No Fear Worm

This is what I see every morning when I come down the stairs: Marcenivo holding a sign that says “No Fear” and a yellow worm shining bright in colorful, abstract forest.

The titles of these words, respectively, are “No Place For You Here” and “Worm Shining Bright In The Forest In The Night.”

The artists are, respectively, Fabio Napoleoni and Dr. Suess.

The print mediums are, respectively, paper and wooden puzzle.

The purchase places are Fascination St. Fine Art in Denver, Colorado, and Gallery of Fine Art in Wilmington, NC.

The pieces were framed, respectively, by Nick and Steve at Hobby Lobby in Sanford, NC, and by Deanna and Sandra at home with a frame ordered directly from the puzzle company, Liberty Puzzles.

Not much is the same about these pieces. And yet they both set the tone of my day:

Live with no fear, Deanna. There is no fear in love. And be a worm shining bright in the dark in the night. Even in the middle of the day.

May they set the tone of your day, too, friends. Let’s be fearless, glowing worms together!

Thursday Night Thoughts From A Recovering People Pleaser

Before Texas Flip and Move, it was Rehab Addict. I still like Rehab Addict, but our DVR got reset and stopped recording it, so I haven’t been watching it recently. I actually didn’t know if they were still recording, but a quick Internet search revealed that they are…and that Nicole Curtis has had another baby…and some other really damning things about her.

As my mom and I scrolled through “The Truth About Nicole Curtis,” I read a bunch of really horrible things about this woman that I have come to admire via her TV show and Facebook page. Truth be told, Nicole’s philosophy of restoring old homes to their original glory has really influenced my thinking and changed the way that I think about restoration and redemption. So to read terrible things about her—her actions, decisions, personality, and life—was very disheartening…until I realized that if someone doesn’t like someone else—for whatever reason—then he/she can spin a tale to say whatever he/she wants it to say against whoever he/she wants to attack.

…

I am a recovering people-pleaser. Pin it on my personality type—or on being a preacher’s kid—but I am one of those people who cares a bit too much about what other people think. Years of therapy and a lot of prayer have nudged me out of the paralyzing fear that I used to live in, but quiet fear still lingers in my core—fear of disappointing, fear of not being liked, fear of making the wrong decision, fear of being questioned. Though logically I know that fear is not of God—I use the transitive property of fear here: If God is love, and there is no fear in love, then in God there is no fear—and though I know that living life worried about other peoples’ perceptions of me is no way to truly live—I, in all of my very human imperfection, still do it.

I think that this is part of the reason why major decisions are so difficult for me. I not only think about how a decision will affect me, but I think about how it will affect everyone else involved and how everyone else involved (and even people not involved) will perceive the decision. I know. This is somewhat egocentric. I know that I can’t control how someone else will react. I experience this all the time when my students love the songs I think that they will hate and hate the songs I think they will love. And it is crazy-making. But such is the reality of my life more often than I care to admit.

Friends: This is not good for someone going to graduate school for school administration!

Confession: I’m not sure why I’m going to graduate school. I know that God nudged me in this direction at 3am on a cruise ship in the Baltic Sea, but I don’t know what I’m going to do with the degree. School administration was never really on my radar screen. School music? Yes. Church administration? Yes. School administration? No. And yet...

…

I saw a sign on the way to work this morning that said, “God just wants your ‘yes.’” I prayed aloud, “God, I’m saying ‘yes.’ I just don’t know what I’m saying yes to.” Then I silently continued, “Will you show me what I’m saying yes to—and how it is that I need to get there? My yes is and always has been to you, your call, and your desire for my life. My yes is to your love, peace, and justice, and I want to live in those—with integrity—but I need you to clearly show me how to make decisions that are fair, just, right, ethical, positive, and life-giving and I need you to give me the courage to make those decisions—for myself and for that which I have been called to lead—because I cannot do it alone. I’m really bad at it. Because I’m afraid of making the wrong decisions and I’m afraid that someone will get mad at me. Ugh. I don’t even like the words ‘right’ and ‘wrong.’ But you know what I mean.”

…

This afternoon, I had the unique experience of sitting with a student who needed to be separated from his class during Field Day. He is an extremely high functioning autistic student who can tell you more than you ever need to know about dinosaurs and sea animals, and the super-sensory experience of Field Day had finally gotten to be too much. After a brief lesson on dolphins vs. porpoises, my student asked if he could draw with the sidewalk chalk. The teacher who owned the sidewalk chalk said that that would be fine, so off went my kid. He drew gigantic animals over the entirety of the sidewalk, so avoiding the drawings was difficult for a seeing person—much less someone who is blind! But my kid didn’t care about that.

When Stacey-My-Blind-Friend-and-Teacher stopped to talk to a colleague and landed right in the middle of an animal, my kid politely interrupted her conversation with an excuse me, waited to be acknowledged, and then proceeded to stutteringly, matter-of-factly- but without eye-contact ask Stacey to move off of his drawing. He was not trying to be mean, rude, or inconsiderate. He didn’t worry how Stacey would respond. If she would have gotten mad, then he would have gotten mad, too. Plain and simple. That’s how things work. My student simply stated his truth and desires and trusted the receiver to respond. As it was, Stacey gladly moved and immediately began talking to the student about his drawings, so he immediately began to share information about his drawings—that she could not see and that he could not know she could never fully understand. The whole situation made me chuckle. But then I realized just what an example my student had been.

…

Despite my best efforts to stay in people’s good graces—I’m a recovering people-pleaser, remember—I have realized all too painfully that if someone decides that she does not like me, then she can easily piece together stories slamming my merits, no matter how hard I have tried to please her or how determinedly I have tried to do the best thing. I know this. I have experienced it. I just hope that when it happens again—because it will happen again—I can look up with the certainty of how I need to react and then act with that certainty, just as my student acted today. I hope that I can look up with the humility to say yes and then follow where that yes leads. And I hope that when my character is attacked and my decisions are questioned—as teacher, minister, family member, friend, customer, or yes, even, administrator—that I will be able to keep moving forward, offering hope, restoration, and redemption, one house—no—one person—and decision—at a time.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

Well over a decade ago, I had a monthly mail-sending schedule. I wrote and sent out approximately 7 letters or cards per week, offering words of encouragement to various friends and family members each week—but contacting my grandmothers each week.

Because I was writing so much, my brother and sister-in-law decided to give me my own font for Christmas. They gave me the paperwork. I completed a hand-writing sample and sent it all in. To Sweden. A few weeks later, I received an e-mail with my very own font! It’s called Deanna’s Hand. I was thrilled. I’m still thrilled!

A few years ago, as I was window shopping in Blowing Rock, I suddenly stopped in my tracks. My handwriting was in the window!!! Toms, the shoe company, had chosen Deanna’s Hand for its handwriting font in one, small window cling campaign!!! Seeing my handwriting in the window for all of Blowing Rock to see prompted me figure out how Toms had gotten my font. Well. It’s a free download. Anyone can get it. Just do a search. You can get it, too…along with tons of other free fonts that people have created.

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago. I have a small classroom library that my students can access during class. I had the idea to create the library during one of our Book Fairs and started my collection with a 2-book donation from a parent. In the annual post-Christmas book sale at Books-A-Million, I grew the collection with a bunch of animal, dinosaur, and interesting fact books that kids love. Then, during a classroom library workshop at school, I grew the library even more with donations from the school.

A handful of students expectedly wandered to the library and happily read its books during class. My philosophy is that if the kids are reading, staying out of trouble, and not distracting other students, all the while subconsciously hearing the music lesson, then it’s a win-win for everyone. What I didn’t expect, however, was that that same handful of kids would want to take the books home. At first that was fine. But then classmates started to realize what was happening and they wanted to take books home, too.

So one Thursday afternoon while being bombarded with students wanting to take home books, I just said yes, yes, yes, so that they would stop asking! While one of those students stood with me to wait for the teacher, he first grossed me out by turning to a page on how a tribe in one part of Africa drinks cow’s blood during the drought season. I literally gagged and almost threw up, but then he turned the page and I gasped! MY FONT! My font was in the book! An entire two page spread was written in Deanna’s Hand!

I started babbling and trying to find the words to explain to the kids that it was a font that I had created but they didn’t quite understand and thought I meant that I had literally written out the pages but I was so excited that they were so excited so by the time the teacher got there we were all just in an excited state of font-appearance amazement!

I stayed that way for a few days. And clearly I am still excited. Not because I get paid. Not because I will be famous. But because it’s neat to see your handwriting in print…and to think that out of the fonts in the whole wide world, someone thought my font cool enough to use in a book.

When I wrote my brother and sister-in-law to tell them my exciting news, they were excited, too! I shared with the rest of my family, too. And then we all celebrated. And shared in thanksgiving for the gift that keeps on giving.

Love And Heartache In Between

In January, I had the privilege of officiating my second wedding. The wedding actually happened in two parts: Part one was a private ceremony at the hospital while part two was the public ceremony in an old church in Wilmington. At the time, the bride’s father was very sick and wasn’t able to attend his daughter’s wedding, so we took the wedding to him. Both parts of the wedding were beautiful, but the unplanned hospital ceremony was particularly special. It was one of those events that I will always feel humbled and honored to have been part of.

While waiting for that Saturday’s wedding festivities to begin, I went to an art gallery that carries Fabio Napoleoni’s work. [Fabio Napoleoni is my favorite artist.] While there, I was introduced to the art of Dr. Seuss for the first time. I didn’t know that Dr. Seuss artwork was a thing, but evidently it’s a pretty big thing. The gallery owner planted a seed of investment in my mind but that seed lay dormant until Read Across America Week. For that entire week and for the next week after, I thought and prayed and debated between two Seuss works but in the end decided not to get either piece until I could see them in person.

Last week, after a long, tough fight, my friend’s dad passed away. The funeral was Saturday. Because I was going to be in the area again, I decided to stop by the art gallery and look at those two pieces. I’m very glad that I did. In person, I didn’t like either piece. In a surprising twist, however, I found another piece that I really liked and ended up coming home with it. Even now, as I think about the piece, I smile…because I know that this was the piece for me. Will it end up being as great of an investment as the other two? I highly doubt it. But that doesn’t matter. Because it has meaning. I will include the image here so that you can find your own meaning:

The CD player in my car recently messed up. After 17 years of rotating between 6 CDs, I guess it just got tired. It’ll still play one CD, though, so I’ve been pulling random CDs out of my bag of CDs. One of the CDs was a Carolyn Arends CD and one of the songs on the CD sang out the lyrics, “Love and heartache and in between, Life is made up of little things.”

From the love shared in a wedding at the foot of a hospital bed to the heartache shared at a celebration of life, life is made up of little things—letters and writing and music and art and laughter and tears and shared meals and jeans days and talent shows and palindromes and sunsets and walks on the beach and challenges not to waste the time we’re given. May you, dear friends, celebrate your lives of little things and may none of us ever take for granted our moments with the people we love.

This Is The Educational Me

Well, folks. If for some odd reason you’ve ever wondered about the educational beliefs that drive me, wonder no more. Here they are...

But before I post, I must say this: I’ve spent a lot of time over the past couple of weeks hammering out this “Leadership Framework.” I completed the assignment for a graduate school class, but I found myself struggling to focus solely on my work in the schools because church life is so important to me. In fact, Christian Education was my focus during my years in divinity school. And that’s where the tension lies. When I was in divinity school, I struggled to focus solely on my work in church because school life is so important to me. In both graduate degree programs, I have found my heart split...and trying to apply my learning to more than just what the courses are supposed to prepare me for.

Several people have asked me recently what I plan to do when I finish my current graduate degree. I find myself honestly responding, “I have no idea. I know I’m supposed to be doing the program, but I have no idea what I’m going to do with the degree.” And I don’t. But I’m hashing out my passions and beliefs and praying that God will reveal the way. I’m not overly concerned. But I am glad to be finished with this assignment :-).

Philosophy of Education
I believe that education begins when we are born and ends when we die. Whether the learning is ours or the persons’ around us, and whether it is mental, physical, spiritual, or emotional, education is what happens each time we are exposed to something new and forced to do something with or about it. I believe that education is a process. It is continuous. It does not always begin and end with concept introduction, rather it is more often grown with time, intention, and experience. Education is formal in schools and churches. Education is informal in homes and relationships. I believe that education is trying, falling down, getting up, and trying again. Education is learning to walk and then acquiring the stamina to use the skill for good.

Philosophy of Leadership
I believe that leadership is the person or group of persons who lead whatever or whomever is being led. I believe that strong leadership is the person or persons willing to lead by humble, active example. I believe that leaders should lead with purpose and integrity, out of a sense of personal calling, and that leadership’s purpose should not be personal gain but organizational, group, and individual progress. I believe that strong leadership fosters success through relevant feedback, timely encouragement, wise decisions, difficult conversations, and a growth mindset for both itself and those being led. As a result, strong leadership creates thriving, healthy, positive, and growing organizations, groups, or individuals.

Vision for Learners
Learners learn in a variety of ways (musical-rhythmic, visual-spatial, verbal-linguistic, logical-mathematical, bodily-kinesthetic, interpersonal, intrapersonal, naturalistic, and existential) and at varying speeds and will be given the time, space, and opportunity to do so. Furthermore, learners will gain relevant, practical skills and knowledge to help them live as healthy individuals who make positive contributions to society.

Vision for Teachers
Teachers are experts in educational and developmental theory, practice, and learning. Life-long learners themselves, teachers will be knowledgeable of their content area and how to relate it to learners’ lives. Teachers will enjoy working with students and peers and be both leaders and team players as needed to foster a positive, safe, and healthy learning environment.

Vision for the Organization
The educational organization makes formal education possible. The educational organization will:
• Provide not only a safe, well-maintained building and recreational space but also a safe, orderly learning environment;
• Seek to be sustainable and environmentally responsible whenever possible;
• Supply both the technological and non-technological tools needed for learning and make those tools available and accessible to students and teachers alike;
• Create a positive organizational culture and climate by planning and investing in ongoing community partnerships and promoting healthy lifestyles by providing physical and emotional support systems for students, parents, and teachers;
• Center all actions and activities on shared goals and values;
• Celebrate accomplishments both big and small.

Vision for the Professional Growth
Professional growth is the cornerstone for professional success. Professional growth will:
• Be ongoing and provide opportunities not only for strengthening content knowledge and work effectiveness but also for strengthening self-awareness and intra- and inter-personal communication and understanding;
• Be relevant and meaningful and lead to proactive change in thought and/or action;
• Be a combination of what all stakeholders need to know to be on the same page and what individual stakeholders desire to know to be stronger and more effective in areas identified as strengths and/or weaknesses;
• Occur in the regular work environment and at special trainings.

Method of Vision Attainment
Attaining any vision or goal takes time, determination, focus, and patience. Vision attainment is a journey filled with ups and downs, successes and failures, bumps and bruises, efficient pathways and unexpected detours, and long hours of listening and allowing others to help navigate and lead. I plan to attain my visions by bunkering down for the journey, enjoying the ride with whomever I meet along the way, and doing everything I can to leave the wake of my path better than it was before I walked it.

Who Cares?

If you were at Antioch yesterday morning, then you heard a somewhat diverse set of music. We started with a modern praise song, led by the praise team, and then we went directly into a congregational rendition of “Victory in Jesus.” Next we moved to another congregational favorite of “Just A Closer Walk With Thee,” followed by a very unique, somewhat high church, full of intricate, sometimes dissonant harmonies, choral arrangement of “Abide With Me.” We ended with one verse of “Blest Be The Tie.”

While I was very pleased with the choir’s rendition of “Abide With Me”—it was tough and we had worked really hard to prepare it for worship—and while I always enjoy singing “Victory In Jesus”—after all, it was one of the title songs of my former band—and while the girls of the praise team did a good job introducing a new song—what really hit me yesterday was “Just A Closer Walk With Thee.”

As I was standing in the pulpit singing, I suddenly caught myself smiling and thinking, “Yes!! This!! I hope everyone in the congregation and the world is listening!! This is so important!! Did you hear it, people?! You just sang something HUGE!!”

And what was it that evoked double exclamation marks after every thought?

“Through this world of toil and snares,
If I falter, Lord, who cares?
Who with me my burden shares?
None but Thee, dear Lord, none but Thee.”

Did you catch that?! Really catch that?!

The world is full of toil and snares, speed-bumps and potholes, obstacles and heartaches, failures and heartbreaks, injustice and bigotry, judgment and condemnation, mean people and meaner people, and all kinds of other mayhem that will trip us up. With every feeling of safety. With every risk we take. With any attempt at anything at all, we run the risk of success or failure. And guess what? We’re going to mess up as many times as we get it right! We’re going to goof as many times as we reach near-perfection. We’re going to falter as many times as we experience clear-sailing! But…who cares?!

Really? Who cares?!

What does it matter?!

We’re still alive.
We’re still human.
We’re still able to move forward on life’s journey.

So who cares if we falter??
Really? Who cares?!

Because, in the end, the God who created us and loves us is the same God who never leaves or forsakes us—faltering or not. The same God who created the universe and offers redemption to the world is the same God who shares our heartaches and burdens—willingly surrendered or not.

I don’t know about you, friend, but this all makes me smile and sets a little part of me free.

What We Can't Un-See

About a year ago, I found myself drawn to a work of art entitled “Rock With A Hole In Its Heart.” The piece was created by a local artist and hanging at the local gallery where Barb-My-Former-Art-Teacher-But-Still-My-Friend teaches classes on weekends.

The piece is abstract. The movement, the lines, the colors—or lack thereof—and the title all spoke to me. When I looked at the piece, I saw the hole in the rock’s heart. I saw a little person sitting on a rock looking at the horizon. I saw an elephant blowing water. Then Barb pointed out the outline of a woman, faceless, featureless, with the hole where her heart would be. It reminded her of one of her works from high school. That piece is called, “The Womanless Woman.” I have that piece hanging in my room. I also now have the “Rock…” hanging in my room. And guess what I see every time I look at it? Not the rock. Not the little person looking at the horizon. Not the elephant. But the woman: the image that I didn’t even seen until Barb pointed it out. Granted, I don’t mind seeing the outline of the woman. It’s not offensive. It’s just that I can’t un-see it.

…

I was talking to a friend the other day about a mistake I made many years back. I said, “If I could go back, I would probably not do it again.” I suppose that sounds weird, but I can’t definitively say that I would not do it again because I know that I’m who I am today because of the past—good or bad—and I know that everything that I know has been learned from what I have experienced, seen, and heard. I can’t un-know, un-see, or un-hear my life.

Sometimes I want to. Sometimes I want not to feel the sting of regret. Sometimes I want not to remember difficulty, hardship, stupidity, and grief. Sometimes I want to go back and change all things bad. But I can’t.

Thankfully, I can’t forget the good things either.

…

When I got into the car on Monday, Sara Groves started singing. As she sang, I realized she was speaking to me. She was pulling at some heart strings directly connected to the broken hearts of a couple of different friends—a couple of different people who, too, wished that they could un-know, un-see, and un-hear some things. And yet…we can’t. None of us can. Full, broken, or empty hearts. And somehow…that is okay. Somehow, we are all okay.

…

I saw what I saw and I can't forget it
I heard what I heard and I can't go back
I know what I know and I can't deny it
Something on the road, cut me to the soul

I say what I say with no hesitation
I have what I have and I'm giving it up
I do what I do with deep conviction
Something on the road, cut me to the soul

Your pain has changed me
Your dream inspires
Your face a memory
Your hope a fire
Your courage asks me what I'm afraid of
And what I know of love

We've done what we've done and we can't erase it
We are what we are and it's more than enough
We have what we have but it's no substitution
Something on the road, touched my very soul

Your pain has changed me
Your dream inspires
Your face a memory
Your hope a fire
Your courage asks me what I am made of
And what I know of love

Maps and Puzzles

I first realized that kids were fascinated by maps when I taught at Erwin. I don’t remember what I was trying to teach, but I vividly remember standing in front of the map in my classroom and fielding question after question in rapid fire succession. I kept trying to steer us back to something somewhat musical, but I finally just gave up and answered my students’ questions.

Over ten years later—the world more technologically advanced than ever—kids still love maps. Not Google maps. Not Google earth. Not the GPS. But pull down, jump-in-fright-if-the-map-rolls-up-unexpectedly, topographical, political, geographical, continental, country, or state maps. In fact, the kids love maps so much that I have two huge maps permanently hanging in my classroom so that students can look at them whenever they want.

That being said, most kids—and I dare say most adults—are woefully ignorant when it comes to geography. I feel okay saying this because I, myself am woefully ignorant when it comes to geography. But. I’m happy to report that I’m getting better! And here is why:

I’m practicing.
And I’m practicing because I’m teaching.
And I’m teaching because the kids are interested.
The kids are interested in maps and the kids are interested in composers’ deaths and gravesites and the kids are interested in puzzles. Weird. I know.

One of the songs that I use as a springboard for a unit that focuses on basic geographical skills is “Hello To All The Children of the World.” In short, the song introduces the word “hello” in nine different languages from nine different countries: England, France, Spain, Australia, Germany, Japan, Italy, Israel, and Russia. [England’s and Spain’s languages, of course, cover America and Mexico as well]. As I’ve pointed to each of these countries on the map, I’ve learned where they are (not that they are overly difficult to find), and in the process I have paid attention to the countries around them. Not only that, I have watched a Little Big Shots video clip of Nathan-The-Four-Year-Old reciting all of the countries of Africa in under a minute.

So when I saw “The Global Puzzle” at Barnes and Noble last week, and the box challenged me to see if I could put together the puzzle without looking at the picture, I knew that I had to accept the challenge. With my mom. I don’t do puzzles without my mom.

My mom put together the border, North America, and Australia. Together, we sorted what we thought were the countries of Africa, Europe, Asia, and South America. After we sorted, we began putting together the continents. And it was hard—not because we’d sorted wrong but because we didn’t know where exactly the countries went on each continent! At one point, I gave up on country placement and moved to my puzzle forte: puzzle shape placement. Two hours after we started, combining both of our talents, mom and I had the world together. Now we will glue it together and I will take it to school where my students will think it incredibly fascinating.

There, I will add it to my classroom of real maps and globes—did I mention that I have seven globes in my room?—and I will continue in my attempt to teach my students basic geographical skills so that they won’t grow up geographically ignorant.

Now. Go find a map and locate a country about which you’ve always wondered. Then tell me about it. I’d sure like to know.

Corridor of Daggers

One of my friends has erased her finger prints by using so much hand sanitizer over the years. After being sick for the past few days, I’d gladly erase my own finger prints by way of hand sanitizer if it’d keep me from feeling like this again.

Maybe my tolerance for pain has lessened as I’ve gotten older, but I declare that I was absolutely miserable and felt a little like death at the height of this little bug on Thursday night.

It started Wednesday night with a sore throat. I jolted myself awake in the wee hours of Thursday morning and spent around ten minutes talking myself down from a panic attack of being sick, alone, and not able to breath. I woke up Thursday morning not feeling great, but I got up and got dressed because missing work is discouraged. The closer it came to leaving time, the more certain I felt that I really didn’t feel well, so I made the decision to stay home. I sent all appropriate messages and then went back to sleep.

When I woke up, I felt worse. And as the day progressed, I continued to feel worse. From no fever to a baby fever to a fever of 102; from a nauseous stomach to one that couldn’t keep anything down; from a sore throat to a sorer throat…I was not in good shape.

Different people had different ways to know that I was really sick: My mom knew that something was really wrong when I didn’t leave the house to volunteer for Harnett Off-Broadway; I almost always volunteer for my non-HOB nights. And my dad knew that something was really wrong when I didn’t have enough energy to let Bullet off the porch.

When I wrote Olga-Bullet’s-Real-Mom to ask her to take care of Bullet, she asked if I needed anything. In my fever-induced drunkenness, I asked for Gatorade and Ibuprofen. Sometime later, after a mystery Adam Sandler movie, during Home Alone 2, both of which I only saw bits and pieces because of said fever-induced drunkenness, Olga knocked on the door and delivered Gatorade, Ibuprofen, and raspberries for tea. She wanted to help her neighbor, and she did helped her neighbor indeed.

My fever broke sometime during the night that night. I was up and down all night—hot, cold, sweating, freezing, trying to swallow through what felt like a corridor of daggers. A good friend brought Lysol to the house on Friday so that I could disinfect my sick living quarters. I spent Friday resting. I spent Saturday resting—although I did move my resting position to the movie theatre to see Beauty and The Beast (which was very good) and then to Urgent Care to receive a negative strep throat diagnosis but medicine anyway because my throat looked so bad. I had to work yesterday, but every moment not working was resting. I had to work today, and go to class tonight, but in between I took a nap.

My throat is still very sore. The corridor of white daggers still there. For now I have all fingerprints. But if sanitizing my hands to avoid walking this corridor again is what I need to do, then I will be a glad sanitizer, disappearing fingerprints and all.

Snowy Sabbath

I like church. Really, I do. Please hear that. I like joining together with my community of believers and worshipping with the choir, praise team, and wider congregation. As messed up as the church can be, I like doing more through the church than I can do alone. I like church. I believe in the church. But I declare that sometimes it’s nice to have a day off from church.

I accidently woke up early yesterday. I think my body thought it was a school day. I saw that it was snowing outside but I left my alarm set for church and went back to sleep. A little while later, I woke up to the sound of the phone ringing and then to pots and pans being put up. In a state of semi-consciousness, I listened to the sounds of the kitchen and mused about how productive my parents were being so early in the morning. Then I looked at the clock. It was 9:15. My parents should have been leaving for church. At that point I literally said aloud, “Something is weird here.”

On the next multiple of five (I only get up on multiples of 5), I popped out of bed and went downstairs. When I saw my dad in his pajamas, I knew: Church had been cancelled. I asked anyway: “Was church cancelled?!” When he said yes, I cheered. I literally cheered. I clapped. I jumped up and down. Then I ran into my parents’ bedroom where my mom was working at her computer and I hugged her. As I squeezed her and rejoiced, she said, “You’re not supposed to be this happy about missing church.” Then she smiled at my excitement. Then I ran back into the kitchen, arms fully extended for a hug, and threw my arms around my dad and said, “Thank you so much” (although I knew that the decision was not completely his). Then I jumped up and down and clapped some more. Then I cried.

I was so happy and relieved to have a day off that I couldn’t hold back the tears. Then I volunteered to cook breakfast so that mom and dad could prepare for their visit to see my grandmother.

Last week was extremely busy. Six days of early mornings and very late nights with no down time in between takes its toll on an almost-40-year-old. This week will be mostly the same, just without the stress of preparing for Harnett Off-Broadway. Yesterday was supposed to be another work day. But with the blessing of the snow, the day ended up being a day off. It was rest for the weary. It was true Sabbath. And it happened because I didn’t have to go to church.

Swirly, dancing white
Calm silence nourishing souls
Peaceful rest, Sabbath

I like church. Really, I do. Please hear that. But I declare that sometimes it’s nice to have a day off.

God, thanks for a day off yesterday. Amen.

Love Can Build A Bridge

“Tell your kids that they moved a grown man to tears today. No. I’ll just tell them myself.”

We have no costumes. No make-up. No overly fancy choreography. No medley of show-tunes.

But we have a group of kids who love to sing. And we have a very clear theme to sing about and a very poignant message to share: Love.

Love gives us purpose.
Love gives us hope.
Love gives us reason for living and giving.
Love helps us bridge any gaps that keep us apart.

We’ve only had about six hours to practice with our kids this year. Thank God for Alasha The Queen Bee Guidance Counselor who has loaned me her room and artistic talents and helped pull everything together. Two schools and 33 classes between them doesn’t leave me much time for anything. Yet I hope that when the kids look back on Harnett Off Broadway this year they will remember the theme by which I try to live every busy day: Love.

“What you did today, boys and girls, was really good. When you have a message to share and when you sing from your hearts, you don’t need all of that other stuff. Music has the power to move people. And what you all did today moved me. And not just me. There were people all around this auditorium who had tears in their eyes as well. So. Don’t worry about all of that other stuff. Just do what you do well and be yourselves tomorrow night. Let the music in your hearts do its work.”

Unexpected 7th Grade Blessing

Yesterday was this year’s Harnett County Young Author’s Celebration. For a couple of reasons, I didn’t get the invitation until the beginning of last week and didn’t have time to talk to the other school winners, so I wasn’t sure if anyone else was going. [Johnsonville had the most entries in the county, two student winners, and three Forever Young (adult) winners.] Since today started two of the busiest weeks of my year, I really just wanted to stay home and take a long Sunday afternoon nap. But I’m a strong supporter of the Young Authors program, and I knew I needed to show that with my actions and not just my words. So I went. And I’m glad I went.

I must admit that I feel a bit silly sitting on stage with all of the student winners. I fear that it appears like I want to be honored. But that’s not it. I want to sit on stage with the students from my school so that they don’t feel alone. I want to be on stage with them to give them courage. And I want to read my writing aloud to model public speaking—not just to my students but to all the kids on stage.

When I got to the celebration yesterday, I saw my principal and one of my coworkers sitting in the audience. I also saw one of my students on stage! My coworker was not only the student’s teacher but also a Forever Young winner, so I grabbed her to go on stage with me. As we sat with the students, listened to them read, and watched them get their awards, I noticed a late-comer walking down the aisle. She looked frustrated. As soon as she made it to stage, her name was called to read. She read. Beautifully. Then she came to sit by me because it was the only seat left on stage.

After pictures were made, snacks were eaten, and everything was over, I went to my car to go home. As I was getting into my car, I saw my stage neighbor walking toward me. At first, I thought that she and her family were having car trouble. But then I heard her say, “I just wanted to tell you thank you for reading today. You did a really good job and it was really inspiring. It’s nice to know that older people still write and that not everyone has given up on it. Writing is so important.”

Humbled, I properly thanked my stage neighbor for her for her compliment (and overlooked that she called me old ), and then we had a fifteen minute conversation about writing, emotional expression, Harry Potter, literature, and band. I’m pretty sure she’d have kept on talking if I hadn’t realized that her mom was just sitting in the car waiting for her. But kudos to her mom for encouraging her to come talk to me. My stage neighbor, a 7th grader, had seen me walking to my car, wondered if it was me, debated whether or not she should speak to me, but finally walked over because her mom told her to go on and talk to me.

Knowing that it took a lot of courage for a 7th grader to speak to a stranger, I prayed through the whole conversation that God would give me the words that she most needed to hear, the questions that she most needed to answer, and the encouragement that she most needed to take away. I hope that I offered all of those things. And I hope that I will never forget the moment when I drove away yesterday and said aloud, “Well. I wasn’t expecting that. I guess it’s a good thing I came. Thank you, God, for guiding me to come. And thank you for unexpected blessings.” Amen.

Chainbreaker Ethan

My dad made me laugh during church yesterday.

While sharing a story from his teenage years, he said, “When you’re dumb, you don’t know you’re dumb.”

And how had he been dumb? When given the opportunity to preach at the age of 14, the text he chose was from Revelation. He wanted to tell the church that they needed to be on fire for Christ instead of lukewarm in their faith—lest God spit them out! Little Dan was frustrated that after coming back from summer camp on a spiritual high, he had watched his fire go out at the hands of those in the church. He admitted, lover of the church he may be, that “the church has a way of squelching people’s fires.” And I thought, “Yep, dad. You’re right. As much as we try, the church so often goes wrong.”

Yet sometimes we get things right:

This past Saturday, Rebecca the Children’s Minister worked with the children to make 100 crisis bags to take to local hospitals and fire stations. The kids wanted to provide something comforting to other kids who were experiencing traumatic events.

Yesterday afternoon, our women’s ministry group served lunch to numerous couples who have been married for more than 50 years.

And yesterday morning, our entire worship service was planned around a theme selected by my bass player, Ethan. Ethan joined the praise team about a year ago, decided that he wanted to play an instrument, and learned to play the bass. He even got a bass for Christmas. Ethan also joined the adult choir. As one point last year, as a 6th grader whose voice was changing, he was singing in both the children’s and adult choirs! Ethan quickly became my errand boy. If I needed to turn on the sound system—I asked the boy to do it. If I needed an actor—I asked the boy to do it. If I needed a music stand—I asked the boy to get it. Ethan was at every praise team practice, singing his heart out, boy band faces and all.

Yesterday was Ethan’s last Sunday with us. His dad received his Permanent Change of Station orders, so the family is moving to New York. As his swan song, Ethan requested that the team learn the song, “Chainbreaker.” After weeks of properly Antioch-izing the song (AKA, making it doable for our little praise team with no drummer), we sang the song yesterday. We also centered the entire service around the theme of God being the one who could break our chains. We laid the altar with chains, we sang songs of freedom, we read scriptures of freedom, and my dad preached about freedom. If it were up to Ethan, then everyone would have left church yesterday with a souvenir chain. But chains are expensive (I did look)! So only the praise team left with commemorative chains.

Friends, I don’t know what Ethan will be when he grows up. I don’t know if he has been called into the ministry like my dad or if he will follow in his dad’s footsteps and be a military man or if he will do something completely different. But what I know is this: I hope that no church, no school, or no human being will ever squelch my boy’s fire for God and enthusiasm for life.

If you've been walking the same old road for miles and miles
If you've been hearing the same old voice tell the same old lies
If you're trying to feel the same old holes inside
There's a better life
There's a better life

If you've got pain
He's a pain taker
If you feel lost
He's a way maker
If you need freedom or saving
He's a prison-shaking Savior
If you've got chains
He's a chain breaker

We've all searched for the light of day in the dead of night
We've all found ourselves worn out from the same old fight
We've all run to things we know just ain't right
And there's a better life
There's a better life

If you believe it
If you receive it
If you can feel it
Somebody testify

If you need freedom or saving
He's a prison-shaking Savior
If you've got chains
He's a chain breaker

Ugly Shoes

Dr. Smith starts every class with a metaphor.

If I were following her lead and starting class tonight, then tonight’s metaphor would be my shoes.

I would place my shoes in front of the class and ask everyone to come up with the metaphor.

After a few moments of silence, everyone would start sharing their thoughts. I would be grateful for the thoughts and celebrate each insight, but the insight that I would most want to hear would be something like this:

If you don’t regularly care for your shoes, then they will dry out, crack, and end up looking and feeling rough and being difficult to restore. The same goes for your body and spirit.

Something I don’t talk about a lot is the fact that I pray for my shoes when I buy them. I pray that God will use them to help me bless the places I go and the people I see while wearing them. I also pray that God will honor the money I’ve spent because I hate spending money on myself—yet I believe in wearing quality shoes because I’m on my feet so much.

I bought these particular shoes over a decade ago. I’ve worn them a lot—though I only have one specific memory of wearing them before today: Spray painting rhythm sticks silver for Harnett Off Broadway while working at Erwin Elementary. I don’t remember which year’s performance needed those sticks, but I remember having on these shoes because they got showered with spray paint residue and subsequently sparkled for a long time afterward. I was not impressed.

What I will remember about wearing these shoes today is this: One of my coworkers looked at my feet at the end of the day and said, “Deaton! Those shoes look rough! They must have been through a lot.”

Since it’s Thursday, I could have easily answered yes. I have often left school on Thursdays feeling like I would quit if given the opportunity. My patience and energy have been sucked out of me and I have been left feeling rough. But today, contrary to the appearance of my shoes, I didn’t feel that way. I was tired, yes. My weeks are long. But I felt okay.

Tonight, when I got home, somewhat embarrassed by the declaration about my shoes but moreso glad to have a few hours at home before bedtime, I polished my shoes. I decided to change their reality.

A couple of weeks ago, after a particularly rough Thursday, I decided to change my reality. I decided that I had to shift my spirit lest I constantly be in a state of cracked ugliness—especially on Thursday afternoons.

Shoe polish helped my shoes. Prayer, deep breathing, picking my battles, accepting my boundaries, and calling on the name of Jesus helped my spirit.

Are my shoes now back in perfect condition? No. Are my Thursdays now wonderful? No. But both are better because both have been tended to.

I think I’ll try to tend more often and more intentionally. And I think I’ll keep my eyes open for more metaphors. I think it will make Dr. Smith proud.

Blind Inspiration

“Welcome to Stacey B. and Deanna!”

I chucked when I read that statement on the white board last Thursday night. Stacey and I had gone to speak to this semester’s Special Needs class at Campbell and the professor had welcomed us with those words. I felt a bit like a rock-star with the one word name, but I made sure to let the class know that, despite my rock-star looks, I wasn’t actually a rock-star. I was, instead, just an elementary music teacher serving as chauffer to the guest of honor for the night: a vision impaired teaching hero.

I wrote about my adventures with Stacey after she helped me with a presentation last semester. That night, we went to the Walmart and Stacey amazed me with her knowledge of the store. She has the aisles memorized. This past Thursday night, however, we simply went out to eat. I took her to the local Mexican restaurant and we had a delicious meal together. Like last semester, we had a great time, and I went to bed that night with a deeper respect for someone for whom I already had great respect.

For Stacey, not being able to see is normal. Born prematurely, she received too much oxygen in the incubator that saved her life but left her blind. When her twin sister began reaching for things and tracking objects with her eyes, Stacey did not. It was then that her parents realized that something was wrong and that her parents decided that they would be her biggest advocate. When schools told them that they could not teach Stacey because she was blind, Stacey’s parents said, “Yes you will.” Stacey went to “regular” public schools her entire life, then proceeded to a “regular” college, and then earned her master’s degree from a “regular” university. When others were out partying, Stacey was scanning pages of textbooks so that her computer could read them to her. When others were skimming hundreds of pages of reading, Stacey was listening to them all—unable to skim without the ability to see—listening as fast as she could but still being limited by the speed of the computer.

Stacey has a “regular” teaching degree. She did her student teaching in “regular” elementary school classroom, but she has chosen to teach vision impaired students the technological and life skills that they need to succeed in the world. No doubt, current technology makes things a bit less complicated for students today, yet things are still not nearly as easy as they are for those of us who can see.

Take, for instance, eating. While preparing for last Thursday night’s class, Stacey and I decided that it would be fun to ask the students to eat cake off of a small place. Stacey confessed that this is always difficult—especially in places where you are often expected to stand—like wedding receptions and other celebratory events. Stacey made the cake and provided the forks. The professor provided the plates and napkins. The students in class all struggled to get the cake on their forks and get the forks to their mouths without making a mess. They said they felt helpless, frustrated, and overwhelmed. I caught myself wanting to cheat—and I caught myself thinking, “I’ll just wait to finish my piece of cake when I can see again—because then it won’t be so hard and messy.”

For Stacey, eating without seeing has been her life’s reality. So is it more difficult for a seeing person to suddenly take away her sense of sight and expect her to be successful at a task? Maybe so. But the lesson was real nonetheless: There are so many things we take for granted.

Driving. Walking freely. Reading the directions on the side of the cake box. Reading a menu. Seeing in color. Seeing the face of a loved one. Seeing the crinkly little feet of a newborn baby. Dreaming in color. Watching a movie. Watching a game. Being able to avoid running over your dad who is working on the lawnmower in the yard while you are riding your bike (this is one of my favorite stories from Stacey’s childhood—she forgot that he was working in the yard and rode her bike right over him!)

Again, for Stacey, not being able to see is what she has always known. She has learned to live her life in such a way that she sees everything she needs to see. She would never want anyone to feel sorry for her or treat her any differently than we would treat a non-vision-impaired person. And yet…I must admit that Stacey inspires me…and she challenges me not to take the simplest things in life for granted…not even the knowledge of knowing that there is food on my fork when I place it in my mouth.

Who is someone who inspires you and challenges you to life to the fullest? Make sure you tell him/her thank you today.

Spelling Bee Cooperation

Today was the annual school spelling-bee and my fourth year serving as pronouncer for the event. I really enjoy this job, but it’s surprisingly difficult.

Each year, the national spell bee people produce an official list of spelling bee words, complete with word origin, pronunciation, part of speech, definition, and sentence. If the word is a homonym or one that sounds like another word, then the pronouncer must share that information. All other information is up to pronouncer discretion or shared upon participant request.

While the words are in a formal list, each school has freedom to select which words it will use. Additionally, each participant is given a number and referred to as that number for the entire bee. Since one never knows if a participant will get his/her word correct, one cannot pre-number the words.

Therefore, the pronouncer must keep track of which word she is on, who the word belongs to (by number), if the participant gets the word right or wrong, how the information will influence other rounds, what round she is in, etc. I was reading, calling, marking, and making notes all at the same time.

Again, I enjoyed it, but it was surprisingly difficult. I’m glad I am fairly organized.

Each year’s bee is different. Sometimes the kids are nervous. Sometimes they are not. Sometimes the kids are dressed up. Sometimes they are not. Sometimes lots of kids get out quickly. Sometimes they do not. Sometimes the final battle lasts for a long time. Sometimes it does not. Sometimes a champion is immediately declared. Sometimes it is not. Sometimes the championship word is missed and a winner cannot be declared until another final battle has been fought and another championship word has been announced.

What made this year’s bee unique, though, was the camaraderie that the participants shared. Once it got down to just a few participants, they were openly cheering for one another—giving each other high fives and fist bumps. They wanted their competitors to spell their words correctly. They wanted to see each other succeed.

Yes. The spelling bee is a competition. Yes. Each kid wanted to win. But the view from the pronouncers chair today was one of little animosity and lots of good cheer and, well, it made this pronouncer smile…and have to look up how to spell camaraderie just to complete this note .

Worship Despite Ourselves

Sometimes I have no direction. I have a theme. I have a scripture passage. I have a sermon title. And yet I have no direction. Songs play in my head, but they don’t feel right. Songs fall under the right category in the hymnbook index, but they don’t feel right. The words aren’t what we need. The melody isn’t familiar. The message, tune, and/or tempo don’t fit with the mood or flow of the service. And so I find myself at a loss.

Sometimes I ask my mom for help. Sometimes my dad. The truth is that my mom knows more about the hymnal than I’ll ever know and that my dad knows exactly what he is hoping a worship service will convey. Sometimes their suggestions directly pull me out of my rut. Sometimes they give me a directional tug. But sometimes even they don’t feel right. So sometimes I ask my praise team members for help. And the same thing will happen. Sometimes their suggestions pull me directly out of my rut while other times they give me a directional tug.

Yesterday’s worship service was a combination of all of the above: My mom directly chose what ended up being the Call to Worship and the second and third hymns while Rebecca the Children’s Minister chose what ended up being the special music. The thing that I wrestled with was where to place the songs that we had selected…and knowing that the praise team hadn’t practiced either song that we were supposed to play.

Truth be told, I hadn’t made a final decision about the order of yesterday’s music when I arrived at church. I knew my options, and I had a pretty good idea of what we would be doing when, but nothing was solid. As the praise team’s pre-service warm-up began and the members began to rag-taggedly arrive, I quickly determined that we would do the special music and settled into practice.

Here’s what happened, though: The first time we practiced the song that Rebecca the Children’s Minister had suggested, it was me, Rebecca, and Ethan the Bass Player and Vocalist. We figured out the vocal arrangement, and then Rebecca had to go do something else. Then David the Keyboard Player arrived. So Ethan and I practiced with David. I tried to figure out which guitar style sounded best with the song—strum or pick. Then Leslie the Vocalist and Guitar player arrived. So I handed her my guitar, showed her the strum part, shared with her what we had decided for the vocalists, got out my other guitar, and began playing the pick part. The combination of everything together sounded good, but Leslie’s guitar wasn’t coming through the sound system. Then Jeff the Vocalist and Sound Guy showed up. So I shared with him what we had decided for the vocalists, practiced one verse, and then asked him to see if he could figure out what was wrong with Leslie’s guitar pick up.

By this point, quite a few people had gathered in the sanctuary for worship. The rag-tag nature of how everyone had arrived was evident in how we were set up; Jeff and I were having to yell at each other to figure out the problem with Leslie’s guitar (the sound booth is at the back of the sanctuary in a room above the sanctuary); and the choir was waiting on me in the choir room. As soon as we got the guitar amplified and our equipment set up in such a way that it did not reflect chaos, I went to the choir room to get the choir ready for the service. After a quick warm-up and a prayer, we entered the sanctuary for worship.

The choir sang the Call To Worship. It was literally a musical version of the scripture reading of the day and led perfectly into the first hymn. The praise team sang the special music. One more member of the praise team showed up to sing. Just before we began, Rebecca quietly shared with her the vocal arrangement and then we sang…

There are times when the choir and/or praise team will work on a song for weeks. We will practice long and hard and wait for just the right time to offer our song in worship. And then no one will say anything in response…or if they do then it will be a complaint—the most common of which is that the praise team is too loud and the instruments unbalanced.

Then there are times like yesterday when the choir pulls out an old song and the praise team does the same…and things are a bit scattered and crazy like the episode chronicled above…and then numerous people tell me that the music was absolutely beautiful—the harmonies, the balance, the volume, and the message. When this happened yesterday, all I could say was, “It was God.” Because surely it was. You read about the morning and the uncertainty that led to it all. What else could it have been?

Thank you, God, for using us despite of ourselves. And help us to become the prayer that we sang. Amen.

-----

Lord, Make us instruments of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let your love increase
Lord, make us instruments of your peace,
Walls of pride and prejudice shall cease
When we are your instruments of peace.

Where there is hatred, we will show his love
Where there is injury, we will never judge
Where there is striving, we will speak his peace
To the millions crying for release,
We will be his instruments of peace

Lord, Make us instruments of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let your love increase
Lord, make us instruments of your peace,
Walls of pride and prejudice shall cease
When we are your instruments of peace.

Where there is blindness, we will pray for sight
where there is darkness, we will shine his light
Where there is sadness, we will bear their grief
To the millions crying for relief,
We will be your instruments of peace.

Lord, Make us instruments of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let your love increase
Lord, make us instruments of your peace,
Walls of pride and prejudice shall cease
When we are your instruments of peace.

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be
Whispered words of wisdom, let it be

Courageous Truth

Once upon a time, there was a girl. The girl had a loving family who took very good care of her.
When the girl began Kindergarten, she was nervous like most Kindergarteners. She cried when she had to leave her mother, uncertain of being separated from her mom’s love. Other kids cried, too—no big deal—until one day of crying led to a week led to a month led to many more months of deep struggle in school.

There were many opinions as to what to do about the little girl’s anxiety. Most opinions centered around the notion that the girl’s loving family was being too protective. Cut the strings. Walk away. She’ll stop crying eventually. She has to grow up sometime.

One night as the little girl was taking a bath and her mom was talking to her about places where it is and is not appropriate for people to touch, the little girl casually mentioned, “No one has touched me there this year.”

This year.

But someone had touched her the previous year. A peer. A young boy. Not in her family. But someone nonetheless. And it had scared her. It had made her feel vulnerable and insecure. And it made her not certain who outside her family she could trust. It had made her feel unsafe. And it made her not want to go to school.

Thankfully, this story has a happy ending. Once the little girl told the story of what had happened to her, and once her family got her into counseling to help her work through the issues tied to the incident, she stopped crying every day when it came time to go to school. She stopped clinging to her mom’s hand and began to have the courage to walk to class alone. She began to smile more and she began to talk.

She had told the truth. And the truth had set her free.

I recently had a deep theological conversation with a friend. As we moved from one hot topic to the next, we landed on the topic of coming out. For most, the phrase “coming out” is almost exclusively tied to the process of identifying as gay/lesbian/transgendered; but for others, the phrase “coming out” has come to be associated with a process that occurs many times over the course of one’s life. The friend that I was talking to in this conversation—a woman who had been called into ministry—had had to come out of the women in ministry closet. Another friend has had to come out of the atheist closet. Another friend has had to come out of the not-called-to-be-what-her-parents-wanted-her-to-be closet. Another friend has had to come out of a political closet. Other friends have come out of other closets. And in every instance, the process has been similar: recognition of thought or feeling, exploration, questioning, doubt, struggle, fear of rejection, declaration, and acceptance (though not always in this particular order and not at all linear in sequence). [Do you know what’s interesting about this? These are also the stages of faith development.]

If I may be so bold, then I am going to suggest, dear friends, that each of us has a closet from which we need to escape. Some of us may have a whole house of them. Like the girl who began this post, your closet could be a closet of abuse and that abuse is big and real and scary and paralyzing. Or maybe your closet is financial ruin or medical insecurity or theological doubt or political anger or helpless sadness or wanting to be seen or admission of imperfection or maybe even sexual orientation. Maybe you’ve just gone into your closet or maybe you’ve been hiding your whole life. I don’t know. But what I do know is this:

When we have the courage to speak our truth in love, and when we have the courage to hear others’ truth in love, then the truth will set us free.

I’m not talking about spewing moral absolutes and fighting ‘sin’ with right and wrong. I’m talking about courageously, honestly, openly, and vulnerably risking to share parts our story—our truths—with one another in common humanity. I’m talking about fighting fear, separation, and otherness with words and dialogue—however difficult and humbling they may be. I’m talking about discussing which zones are safe and doing something proactive when we realize that safety has been breached. I’m talking about bunkering down, getting into trust-fall position, and holding one another’s pain. Because this world shouldn’t be a closet. And kids shouldn’t fear going to school. And humanity should never be us against them...

Beach Angel

Sunday morning, on a rare morning off from church, I went to the beach to take in the sights, sounds, and smells of the ocean.

As I crossed the sand dunes and stepped foot onto the beach, I said aloud, “I would like to find a piece of sea glass. I am speaking these words into creation.”

I walked for awhile—very slowly—listening to the waves crash and the seagulls sing—looking carefully for that piece of class.

I marveled at how beautiful the shells were—how different they were from the shells in Jacksonville—how each shell was unique—how some shells were quite ordinary on their tops but how they displayed intricate, extra-ordinary designs on their backs.

I sang the lyrics to a love song over and over in my head. “You matter to me,” I sang. And I looked out over the water and directed all of that love to the Creator of it all.

I thought of the previous Sunday’s worship service—of the children adorning the altar with flowers and birds and of their innocent voices reading:

Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet our heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?

“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.

If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you?

“Therefore, do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ Or ‘What shall we drink?’
Or ‘What shall we wear?’ For your heavenly Father knows that you need them all.

“But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things shall be yours as well.”

And while pondering this scripture and stopping to look at a particularly lovely shell and being truly wrapped up in the worship of it all, the strangest thing happened:

Without missing a stride, a young man walking with his girlfriend approached where I was standing from the opposite direction, bent down and picked something up, handed it to me, said, “This is in your jurisdiction,” and kept right on walking.

I stood with my mouth open in awe, staring at the piece of sea glass in my hand, completely at a loss for words, thinking only one thought: “Did that really just happen?”

Yes, friends. Yes it did. A beach angel in an orange jacket placed into my hands the very thing that I had desired.

After picking up my jaw up off the sand, I had the frame of mind to take a picture of my beach angel. Part of me thought he might be gone when I turned around, but he was still there, walking with his girlfriend, completely oblivious to what he had just done.

Then I continued my walk, amazed and overwhelmed with gratitude—embracing those words of scripture—singing that love song—marveling at nature’s beauty—directing my love and thanksgiving to the Creator of it all.

Neither Either Nor Or

I got so excited when I realized that I’d earned $30 in cash-back rewards by paying my tuition bill with my credit card that I decided to see how much I was earning from my other purchases. When I realized that I earned a few dollars and/or cents with literally every purchase I made with my credit card, I decided that it would be stupid NOT to use my credit card for ALL of my purchases. I haven’t had cash in my wallet since.

My plan worked fine until today.

Today I noticed that my back driver’s side tire was low. In an attempt to get air for said tire, I stopped at six different gas stations. I was denied every time. I kept hoping that I’d find a machine that took nickels and dimes…because I had no quarters or dollars…because I haven’t been using cash. [It didn’t occur to me until this very moment that I could have quartered my nickels and dimes inside the gas stations.]

So as I drove my hobbly car to class tonight, I was reminded of something very important:

It’s not either-or, it’s both-and.

It’s not cash or credit (that’s paid off every month, by the way).
It’s not black or white.
It’s not male or female.
It’s not rich or poor.
It’s not gay or straight.
It’s not band or sports.
It’s not smart or dumb.
It’s not right or wrong.
It’s not good or bad.
It’s not Christian or atheist.
It’s not hate or love.
It’s not math or science.
It’s not social studies or English.
It’s not Democrat or Republican.
It’s not jazz or classical.
It’s not State or Carolina.
It’s not hot or cold.
It’s not saint or sinner.

It’s both and.
It’s all of this and everything in between.
In a society full of opposites and extremes, I think we’d all do well to remember that life and humanity are both and.
Life and humanity—and most of us—are all of this and everything in between.

Kindness

I have visited my grandmother’s house almost every Christmas of my life. On many of those Christmas trips, I’ve attempted to read one of the old books adorning G-mama’s shelves. More often than not, I have failed at this attempt. I’m a terrible reader with my eyes. So this past Christmas, I didn’t even bother to look at the bookshelves. In addition to my family who permanently live in town, my niece and nephews and families were in town, so I focused on them instead of literary scholarship…until the last night we were there.

For some reason, as I walked to my room that night, a tiny little book caught my attention. I imagine that the book had been sitting there for most of my life, yet for some reason it jumped out to me that night. So I pulled it off the shelf and went to the world’s most comfortable bed, fully expecting to be asleep a few pages into the text. Instead, I found myself closing the book’s back cover well over an hour later, having just read a tiny little book that spoke to me so powerfully that I wiped away tears more than once and packed the book in my book bag so that I could read it again. And probably again. And again.

“The Greatest Thing In the World” is a meditation on 1 Corinthians 13 that Henry Drummond wrote in 1874. Henry Drummond, born in Scotland in 1851, was an ordained minister and theologian best remembered as a gifted evangelist who assisted Dwight L. Moody during his revival campaigns. He was also a lecturer in natural science and wrote several books. Before that night at G-mama’s, I have no memory of ever hearing Henry Drummond’s name or of being introduced to “The Greatest Thing In The World.” I’m not sure why this is so, and I’m not sure why more people in my circles haven’t read and/or discussed this book/meditation/address. Maybe I wasn’t ready to hear Henry’s thoughts. Or maybe we haven’t needed to be reminded of his words so desperately until now.

Since stealing Drummond’s tiny little book from its place on a bookshelf in Jacksonville, Florida, I have been keeping it on my nightstand, reading its pages slowly each night, and letting its words, thoughts, and images seep into my being. I could probably spend weeks hashing out my thoughts on love, as influenced by Drummond’s ideas, but for now I simply want to share the passage that I read last night. Written so long ago, Drummond’s words and semantics are sometimes difficult to decipher, so I’m going to paraphrase a bit to make the thoughts more readable. I hope these words present as much relevant challenge to you as they do me. If not, come back to them. You never know when the word of God, active and alive, will speak to your soul. As I learned this Christmas break, it’s oftentimes when you least expect it.

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Kindness. Love active. Have you ever noticed how much of Christ’s life was spent in doing kind things—in merely doing kind things? Run over it with that in view, and you will find that He spent a great proportion of His time simple in making people happy, in doing good turns to people.

There is only one thing greater than happiness in the world, and that is holiness; and holiness is not in our keeping. But what God has put in our power is the happiness of those about us, and that is largely to be secured by our being kind to them.

“The greatest thing,” says someone, “a man can do for [God] is to be kind to some of [God’s] other children.” I wonder why it is that we are not all kinder than we are? How much the world needs it! How easily it is done. How instantaneously it acts. How infallibly it is remembered. How superabundantly it pays itself back—for there is no debtor in the world so honorable, so superbly honorable, as Love. “Love never fails.” Love is success, Love is happiness, Love is life. Love, I say with Browning, “is energy of Life.”

For life, with all it yields of joy or woe
And hope and fear,
Is just our chance o’ the prize of learning love,--
How might love be, hath been indeed, and is.

Where Love is, God is. Those that dwells in love dwell in God. God is love. Therefore, love! Without distinction, without calculation, without procrastination, love. Lavish it upon the poor, where it is very easy; especially upon the rich, who often need it most; most of all upon our equals, where it is very difficult, and for whom, perhaps, we do least of all.

There is a difference between trying to please and giving pleasure. Give pleasure. Lose no chance of giving pleasure. For that is the ceaseless and anonymous triumph of a truly loving spirit.

“I shall pass through this world but once. Any good thing therefore that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any human being, let me do it now. Let me not defer it or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.”

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Loving God who is Love. Help us to love through kindness today, tomorrow, and in all the days to come. Amen. And amen.

Possibilities Bigger Than Self

I think my aunt might have thought it a bit odd that when given a choice to see composer Edvard Grieg’s music studio or gravesite, I immediately chose the gravesite. Yes, I would have liked to have seen the small cabin where Grieg sat on a manuscript of Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony so that he would be tall enough to reach the piano keys, but I knew that I had hundreds of students who wouldn’t care where Grieg sat to compose—they would care about how Grieg died and where he was buried. It never fails. My students always want to know how someone died and where he/she is buried. And so I went to Grieg’s gravesite (which incidentally is carved into the side of a mountain) and took an absurd amount of pictures. Sure enough, my students loved them!

You may not be surprised to know, then, that when doing our music textbook lessons that focus on Martin Luther King, Jr., my students always want to know if Martin Luther King, Jr. is dead, how he died, who killed him, and/or where he is buried. The questions have become so predictable that I work their answers into my lessons and am fully prepared to project an image of MLK, Jr.’s and Coretta Scott King’s gravestone when asked. What I didn’t expect this year, though, was a question about how Martin Luther King, Sr. died.

[“Why were you talking about Martin Luther King, Sr.?” you might ask. “Because in another unexpected question twist, a student asked why we always say junior when talking about MLK, Jr.” Therein started a discussion on names that captivated the class so much that no attempt at redirecting to music worked. I finally gave up and spent the rest of the class period answering questions about naming protocol and listening to name stories.]

It turns out that Martin Luther King, Sr. died from a heart attack. He actually lived longer than both of his sons and his wife. While it is common knowledge that MLK, Jr. was assassinated, it is less common knowledge that Alfred Daniel Williams King (King Sr.’s youngest son) tragically drowned, and that King Sr.’s wife, Alberta W. King, was even more tragically murdered. Just after playing a song on the organ during a morning worship service, Alberta King was shot by a gunman who had dropped out of college and declared all Christians the enemy. He walked into Ebenezer Church that day to kill King, Sr., but instead he killed King’s wife and a church deacon. I didn’t tell my students these details. I was a bit too sad after reading their truths. I simply told them that MLK, Jr.’s dad had a heart attack. If he hadn’t lived at least ten years after his wife’s murder, then I would have made an argument that he died solely of a broken heart.

After dinner tonight, I spent over an hour reading more about MLK, Sr. (who indeed changed his name from Michael Luther to Martin Luther to be connected to theologian Martin Luther), Alfred King, and Alberta King. I eventually stumbled upon the King Institute of Stanford University’s website (https://kinginstitute.stanford.edu/) and read letters that MLK, Jr. had written to his parents, letters of recommendation for MLK, Jr. to attend seminary, and some of MLK, Jr.’s lesser known writings. I had to make myself stop reading so that I’d have time to write this post.

Friends, I know that MLK, Jr. was not a perfect man. I know that he was not the only voice or face of the Civil Rights Movement and I know that he himself believed this much. But learning more about him and his family tonight has allowed me to paint a more complete picture of a man and a movement whose voice still speak prophetic and challenging words today.

Sometimes I feel like the writer of Ecclesiastes and find myself in hopeless despair that nothing under the sun has changed. Reading the news articles of Alberta King’s brutal murder was like reading the news articles of today. The man who killed her even told a friend that his name would be all over the newspapers in a couple of weeks. And the senseless beatings of innocent men and women are still taking place. I watched the news in horror tonight as a reporter told of an 18-year-old special needs student who had been kidnapped and terrorized by four of his peers and was now having trouble communicating. The mocking and physical abuse had been streamed on Facebook.

And yet I smiled as I watched my Kindergarten students happily sing and dance together today. They couldn’t care less that their skin colors were different and they had no trouble welcoming everyone into their impromptu circle of happiness. And I inwardly said a prayer of thanks as I hugged my little multi-cultural band of students who come to say good morning each day. And I felt so grateful to be part of one of MLK, Jr.’s greatest wishes…

At the end of his famous “I Have A Dream” speech, MLK boldly declares, “…until one day, when all of God’s children, black men and white, will join hands in singing the old African American Spiritual ‘Free at last, Free at last, Thank God almighty I’m free at last.’”

“Free At Last” is one of my students’ favorite songs. Not only are they fascinated by the fact that Martin Luther King, Jr. had its words put on his gravestone, but they also really like the song and loudly sing it whenever it is played. Younger, older, richer, poorer, black, white, brown, yellow, or red (as a student actually called himself yesterday)—my students beautifully live MLK, Jr.’s dream every time they sing together.

And you know what? It wasn’t just MLK, Jr.’s dream. It was his father’s, and his mother’s, and his brother’s, and his sister’s. Because MLK, Jr. wasn’t an isolated man. He was part of a family. He was part of a church. He was part of a community. He was part of possibilities so much bigger than himself. And you are, too, friend. You are, too.

One Right Step At A Time

A few months ago, when we lost power during Hurricane Matthew and I had no way to refrigerate food, spent a considerable amount of time making sure we had enough candles to provide night-time light, and spent even more time trying to find ways to keep computers and phones alive, I had the distinct thought, “I understand why scripture says not to worry about tomorrow. Today really does have enough trouble of its own.” Granted, the troubles of my hurricane days were very much 21st century problems and really weren’t troubles at all, but I am thankful for that moment of profound truth because I keep going back to it: Do not worry about tomorrow, Deaton. Focus on today. Just make it through today.

December was a whirlwind. I imagine it was the same for you. For me, in addition to regular teaching and church planning and duties, December included a progressive dinner, a K-2 program, a children’s Advent musical, an adult cantata, a carols and candlelight service, a final project in my special needs class, a group presentation in my special needs class, a final project of sorts in my other class, and a take-home exam in my other class. Only after Christmas day worship was over and New Year’s Day worship had been planned was I able to take a few days off. I am so thankful for those days.

As those days have moved to an end much more quickly than they began, I have found myself increasingly more agitated. My thoughts have been crowded, my dreams have been full of anxiety, my shoulders have been slouched, and my stomach has been unsettled. When I think about the upcoming semester, I imagine a semester of December but with no end in sight. And that feels really bad. I don’t want to live like this—feeling the weight of projected tomorrows on today—and then that truth comes back to me, “Don’t worry about tomorrow, Deaton. Focus on today. Just make it through today.”

Yesterday during her children’s sermon, Rebecca The Children’s Minister challenged the children to live the new year with righteousness—to make one right decision at a time.

One right decision at a time. One lesson at a time. One assignment at a time. One book at a time. One rehearsal at a time. One memory at a time. One fear at a time. One heartache at a time. One moment of grief at a time. One tear at a time. One laugh at a time. One song at a time. One appointment at a time. One breath at a time. Do not worry about tomorrow. Focus on today. Just make it through today.

This evening, as I sat down to attempt to settle my accounts from 2016, Dumbledore challenged Harry to consider, “Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.” Words are powerful. With words, I have the power to both build up and tear down. With words, I have the opportunity both to encourage and discourage both myself and others.

One right decision at a time. One word at a time. One mantra at a time: Do not worry about tomorrow, friend. Focus on today. Just make it through today. Do your best today. Live fully in this moment. Make the most of this reality. Love today. Create words of love today. Because today is the day that we have been given.