: “O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.” She told the kids that even though we are each free to do pretty much anything we want to do—as long as we don’t break the law—we, as Christ-followers, are challenged to do things that are good and right and of God—and those things often take bravery.
As I write tonight, fireworks are going off around me. Bullet is petrified but hundreds of thousands of people around the country are celebrating freedom. I am grateful. And I am challenged to uphold and share a message of freedom to the people of every tribe, nation, and tongue, for the freedom that dominates my heart and mind tonight is a freedom that transcends tribe, nation, and tongue.
You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love. For the entire law is fulfilled in keeping this one command: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” If you bite and devour each other, watch out or you will be destroyed by each other…[And] the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things there is no law. Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires. Since we live by the Spirit, let us keep in step with the Spirit (--excerpts from Galatians 5).
Freedom. Love. Patience. Self-control. Discipline. Bravery.
I could stop writing. It would be so easy to stop writing. Life would go on and the world would keep turning. Yet on this Independence Day as I recognize that I am fortunate to have the freedom to pretty much do as I please, I also recognize that freedom is not free and that it comes with a call to be greater than myself. It comes with a call to be brave and to live by the Spirit that once called and continues to call me to walk this journey of faith with those around me…together…sacrificially…with discipline…and Love.
Honestly, I’ve given serious thought to discontinuing these Monday and Thursday posts. I started writing them six years ago as a means of letting people know that those of us in full-time vocational ministry were not super-humans but regular-humans that experience life just like everyone else, and while I ended my work in full-time vocational ministry 2012, I’ve kept writing. I’ve kept writing because I knew it was a discipline that was good—a simple spiritual discipline of sorts—not a spiritual discipline listed in Foster’s Celebration of Discipline—but a discipline nonetheless. Yet many times my non-super-human self finds itself wondering, “What’s the point of posting each week? I don’t have anything profound to say. I write about Bullet and my family and school most of the time. And when I do write something spiritually or emotionally significant, most people don’t read it, so why put the words out there? Why not just stop?”
Before Mister Pastor Patrick announced that he and his family were returning home to live in Texas, he had scheduled yesterday and next Sunday as vacation time and asked my dad to fill the pulpit on those two Sundays. So my dad spoke yesterday and preached about freedom—about a people’s challenge to use their freedom not to take care of themselves and build up their own riches but to honor God and take care of one another.
In setting up the sermon for the children, Rebecca the Children’s Minister asked the children to recite the last line of The Star Spangled Banner: “O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.” She told the kids that even though we are each free to do pretty much anything we want to do—as long as we don’t break the law—we, as Christ-followers, are challenged to do things that are good and right and of God—and those things often take bravery.
As I write tonight, fireworks are going off around me. Bullet is petrified but hundreds of thousands of people around the country are celebrating freedom. I am grateful. And I am challenged to uphold and share a message of freedom to the people of every tribe, nation, and tongue, for the freedom that dominates my heart and mind tonight is a freedom that transcends tribe, nation, and tongue.
You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love. For the entire law is fulfilled in keeping this one command: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” If you bite and devour each other, watch out or you will be destroyed by each other…[And] the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things there is no law. Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires. Since we live by the Spirit, let us keep in step with the Spirit (--excerpts from Galatians 5).
Freedom. Love. Patience. Self-control. Discipline. Bravery.
I could stop writing. It would be so easy to stop writing. Life would go on and the world would keep turning. Yet on this Independence Day as I recognize that I am fortunate to have the freedom to pretty much do as I please, I also recognize that freedom is not free and that it comes with a call to be greater than myself. It comes with a call to be brave and to live by the Spirit that once called and continues to call me to walk this journey of faith with those around me…together…sacrificially…with discipline…and Love.
Monday, June 27, 2016
Haiku-ing Through Sadness
I had the privilege of kid-sitting Griffin the Nephew and Amelia the Niece on Thursday night. As part of our time together, we watched a couple of episodes of America’s Funniest Videos. We laughed super hard at the ones involving animals and babies, but we didn’t laugh so hard at the ones where people got hurt or where the camera person staged the whole scene. What we figured out was that the funniest moments tend to happen unplanned—like when Amelia told me that she would sleep in her parents’ king-size bed with me if I just had an off volume switch—or when she looked at a small group of fish and announced that they must be a home-school of fish—or like Sunday night when I was literally so sad that I could do nothing but lay in my bed, wrapped in my blanket, and…write…haiku. Yes. Haiku.
I struggle with goodbyes. Anyone who knows me knows this much. I’ve gotten better with goodbyes over the past few years. I’ve come to accept—more fully—that people come and go and that that is okay—even needed. Yet goodbyes are still hard—especially when they are said to a lot of people at once and/or to people I call friend and respect—and that has happened three times over the past three weeks.
On Sunday night, I told Mister Pastor Patrick and his beautiful wife Courtney goodbye. As part of their sending off, I worked with Rebecca the Great Children’s Minister to create a painting for them. On the back of the painting, as I was trying to write a nice little note to accompany Rebecca’s declaration that “Beca and Dee hate Texas” (which is where they are going), I found myself writing a haiku that went along with the day’s worship service, the last line of which expresses what Patrick wanted to say to the congregation and what I wanted to say to him and Courtney:
Faith. Hope. Love. Believe.
Simple words. Never more true.
I believe in you.
I suppose that a haiku tree sprouted in me with those words and kept growing last night when nothing else in me could move:
1.
Willow tree weeping
Rain falling softly off leaves
Body slumped to ground
2.
Faith hope love remain
The greatest of these is love
Love one another
3.
Paralyzed nothing
Lying prostrate on the ground
I am very sad
4. (modified form)
“Don’t be sad that it’s over—
Be glad it happened”
I think I’ll be both.
5.
So much to be done.
Work stares at me, calls my name.
Not now. Tomorrow.
6.
Ignore everything.
Lay in bed and write haiku.
Wish for a Genie.
7. (modified form)
People are leaving.
I feel real sadness.
Please don’t tell me I shouldn’t.
8.
My partner is gone.
I don’t know where to begin.
Without you? Blank space.
9.
My mom does not cry.
Except when profoundly moved.
You are quite special.
And then today:
10.
The morning after
A night of sleep didn’t bring you back
Equally as hard
11.
Hey Mister Pastor
You challenged me to be a
Better me. Thank you.
12. (Title: Mountain Lake)
Breathe in cool, crisp air
Lay back in peaceful waters
Tension fades away
Funny, huh? That rhythmic words are all I can find right now. I guess maybe it’s a way to find structure and order when so much feels like it’s falling apart?
This is a strange gift
Writing haiku through sadness
But I guess it works
I struggle with goodbyes. Anyone who knows me knows this much. I’ve gotten better with goodbyes over the past few years. I’ve come to accept—more fully—that people come and go and that that is okay—even needed. Yet goodbyes are still hard—especially when they are said to a lot of people at once and/or to people I call friend and respect—and that has happened three times over the past three weeks.
On Sunday night, I told Mister Pastor Patrick and his beautiful wife Courtney goodbye. As part of their sending off, I worked with Rebecca the Great Children’s Minister to create a painting for them. On the back of the painting, as I was trying to write a nice little note to accompany Rebecca’s declaration that “Beca and Dee hate Texas” (which is where they are going), I found myself writing a haiku that went along with the day’s worship service, the last line of which expresses what Patrick wanted to say to the congregation and what I wanted to say to him and Courtney:
Faith. Hope. Love. Believe.
Simple words. Never more true.
I believe in you.
I suppose that a haiku tree sprouted in me with those words and kept growing last night when nothing else in me could move:
1.
Willow tree weeping
Rain falling softly off leaves
Body slumped to ground
2.
Faith hope love remain
The greatest of these is love
Love one another
3.
Paralyzed nothing
Lying prostrate on the ground
I am very sad
4. (modified form)
“Don’t be sad that it’s over—
Be glad it happened”
I think I’ll be both.
5.
So much to be done.
Work stares at me, calls my name.
Not now. Tomorrow.
6.
Ignore everything.
Lay in bed and write haiku.
Wish for a Genie.
7. (modified form)
People are leaving.
I feel real sadness.
Please don’t tell me I shouldn’t.
8.
My partner is gone.
I don’t know where to begin.
Without you? Blank space.
9.
My mom does not cry.
Except when profoundly moved.
You are quite special.
And then today:
10.
The morning after
A night of sleep didn’t bring you back
Equally as hard
11.
Hey Mister Pastor
You challenged me to be a
Better me. Thank you.
12. (Title: Mountain Lake)
Breathe in cool, crisp air
Lay back in peaceful waters
Tension fades away
Funny, huh? That rhythmic words are all I can find right now. I guess maybe it’s a way to find structure and order when so much feels like it’s falling apart?
This is a strange gift
Writing haiku through sadness
But I guess it works
Monday, June 20, 2016
Moonrise
I walked in the door from a meeting tonight only to have Bullet demand that I take him out for his nightly potty break.
Because I still had my shoes on and because it feels great outside, I decided to take the little guy for a full walk tonight.
Just as we were returning home, I realized that I’d forgotten to check the mail. When I turned around to walk back to the mailbox, I was struck by a brilliant orange moon peaking over the trees at the end of the street.
I said to myself, “Wow. That wasn’t there just a few minutes ago.”
Then I proceeded to stand at the bottom of my driveway and watch the most beautiful moonrise I had ever seen.
“That is so beautiful, God,” I kept saying. “And to think that I wouldn’t have seen it had I not turned back.”
Sometimes, I suppose, we need to move forward and not look back because the pictures that we see of Egypt are deceptively beautiful and can hold us back.
But sometimes, just maybe, it’s okay to look back. Because, sometimes, just maybe, looking back helps us see something beautiful that we didn’t know was there waiting to peak above the horizon.
The rabbit in the moon is very clear tonight.
Thank you, God, for its beauty. And thank you for the reminder of your presence tonight…and every night. Amen.
---
Moonrise (by D.H. Lawrence)
And who has seen the moon, who has not seen
Her rise from out the chamber of the deep,
Flushed and grand and naked, as from the chamber
Of finished bridegroom, seen her rise and throw
Confession of delight upon the wave,
Littering the waves with her own superscription
Of bliss, till all her lambent beauty shakes towards us
Spread out and known at last, and we are sure
That beauty is a thing beyond the grave,
That perfect, bright experience never falls
To nothingness, and time will dim the moon
Sooner than our full consummation here
In this odd life will tarnish or pass away.
Because I still had my shoes on and because it feels great outside, I decided to take the little guy for a full walk tonight.
Just as we were returning home, I realized that I’d forgotten to check the mail. When I turned around to walk back to the mailbox, I was struck by a brilliant orange moon peaking over the trees at the end of the street.
I said to myself, “Wow. That wasn’t there just a few minutes ago.”
Then I proceeded to stand at the bottom of my driveway and watch the most beautiful moonrise I had ever seen.
“That is so beautiful, God,” I kept saying. “And to think that I wouldn’t have seen it had I not turned back.”
Sometimes, I suppose, we need to move forward and not look back because the pictures that we see of Egypt are deceptively beautiful and can hold us back.
But sometimes, just maybe, it’s okay to look back. Because, sometimes, just maybe, looking back helps us see something beautiful that we didn’t know was there waiting to peak above the horizon.
The rabbit in the moon is very clear tonight.
Thank you, God, for its beauty. And thank you for the reminder of your presence tonight…and every night. Amen.
---
Moonrise (by D.H. Lawrence)
And who has seen the moon, who has not seen
Her rise from out the chamber of the deep,
Flushed and grand and naked, as from the chamber
Of finished bridegroom, seen her rise and throw
Confession of delight upon the wave,
Littering the waves with her own superscription
Of bliss, till all her lambent beauty shakes towards us
Spread out and known at last, and we are sure
That beauty is a thing beyond the grave,
That perfect, bright experience never falls
To nothingness, and time will dim the moon
Sooner than our full consummation here
In this odd life will tarnish or pass away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)