The Good Shepherd

 

I always thought the “Jesus the Good Shepherd” story in John 10 was a story of separating who was in and who was out—

A judgement of sorts, 

With Jesus as the ultimate judge. 

Believe in Jesus and you’re in. 

Don’t believe in Jesus and you’re out. 

But I was wrong. 

 

Sheep enclosures provide boundaries. 

And boundaries are good. 

Boundaries provide safety and a place to be held. 

They provide comfort and healing, 

familiarity and rest. 

Yet the pasture is where the green grass is, 

The nourishment, 

The joys of life, 

The freedom to roam. 

 

Jesus invites us to both. 

And Jesus positions himself as the gate that both draws sheep into safety and guides them out to live. 

 

This is not a you’re in, you’re out story. 

It  is not a story to use to draw lines of judgment, and 

It is not a story about eternity. 

 

This is a story about Christ’s love for all who will hear it and follow it to safety and rest and comfort and healing 

SO THAT they can follow him back out into the world and live. 

It is a story about the here and now, 

And listening to and following the one who laid down his life for us so that we might “have life and have it abundantly.”

 

Amen. 

Bird

 

Have you ever had a bird fly at your head? I have. A couple of times. And it always frightens me!  Today’s note from 4.18.16, recalls one of those times—and it happened in the middle of class! 

 

—-

 

Each Spring, birds arrive at Deaton Manor and make it their home. They surround the house with singing and build nests anywhere they can find. In the bird house. In hanging baskets. In flowerpots. In empty spaces in the garage.

 

Because of this yearly bird presence at the house, I’ve seen the lost, misplaced, and/or startled bird look many times. Mostly, the frantic, wings flapping rapidly, desperate to find a safe place look occurs when a bird accidently flies into the garage or when an intruder comes near a nest.

 

In those moments, I feel particularly helpless. I stand there and point to wide-open doors and tell the bird how to escape—sometimes attempting to guide it with a broom or other long object—but I guess I’m not fluent in bird because the bird usually just ends up panicking more. One time, a bird got stuck inside the garage for many hours. It would try to get out, fail, panic, and then return to a temporary resting place that it’d found on the garage door. It was awful. There was nothing I could do except hope that it didn’t run into the window so many times that it committed accidental bird suicide. I watched that happen one time, too. It was very sad.

 

So today during 5th grade music when a bird suddenly flew through the door of my classroom, I involuntarily said, “Oh crap!” and ducked for cover. The bird was heading straight toward me, already in a panic. In that split second, I had no idea what I was supposed to do! I knew that I didn’t have a garage door or anywhere else on which the bird could perch. I knew that the windows were over my students’ heads. I knew that there was only one way out of the room—which was the direction from which the bird had come. And I knew that there was no way to have class with a bird flying frantically around the room!

 

All I could think to do was open the other door and hope that between the two openings the bird would escape. Meanwhile, I had to continue ducking for cover, hoping that the bird wouldn’t  run into me or poop on my head, and I had to figure out what to do with my students who, naturally, were as surprised as me! I didn’t want a bird pooping on their heads either!

 

Thankfully, before I could even get the second door open, the bird turned itself around and safely exited the room.

 

Then I bent down, ran my fingers through my hair, exhaled, and laughed. The kids laughed, too, all starting to talk at once. One of them said that the look on my face was priceless. Another said that he didn’t know what was going on—that I was teaching and then all of a sudden he heard me say, “Uh oh!” and bend down and then he saw the bird. It took us at least five minutes to get settled again, and then I saw it:

 

The bird had, indeed, pooped!

 

In the 5-10 seconds during which this entire episode occurred, the bird had pooped behind my desk. The poop landed on a yellow envelope of Honors Chorus music that was sitting on a cloth-covered chair. 

 

Thank you, bird, for having good aim, even in your moment of panic. 

 

Thank you, too, for providing my 5th graders with the one moment of their three years of music with me that they will probably not forget.

 

And finally, thank you for making me laugh. 

 

Yes, you startled me as much as you startled yourself. But you made me laugh. And laughter is what so many of us need these days. I think it helps us make it through the crap that life drops our way. I know it did today.

 

Amen. 

Hindsight is a Beautiful Thing

 

Hindsight is a beautiful thing. 

In the midst of living life, 

We oftentimes can’t see what we are learning or how we are growing. 

We oftentimes can’t see God’s presence in real time. 

But looking back, we can see it.

Looking back, we can tell a different story of knowledge, growth, and God’s steady presence of love. 

 

I admit. 

I have oftentimes judged the disciples. 

I’ve seen them as a bit dumb and dimwitted,

Unable to recognize Jesus for who he was. 

But last week it struck me:

Of course they couldn’t recognize Jesus for who he was. 

He was not only the promised Messiah—

Which maybe they could have gotten—

But He was also God Incarnate!

There was no category for that—

No expectation for God to show Godself in flesh and blood. 

The expectation for seeing God was 

Vision, dream, supernatural voice, earthquake, fire, or angel. 

The expectation for seeing God was not God appearing in plain sight and walking the earth as a fellow human being!

 

So hindsight is a beautiful thing. 

It helped the disciples and mothers and fathers of the early church to

Put together the pieces of scripture that show Jesus as the promised Messiah 

And to put together the pieces of scripture and the words of Jesus himself that show that Jesus is God and that God is communal in Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,

Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer. 

 

When I first started counseling,

My counselor, Jenny, said that we were going to go back and retell some stories of my past and see things differently in the outcome.

I argued with her.

I said the past is the past and I can’t change it. 

The events are clear. The actions happened. They can’t be argued. 

But now I realize that she was right.

We can retell the stories of our past, 

And the outcome can be different.

Maybe not in what happened, 

But in the realization of where God was and what God was doing to grow and teach us.

 

Don’t get me wrong. 

We can’t dismiss looking for God in the present. 

We can’t think that God is unseeable now. 

God is. 

Our work is to stay present in the moment. 

But sometimes,

Even the most present of us cannot understand what is happening in the middle of a storm. 

Sometimes we need time, 

Distance,

Space, and 

Hindsight 

To help us truly see God. 

 

May you grant yourself hindsight today, 

And may you, 

Like the disciples, 

Look back and see God in your midst, 

Day in and day out, 

Walking among you in love. 

 

Amen. 

Where My Demons Hide

 

Today’s Throwback Thursday takes us to  4.14.16. Over a decade later, I still think about “The Passion” and listen to songs from the soundtrack.

 

——

 

A few weeks ago, on Palm Sunday, a live performance of “The Passion” was aired on Fox. Before watching, I didn’t know exactly what the production entailed—just that it was a modern version of the last week of Jesus’ life, that it was set in New Orleans, and that it was rumored to be quite powerful.

 

I confess: When the special first began I wasn’t overly impressed. I thought that the next two hours were simply going to be filled with songs and narration like a modern music awards show—but I was wrong. It was similar. Yet it was so much more. It was focused and centered around a life-changing theme. And it presented Christ’s message of love, grace, and hope in a powerful way.

 

I ordered the soundtrack.

 

The first time I listen to it, I found myself sobbing. I’m not talking about leaking a few tears, I’m talking about full blown “ugly-crying.” Out of the blue, I felt like my heart was going to explode in gratitude for Christ’s unwavering love and grace.

 

The song that caused this catharsis was “Demons” by Imagine Dragons. The characters were Judas and Jesus. The emotions were defeat and anguish. Judas was defeated by his own humanity and in anguish over his inability to escape his demons. Jesus was defeated by misunderstanding and betrayal and in anguish over his friends’ inability to accept unconditional love. 

 

On some days, I am Judas. On others, I am closer to Jesus. I get it. The core of me gets it. Maybe you get it, too? 

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b8oe4KHMUVE

 "Demons" as sung in The Passion

Judas: When the days are cold
And the cards all fold
And the saints we see
Are all made of gold
When your dreams all fail
And the ones we hail
Are the worst of all
And the blood’s run stale
I wanna hide the truth

Jesus: I wanna shelter you

Judas: But with the beast inside

Judas and Jesus: There’s nowhere we can hide

Judas: No matter what we breed
We still are made of greed

Jesus: This is my kingdom come
This is my kingdom come

Judas: When you feel my heat
Look into my eyes
It’s where my demons hide
It’s where my demons hide
Don’t get too close
It’s dark inside
It’s where my demons hide

Jesus: It’s where your demons hide

Judas: At the curtain’s call
It's the last of all
When the lights fade out
All the sinners crawl

Jesus: So they dug your grave
And the masquerade
Will come calling out
At the mess you made
Don't wanna let you down

Judas: But I am hell bound

Jesus: Though this is all for you

Jesus and Judas: Don't wanna hide the truth

Judas: No matter what we breed
We still are made of greed

Jesus: This is my kingdom come

Judas: This is my kingdom come
When you feel my heat
Look into my eyes
It’s where my demons hide
It’s where my demons hide
Don’t get too close
It’s dark inside
It’s where my demons hide

Jesus: It’s where your demons hide

Judas: They say it's what you make
I say it's up to fate
It's woven in my soul
I need to let you go

Jesus: Your eyes, they shine so bright
I wanna save that light
I can't escape this now
Unless you show me how

Judas: When you feel my heat
Look into my eyes
It’s where my demons hide
It’s where my demons hide
Don’t get too close
It’s dark inside
It’s where my demons hide
It’s where my demons hide

Quality Time

 

I had the opportunity to help lead a retreat over the weekend.

Overall, the weekend was very good but two moments stuck out to me more than any other. 

 

First, I asked Facebook for some suggestions on songs dealing with love.

I received a lot of great song suggestions and promptly put them on the playlist. 

What I did not expect was that the playlist would be so popular and that participants would sing-along.

But sure, enough, as we were painting rocks to give away as random acts of kindness,

The ladies all started singing, 

“Just like me, they long to be, close to you,” and 

“All you need is love, love is all you need.”

The spontaneous singing made me smile.

In general, we don’t burst into song enough!

 

Second, while doing a group storytelling activity,

The ladies cackled in laughter!

One person would say two or three words, then the next person would say something, then the next, and then the next.

I don’t remember what exactly the stories were,

But I know that they included bears and flamingos and visions of God and lots of other very random things.

 

The retreat was focused on the five love languages. 

One of the five love languages is quality time.  

Time sitting together and singing, 

Time spent listening to one another, 

Time telling stories, 

Time laughing,

Time crafting,

Time studying scripture,

Time reading liturgy…

All of that time was quality time

With one another 

And with God. 

 

May we be a people of quality time, 

Loving though our presence and intention, 

Bursting into song, and 

Living life together as co-creators with God. 

 

Amen. 

Come Back, Just Come

 

April is National Poetry Month. In April 2016, I was cleaning some books and found a poem that made me cry. It’s called “Come Back Safely,” and it’s by Sylva Gaboudikan.  She writes: 

 

even to say good-bye

even if it’s the last time

even reluctantly

 

even to hurt me again

even with the harsh acid

of sarcasm that stings

 

even with a new kind of pain

even fresh from the embrace

of another. Come back, just come.

 

I went on to reflect:

 

When we look at scripture, we see that Jesus was the first person who truly saw Mary Magdalene. Jesus saw through Mary’s brokenness and believed in her as the woman that she actually was: a beautiful child of God. No matter what she had done—or would do. No matter how lonely she was—or would become. Jesus saw her and believed in her. He loved her and transformed her. Then he was gone. He was dead. And she was devastated—left with a hole in her heart where love and friendship used to be.

 

I am very thankful that I’ve not lost many friends to death. But I have lost many friends. When natural time and distance play their part in the losing, I understand the loss. I understand the seasons of life and that people come and go as one progresses along life’s journey. Because of my tremendous capacity to love and remember, I miss these friendships and think of them often. Sometimes I feel as if I have credits rolling through my brain, listening all of the characters from various points of life.

 

It’s when someone cuts me off that I find myself devastated like Mary Magdalene. It happens suddenly—possibly after clues of its coming—but suddenly nonetheless. Drastically. A cut. A nail. A figurative death. And then they are gone. Someone who has been a friend—who has seen me and whom I have seen—who has loved me and whom I have loved—who has laughed with me and whose tears I have dried—is gone. And it hurts. And it leaves a hole in my heart. And I grieve from the depths of my being.

 

For Mary Magdalene, there was resolve to this deep grief in this life. Jesus returned. He came back and restored her broken heart, offering such deep hope and transformative power that Mary Magdalene’s life and story would rise above society’s discrimination and be remembered for thousands of years to come.

 

For me, though, there likely will not be resolve in this life. For whatever reason, friends likely will not return. Restoration likely will not occur. And yet I live with quiet hope and open my arms and heart with unconditional love and forgiveness. “Come back,” my soul prays, “just come.”

 

Amen. 

The Importance of Creating

 

I want to be a good visual artist, I do. 

And I do okay when someone is guiding me step by step. 

But when left on my own, 

to create something new, 

I find that images get stuck in my head

And I don’t know how to get them out. 

Landscapes, animals, people, or anything realistic become out of reach and so

Abstract I go, 

Usually with rainbow colors, 

Because choosing color palettes is not a forte either! 

 

So when Barb the Great introduced me to neurographic art last week, I latched on. 

No matter what you start with, 

No matter where you begin, 

No matter what colors you choose, 

You end up successful,

With something lovely to show. 

And almost lost importantly than that, 

The process is literally healing. 

Slowing down, 

Setting an intention, 

Drawing a line, 

Smoothing out the rough edges, 

Adding color. 

It’s very calming and very symbolic of what time can do to the rough edges of life. 

 

Over the weekend, I had a little bout with anxiety. 

To me, anxiety feels sharp and piercing,

Like a cut. 

I employed all my dealing with irrational anxiety tools:

Breathing, 

Writing,

Naming it, 

Talking through it, 

Centering on reality, 

Reminding myself that my future self can handle what is to come. 

But I decided to employ one more tool over the weekend: 

Neurographic art. 

 

I made the lines cut on the page. 

They were harsh and dramatic. 

Then I smoothed out the jagged edges and felt them soften. 

Then I painted. 

I concentrated all my thoughts on the movement from dark to light. 

And what emerged was absolutely gorgeous on its own, 

But even more so knowing where it began. 

 

We live in a time where life will try to stifle our creativity.

It will tell us that we do not have the time or talent to create. 

Do not listen to those voices, dear friends. 

Find your art or craft and resist the lies of this world. 

You are capable. 

You are good enough. 

You can create. 

And you can transform both the world and yourself in the process. 

 

Amen. 

It's Okay To Be Happy

 

Thanks to the hospitality of some friends,

I was able to visit the beach for a couple of days. 

While away, I ate at a few waterfront restaurants, went on a boat ride, looked for sand dollars on a secluded sand bar, looked for Native American pottery shards on a secluded island, went to a movie, sat on the beach, collected shells, watched a sunset, played some games, wrote some poems, and learned a new watercolor activity. 

I had a tremendous time. 

And it wasn’t so much that I was doing out of the ordinary things. 

It was that I was doing them with intention and purpose, 

Fully alive and fully present

Without worry of what was going to happen next.

 

While on the boat, I was feeling the breeze on my face. 

While looking for sand dollars, I was watching my feet wade through the water.

While looking for pottery shards, I was being careful not to step on an oyster shell. 

While sitting on the beach, I was basking in the sun. 

While making art, I was channeling intention. 

I wasn’t worrying about everything that needed to be done at home. 

I wasn’t fretting about everything that could go wrong in the future.

I wasn’t ruminating on death and dying. 

I wasn’t comparing my life to others, wishing I had more or feeling guilty for not having less. 

I was simply present, 

Grateful, 

And happy. 

 

I used to be afraid to be happy.

I used to live in fear of when happiness would end and sadness would strike.

I used to feel guilty for being happy when so many others were miserable.

I used to always wait for the other shoe to fall, 

Not as a natural rhythm to life,

But as some type of punishment or consequence for being bad, 

As some type of game by a not so loving God.

 

As I sat on the beach this week, though,

And I watched a surfer ride the waves as they flowed,

I realized that the movement of the ocean really is the movement of life.

Sometimes it’s gentle, sometimes it’s rough.

Sometimes we float over the waves, sometimes they crash over us.

There are highs and there are lows. 

But there is always movement and always more to come.

 

Yes, there will be days of worry, stress, and sadness.

There will be days of grief and death and dying, and I have no idea when they will come, and they make me sick with anticipation. 

But I know now that they are not punishment or a sadistic game from a not so loving God,

Rather they are a natural part of life, 

Just as happiness is a natural part of life.

 

On this Maundy Thursday,

When Jesus experienced the full gamut of emotions,

From contentment in humble service to agony in sacrifice and betrayal, 

May we experience what we are experiencing, 

Whether it be what the world defines as good or bad,

Happy or sad,

A loving God is in it all,

Working to make all things right,

Rejoicing when we rejoice,

Weeping when we weep,

Commanding us to, above all else, love one another,

And truly experience this life we have been given, 

Even when life is good. 

 

Amen. 

Made With Love

 

I made myself breakfast yesterday morning. 

I made the same cheese eggs that my dad makes me every day before work,

Yet my eggs did not taste nearly as good as his.

Same ingredients, same cooking style, but completely different outcome

Because his eggs are cooked every morning with love. 

His eggs are cooked as an act of service.

 

Over 20 years ago,

One of my friends made me a ham sandwich.

On it, she put a slice of ham, a slice of American cheese, mayonnaise, mustard, and potato chips. 

It was one of the best sandwiches I’ve ever had.

All of the ingredients blended well together and the potato chips added a nice crunch. 

I tried to re-create the sandwich on my own,

But it didn’t taste nearly as good.

I determined that two ingredients were missing from my personally made sandwich,

And those ingredients were love and service. 

 

It’s not that I don’t love myself,

Although 20 years ago, it could be argued that I did not.

It’s that someone else is doing something for me,

It’s someone else sacrificing their time and effort, however simple, to make something for someone beyond themselves. 

It’s that extra little ingredient of service love that makes life so special. 

 

As we enter into holy week this week

And reflect on the last days of Jesus‘s life, May we be a people who follow in his footsteps and love others through service.

May we find small ways to lay down our lives in sacrifice 

Even as we know that Jesus made the ultimate sacrifice of his life. 

May we wash feet and break bread and cook breakfast and make sandwiches for one another, 

One moment at a time. 

 

Amen. 

Seen and Heard

**Today’s Throwback Thursday note goes back to Johnsonville. I used to do the morning announcements every day.  While I don’t do the announcements at Greenwood, the premise of this note is still the same. We all want to be seen and heard—children, teenagers, and adults alike.**

 

I think it goes unspoken that we, as humans, want other people to pay attention to us. 

Though there are times when  we may want to remain unnoticed, most of time we want to be seen and heard.

Children demonstrate this fact loudly and openly when they act out to receive attention. 

Teenagers demonstrate this fact loudly and openly when they film themselves doing ridiculous stunts in hopes of becoming a YouTube sensation. 

Adults demonstrate this fact loudly and openly when we leave passive-aggressive or cryptic messages on Facebook.

Truth be told, sometimes the lines of action between children, teenagers, and adults get crossed so blurrily that adults end up acting out like children.

 

As a human teacher, then, it’s no surprise that I want my students to pay attention to me. 

I want them to listen and learn and I want them to gain knowledge and information that will help shape their lives in a positive way. 

This is always my hope—to be heard—but oftentimes I get the impression that my students hear more of the teacher in Charlie Brown than they do me…especially when it comes to the morning announcements.

 

So this afternoon when one of my students repeated something I said on this morning’s announcements, I smiled.

She had heard every word and decided to imitate the act of kindness that I had shouted out. 

 

The other day, I posted a Stephen Sondheim lyric that says, 

“Careful the things you say; Children will listen. 

Careful the things you do; Children will see and learn. 

Children may not obey, but children will listen. 

Children will look to you for which way to turn; 

To learn what to be. 

Careful before you say 'Listen to me’; Children will listen."

 

They really do listen.

They really do pay attention.

And they really do just want us to pay attention to them.

And they are us.

And we are them.

Children. Teenagers. Adults.

Wanting to be seen and heard.

 

Amen. 

 

—edited from a post originally made on 4.7.16

Pay Attention to the Zeros

 

I opened my bank account app last week and saw an advertisement for a new savings account with an interest rate much higher than my current account. 

I read the details and decided that it was a no brainer to start the account. 

I went through the online steps and opened the new account, 

Transferring money from one account to the other while leaving enough money in the original account to not get a service charge. 

I figured I would close out the original account but couldn’t figure out how to do it online. 

I stopped by the bank the next day. 

 

First, I was shocked at how skeletal the staff was. 

Second, while meeting with the branch manager because there were no other non-tellers there, I was shocked when she told me that I needed to keep $15000 in the account to not incur a service charge. 

“Oh,” I said. “Well I can’t do that. I don’t have $15000! I read $1500 .”

She said, “Oh, that’s okay. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll change the interest rate on your current account and we’ll just close out the new one.”

“Wow! That sounds great. And how much do I need to keep in the one I already have?”

“Just $1000.”

“That’s a huge difference!”

“Yeh. We don’t offer the account that you have anymore. You were grandfathered in.” 

“Oh, okay. Well, thank you for changing the interest rate and closing the other account!”

 

I learned two things through this encounter.

One. Always pay attention to the zeros! :-)

Two. Go inside the bank ever so often and see if they will adjust your interest rates. 

 

Don’t laugh. But my interest rate went from .01% to 1.0%.

I know. It’s not a lot either way.

But it’s a 100% increase to my functional savings account.

(I keep long-term savings at another bank with a much better interest rate.)

And despite a few moments of waiting,

It was a painless process that resulted in a positive change.

 

We live in a time when most companies give very little.

Few places, other than fast food joints, honor loyalty and most do very little to reward commitment. 

I know that my bank would have never increased my interest rate on its own even though I have been a customer since 1995.

If anything, they’d have just lowered it to less than the practically nothing that it already was. 

So I guess that sometimes we must look out for ourselves.

The sad thing is that I didn’t realize that I could!

If I hadn’t messed up the 0’s, then my account would still be the same. 

 

May you seek and be granted positive change where you need it today. 

It’s possible.

Sometimes, we just have to ask. 

 

Amen. 

More Than Satisfactory To Me

One of my closest college-friends was completely tone deaf. For years, she refused to sing in public because her elementary music teacher told her she couldn’t sing. As a little girl, her teacher’s words crushed her spirit, and I knew this. Therefore, I vowed never to tell a student that he or she couldn’t sing.

 

The truth is that everyone can sing. Some people may have more talent than others and some people may sing melodies best sung in the shower. Yet everyone can sing.

 

So I try not to discourage my students in their singing or in any other musical endeavor. Realistically, most of my students will not continue in their musical studies. I try to prepare those who will, but I also try to mold all of my students into responsible and respectful partakers of music.  

 

I expect my students to pay attention to our lessons and to try the challenges that I present them, but I don’t grade them on performance capability as much as I grade them on performance effort.

 

All that being said, I find myself writing quite a few comments when I do grades—especially since my grades are limited to Satisfactory, Needs Improvement, and Unsatisfactory.

 

I worked on grades this afternoon. I demonstrated a lot of hope and grace.

 

Yet as I drove home, I found myself not showing myself much grace.

 

I wasn’t trying to be overly harsh or judgmental. I wasn’t beating myself up for anything in particular. I just noticed that my self-talk wasn’t very positive. I noticed myself saying things like my friend’s elementary music teacher said to her. 

 

Then I noticed myself singing a song I wrote many years ago: “Sometimes I feel like I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. But sometimes I feel like he can’t do a thing through. Look at me, I am nothing. Look at them, they are everything. Look at me. I am nothing. Look at me.”

 

Continuing on, I heard the response: 

 

“Okay, child, I’m looking, and I’ll tell you what I see—the beautiful you that I created you to be. I don’t care what they can say and I don’t care what they can do, it’s you I love. It’s you. Look at you,” Deanna, “You are something. Don’t look at them. They don’t have everything. Look at you. You are something. Look at you.”

 

By the end of the song, I felt a little better. And I knew one thing for certain: 

 

As long as I keep trying—or even when I don’t—I am more than satisfactory to God. 

 

And you are too, friend.

You are too. 

 

Amen. 

 

—edited from “More Than Satisfactory To Me,” 4.4.16

Walking Before, Beside, and Behind

The past few times I’ve been to Disney World, I’ve been with my friend Amy The Disney Expert. 

I have done no planning whatsoever

And literally just followed her around the parks. 

Though a bit shorter, Amy walks much faster than me and so I have images in my head of watching her weave through the crowds and me trying to keep up.

Sometimes, it’s nice to have someone walk ahead of you, to lead you, to guide you, to keep you safe.

 

When we went to the symphony a few weeks ago, our bus broke down about a mile away from the concert hall. 

One of the fourth grade teachers announced to the students that we were at our drop off location and that we were going to walk the rest of the way.

The student students did not question.

They simply got off the bus and formed one gigantic line. 

The other three teachers scattered themselves amongst the line and helped when we got to major crosswalks.

I had the directions on my phone, and so I was the leader upfront, slowly guiding all of the people behind me. 

Sometimes, it’s nice to have people walking behind you, following you, so that you can keep them safe.

 

A couple of weeks ago, a friend brought me a newspaper article that had featured my work with blackout poetry.

As I sat in choir practice, listening to Tamara The Music Director work with the low voices,

I got out the paper and read the article.

Jana My Fellow Alto and pew mate, looked at me and burst out laughing.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, she pulled out her phone and snapped a picture. 

When she sent it to me, I laughed too.

I looked utterly ridiculous, and yet fully myself, sitting in the middle of choir practice, on a church pew, reading the newspaper, with toboggan on my head.

Sometimes, it’s nice to have people beside you, just experiencing life with you, finding ways to laugh, enjoying the journey, knowing you are safe. 

 

Wherever you are today,

Walking behind,

Walking before,

Or walking beside,

May you experience moments of life’s goodness and joy 

And may you know when it is time to change course and position.

Life is a series of going behind, before, and beside, 

A constant movement from one to the other, 

And God is with us in each transition, 

A steady presence through it all, 

Our ultimate safety and rest. 

 

Amen. 

 

No Paddle Day

Today’s Throwback Thursday goes back to 3.28.16. If we were tired then, how much more tired are we now?! Oh God. Help us find rest. Amen. 

 

 ——-

 

I’ve never been canoeing--

Much less canoeing on a ten day river trip through two states.

But I have a friend who is doing just that--

With a group of teenage girls from the camp where she works.

They left on the Lumber River in NC last Wednesday and will be extracted at a beach in SC this Saturday.

By Friday, the group had arrived in SC and begun canoeing the Little Pee Dee River.

By Saturday night, the girls were ready to go to bed by 7pm.

Needless to say, they were exhausted.

Because of the exhaustion, but more so because of the theological significance of the day,

Yesterday was a no paddle day.

A day of staying put.

A day of discussing the power of life, death, and resurrection.

A day of exploring the beauty of creation.

A day of rest.

 

I don’t need to say that we live in a busy world.

Just waking up each day is to experience a fast-paced, motion- and noise-filled world.

I don’t need to say that there is always more to do.

Just making a to-do list on which you need to add a to-done category just to feel accomplished is to experience the never-ending list of tasks to do.

I don’t need to say that people are tired.

Just looking at the dark circles under eyes and the sleep aids the fill pharmacy aisles is to witness America’s need for sleep.

 

And yet…

I rarely hear of people taking a no paddle day.

A day of staying home.

A day of discussing the power of light, darkness, and redemption.

A day of taking in the beauty of creation.

A day of rest.

 

Being the orange-fish collector that I am, I have a Finding Nemo saying on my wall:

Just keep swimming.

And while I believe in this little phrase and know that ultimately,

no matter how weary we become from life’s demands,

especially the demands that we have absolutely no interest in but that we must do nonetheless,

We must keep going.

We must keep persevering until we make it to the other side.

This is what life requires.

Nemo knows this.

 

Yet, my friend and her girls know something, too,

Something that God Godself has known since the very beginning:

Sometimes we must take a day and designate it as a

No paddle day.

A day of being,

A day of discussing the power of joy, grief, and journey.

A day of meditating on the wisdom of creation.

A day of rest.

Create

It’s nice to have a friend with whom to create.

 

Heidi the Librarian got me into writing blackout poetry

But I got her into making tin art.

We started by taking classes together at a local art gallery.

After a couple of classes, I purchased my own supplies and begin tin arting at home.

On a particularly difficult Saturday for Heidi, I asked if she wanted to come create. She did.

I don’t remember what she made that day, but I do know that that Saturday changed the course of our lives for the next few years. 

Heidi began coming to the house on many weekends and eventually we established a routine of her daughter coming and all of us getting coffee and food and playing games with my parents.

Unfortunately, life and schedules have kept Heidi and her daughter from coming to create for the past three months.

But over the weekend, they finally returned, and Heidi created her best piece yet.

 

I’ve always said that Heidi and I have different styles.

But our different styles were never more noticeable than on Saturday.

Heidi had a commission for a grizzly bear.

I needed to make some hearts for a door prize for a retreat that I’m helping lead in April.

Heidi spent 5 to 6 hours working on her one piece and she didn’t finish. 

While she was working, I deconstructed several tins, cleaned up a bit, made seven different simple hearts, wrote my blackout poem, and decided to do my own version of a grizzly bear. I then made two quilt hearts out of scrap tin. 

Heidi was working with intricate details and wavy lines. 

I was working with geometric shapes and straight lines. 

Our work is so very different.

 

Yet isn’t that the beauty of art?

Isn’t it the point of creating?

Give two people the exact same materials and they will express what is on their heart or mind in different ways.

The finished products will vary and the results will reflect personality and headspace as much as talent and skill.

And it’s not really a matter of comparison or one being better than the other. 

(Although I admit that I oftentimes think my work amateur compared to Heidi’s). 

It’s a matter of creation. 

Of expression. 

Of connection. 

Creating is a matter of catharsis. 

 

Tin art may not be your thing. 

Or blackout poetry.

And that’s OK.

Because there are so many different ways to create.

Painting, drawing, sculpting, dancing, making music, acting, landscaping, architecturing, woodworking, scrapbooking, model making, stain glass window making, puzzling, sewing, quilting, knitting, crocheting, retreat planning, sermonizing, writing. 

Whatever your way, 

Whatever your interests,

Get out there and use your hands and create.

Creating is an act of resistance. 

And it is so much fun with a friend!

 

Making a Difference

I’m one of those people who, when asked what she wants to do with her life, will answer, “Make a difference.” For years, this desire to make a difference is

what drove me. It was at the forefront of almost everything I did and it was my main reason for going to work each day.

 

Then I realized something. While technology has advanced and science has come to explain a lot of things, humanity, at its core, is pretty much the same as it’s always been—broken, unjust, divided, judgmental, hungry for power, thirsty for war, and very, very, well, human. And while one life can have a positive influence on other lives, that one life will most likely be forgotten within a couple of generations and that one life will most likely have changed nothing in the world. Let’s face it, in the scheme of humanity, very few people are remembered for making a profound, prophetic mark on history.

 

This realization sent me into a period of depression. I became somewhat hopeless. I lost my purpose and my way. I questioned everything I did and wondered what the point was if making a difference wasn’t actually possible. I wondered if making a difference was just a pipedream that people perpetuated to boost morale.

 

Friends: This is a very dark place to be.

 

Thankfully, in the years since that initial realization, I have learned to accept its truth but to also live with knowledge that making a difference is far more than a pipedream. Yes. I will likely be forgotten within decades of my death. Even if I’m able to erect a building or start a scholarship fund, or even if I’m able to write and publish a book, the bulk of my life’s work and impact will probably be forgotten. I know this now. And I’m okay with it. Because I’ve realized that making a difference doesn’t mean changing the course of human-kind by rewriting its history. Making a difference means influencing the lives of human-beings.

 

Making a difference is finding a ride to a performance for the student who otherwise would not have been able to attend. Will this student still face many hardships as she grows up? Absolutely. But for that one night, she was safe and happy.

 

Making a difference is singing a song of hope and encouragement with your best friend at your dad’s first retirement service. Will my dad still struggle as he learns to navigate the waters of retirement?Absolutely. But for that one moment, he was at rest and peace with God, and he knew that he truly was not—and would not ever be—alone.

 

Making a difference is inviting a friend to dinner, talking, and laughing together.

 

Making a difference is showing up for a friend during a major time of crisis.

 

Making a difference is following the music with your niece as she learns to read.

 

Making a difference is hugging a kid each morning and telling him to have a good day.

 

Making a difference is helping someone up when she falls down.

 

Making a difference is singing a song with a shut-in and seeing her face light up when she actually remembers something in a day full of forgetting.

 

Making a difference is doing anything you can to add light and joy to the lives of those around you anytime you can because life is the sum of all of its moments and each of us only has one life to live and God is the God of the light and joy that are slowly, steadily, and patiently fighting to redeem a broken humanity, one life and soul at a time.

 

Amen. 

 

—Originally posted on 3.14.16. It’s Throwback Thursday! 

The Dark

I have two favorite characters from the Harry Potter series. 

One is Dobby. 

The other is the mandrake species. 

I like Dobby because of his loyalty to Harry and the ultimate sacrifice that he makes to save him. 

I like the mandrake because I can relate to how it screams whenever it is uprooted and moved to a different pot.

I’ve long paralleled personal growth to the mandrake—

To outgrowing one pot, needing to be moved to a larger pot to live more fully and freely, but not liking the process of being moved and so fighting it with literal and figurative screams. 

 

The analogy grew even deeper on Sunday, though, when Pastor Ann mentioned that sometimes darkness can be a good thing.

Nicodemus went to Jesus in the dark. 

He felt free to visit, free to question, free to search, and free to grow.

Pastor Ann suggested that it is in periods of darkness in our own lives that we are most vulnerable and open to growth.

I had always thought of darkness as a negative thing—

As being away from light

And light being the presence of goodness and God.

But in this context,

Darkness is the soil where a seed takes route and begins to grow.

Darkness is safety and space and shelter and exactly what is needed for life.

And so the mandrake grows in darkness.

And when it is yanked from that darkness into piercing light, it hurts.

It is like being born.

And being born is not easy.

And so it screams.

It stays in light for but a few moments 

And then it enters back into darkness where it will continue to grow.

 

I know.

The analogy breaks down at some point because we do not always scream when we’re in the light.

And we need to be in light to be fully alive. 

But I like this idea of soil being dark.

Of growth occurring in the dark.

Of the transition out of darkness into light sometimes being difficult. 

And of the movement, out of darkness, into light, back to darkness, back into light, 

Each time expanding the pot,

Each time expanding the space,

Each time becoming more than we were before. 

 

Friends,

We are living in dark times.

But God is here.

Even in the dark,

God is here.

And we are primed and ready for change. 

We are in a place of possible growth. 

Somehow, oh God, 

May it be so. 

Amen. 

 

 

Spaghetti Table

We had a spaghetti dinner at church on Saturday night. 

It was a partly candle-lit sitdown meal,

Complete with salad, spaghetti, dessert, and sparkling grape juice.

Additionally, we had live entertainment,

Flute and castanet, 

Piano,

Singing wait staff,

And soloists. 

We used real plates, silverware, and glasses.

We provided an Olive Garden style salad.

We offered vegetarian spaghetti or spaghetti with meatballs.

We offered bread with garlic and bread without.

And, knowing my church, I’m surprised we didn’t have a gluten-free pasta option.

We fed members of the church,

We fed community members,

And we provided takeout plates for people who wanted to deliver food to shut ins. 

One man came 30 minutes early, while the kitchen staff was deep in preparation,

And waited patiently for two to go plates.

I figured that he was getting a plane for himself and his wife.

Instead, he was getting a plate for his supper and Sunday’s lunch.

His loneliness made me sad. 

 

When we gather around the table,

Whether it be the spaghetti table or the communion table,

We are gathering together the body of Christ and living out the Kingdom of God on earth.

For a moment,

We set aside our differences,

Our partisan political views,

Our theological nuances,

Our socioeconomic status,

Our education achievements, 

All of our unique preferences, 

And simply fellowship together at the table 

Set with 

Time 

Intention

The fruits of the earth 

The gifts of the Spirit 

And 

Love. 

 

As nations are at war, 

And persons are in endless battles,

May we do more communing around the table, 

The spaghetti table of grace. 

Follow The Drinking Gourd

 **Throwback Thursday, 2.25.16**

 

One of my most vivid memories is of an experience that I had on a women’s retreat in Charleston, SC. Late one night, as I walked through the large yard separating the house from the beach, I looked to the sky and located the big dipper. Almost immediately, I started singing “Follow The Drinking Gourd,” imagining myself as a slave running for freedom, walking under the cover of night, having little more to guide me than a constellation in the sky. I quickly determined that I would have been caught.

 

I have been teaching “Follow The Drinking Gourd” for many years. It’s one of the units that my students enjoy the most, and this year has been no different. Between an excellent Reading Rainbow video about the song, the real gourds that one of my coworkers gave me, the textbooks, and a super interactive game by National Geographic, I have been able to present information that has truly fascinated and resonated with many of my students.

 

Since taking some time away from the classroom and working heavily on educating about and fighting against human exploitation, I have found myself fighting back tears more than once when students have breathed a sigh of relief that slavery is no longer legal—or when they’ve asked if slavery still exists and I’ve had to lie to them—or at least highly edit the truth…

 

…Because the truth is that slavery is still very much alive in this world—this country not excluded.

 

The truth is that hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children are held against their will, used, beaten, demeaned, destroyed, bought, and sold every day.

 

The truth is that slaves are brought to America not just from Africa but from destinations around the world.

 

The truth is that slaves are held in or sent out of America from households just around the corner. 

 

The truth is that the clothes and shoes that we wear and the coffee and chocolate we eat and drink is likely produced by slaves.

 

The truth is that slaves are not just working in homes and fields but in restaurants, hotels, nail salons, and massage parlors in our own cities.

 

The truth is that some of my students are vulnerable to becoming slaves themselves—to being lured by the promise of money and a better life but landing instead in invisible chains nearly impossible to break.

 

The truth is that most of the sex workers that we often condemn and the persons seen in the pornography that many Christians secretly watch and that is creating addictions in children as young as 8-years-old are modern day slaves. 

Held against their will. 

Used. 

Beaten. 

Demeaned. 

Destroyed. 

Bought. 

Sold. 

Every day.

 

But I can’t tell my students that. My students are far too young to hear of these atrocities from their public school music teacher. So I tell them stories of the past and teach them songs of courage and hope and pray that they will grow to learn about and fight the slavery that indeed exists under the drinking gourd and beyond.

 

**A brief update: Time and circumstance have changed my teaching a bit, but I still introduce my older students to Wade in The Water, Harriet Tubman, and Follow The Drinking Gourd.**

Belovedness

I’ve heard it said that maybe Jesus’s perfection was not in his moral superiority, but in his being the only person ever to live into the fullness of who God created him to be.

 

If God whispers our identity into being before we are born,

And the world constantly tries to form us into itself,

Away from our identity in God,

Then a person who does not listen to the world, rather listens to God‘s voice,

Is a person not missing the mark, 

A person living into God’s design and perfection. 

 

When God created humanity,

God called us good.

Adam and Eve, 

In their original insecurity,

Forgot that they were created as God’s beloved

And decided to pursue knowledge for themselves, 

Thus realizing their nakedness and sin. 

 

When Jesus was baptized, 

God said this is my son, my beloved, in whom I am well pleased.

Jesus then went into the wilderness and was tempted for 40 days. 

Yet he remembered who he was—

God’s beloved—

And was able to resist temptation.

 

So maybe if we,

In our original insecurity,

Could do as Jesus did,

And remember our worth and value in God, 

Then we could stop seeking security and validation from the things in this world 

And actually enjoy life and work and rest. 

 

We are God’s beloved,

Created in the image of God,

Sustained by the spirit of God,

Redeemed by the life, death, and resurrection of Christ. 

 

We are fully loved. 

We are fully valued.

And we are able to withstand the temptations of this world by remembering who and whose we are.

 

May we surround one another with voices of belovedness today. 

Not moral reprimands. 

Not reminders of how messed up and sinful we are. 

Not slaps on the hand and knives to the heart. 

But belovedness: 

Possibility, goodness, grace, forgiveness, and love. 

 

Amen. 

 

**This is my sermon response to Pastor Ann’s sermon on 2.22.26.**

Who We Are

I think that we each just want to be

loved for who we are. Period. Not the idea
of who we could be. Or the roles in
which we function. Or the services, gifts, and talents

that we offer. But who we are. Good, bad,
ugly. I think we each need to know that
we are honored and adored not by virtue of
performance and perfection but by the triumph of waking
up each day, breathing, and giving life a try.
I think that we each need places of unconditional
acceptance: places to call home. We each need to
know that, to someone, we are not second best--
to someone, we are the cream of the crop,
the top notch, the best thing since sliced bread.
Ideally, I think, we each receive that love from
our families. Ideally, our hunger for acceptance is satisfied

by the seeds that gave us birth or the
partnership that promised to honor and cherish. Ideally, we
find comfort and peace in the place we lay
our heads. No pretense. No intimidation. No fear. Just
rest. And satisfaction. And joy. But when those things
are not there. When we are uncertain of our
value. When we question and doubt the inherent beauty
of existence. When we feel used, or reduced to
function and performance, or we fear failure and disappointment.
When we're forced into a mold that was not
ours to live, paralyzed by discomfort, lost. When our
spirits are not nurtured and allowed the freedom to
soar--to explore the world and discover the depths
of creation, the places where we fit, the points
at which we flourish--we slowly begin to die:
our bodies exhausted, our hearts wounded, our minds numb,
our spirits suffocated and…then what? I suppose we
pick up the pieces and begin to live again.
I suppose we apologize for reducing people to ideas
and roles and function, for identifying individuals by what
they do rather than who they are--what they
like, how they love, when they dream--for not
celebrating unique personality but honoring the status-quo. I suppose
we vow never to let anyone feel as if
she is not loved for who she is. Period.
I suppose we fill the gaping hole called needy
beast with the unfathomable love of God, manifest both
in God's still small, unexplainable voice and the loud
voice of tangible community, and let that love transform
the very core of our being. I suppose we
allow ourselves to feel again, to experience and release
emotion, however raw and difficult, however many tears it
brings, and give it permission to bridge the gap
between knowledge and understanding. We are
all loved for who we are. We are all
created to be who we are. But I think
we each just need to be reminded of that
fact through words and deeds and actions and gifts
and time—that we each need to know that
we are loved for who we are. Period. Over
and over and over and over and over again.

 

—Written in the middle of the night, 

March 3, 2007, 

While sitting at the old desktop computer in my office. 

Originally written in three word phrases, 

Like the Trinity.

This final version is 9 (3x3) words on each line. 

Superwoman

I started this semester taking two different courses: Foundations of Worship and Writing Your Spiritual Autobiography. 

 

The worship class ends tonight. It has planted fresh ideas of worship in my mind and heart and I am so very grateful for how it has influenced me. 

 

The autobiography class ends next week. It has reminded me of the importance of story and challenged me to improve my writing with more sensory detail. It has also forced me to look back on my life and consider what stories are worth sharing for the sake of common humanity. This journey of looking back has been very emotional and caused me to shed many tears. 

 

I’ve written five stories, but I’ve also bound five volumes of poems from five different years. 

 

Starting in seventh grade, long before computers were an American household norm, I would gather the random scraps of paper, napkins, or yellow legal pads that I’d scribbled poems or lyrics on and then copy their words into a blank book. 

 

I did this for over fifteen years until I started writing more on the computer than by hand. At that point, 2004 to be exact, I started printing the poems and lyrics and binding them into yearly books. 

 

This is what I’ve done since taking the autobiography class. I’ve printed and compiled a few years’ poems.  And in the process, I’ve read and remembered. It has been both a joy and a sorrow. 

 

I have laughed at myself and how dramatic I am. I have wondered at myself and what in the world I was trying to say. And I have wept with myself and wanted to go back and give my lost, hurting, broken self a great big hug. 

 

In reading poems from 2007, I found this piece appropriate to share. Our theme at school this year is a superhero theme. But sometimes, we all become weary super heroes. 

 

So I have this

Unrealistic expectation of myself:

Perfection; plain and simple.

(Except that it’s not so plain and simple.)

Reaching for the goal of being all things to all people is

Wearing me down.  Always showing up as asked, wanted, suggested, or needed--

On time, ready to perform well above standard and to

Make every effort to please every opinion in every word and

Action--is really quite complicated.  In fact, right

Now, I would just like to rest.

 

Friends: Whether you find yourself learning about something new or reminiscing about the past, may you honor your journey and find rest today. 

 

Amen. 

Weird Plastic

 

Today’s Throwback Thursday takes us to Johnsonville for A Glimpse Into Elementary Life, 2.11.16

 

Something weird happened during 1st grade music today: a student got a piece of plastic stuck between his teeth.

 

Instead of placing his coat on the back of his chair, one of my students evidently decided to put part of his coat in his mouth.

 

Maybe he had a little piece of food lingering from lunch? Maybe that little piece of food was bothering him so much that he needed to remove it? And maybe the little piece of plastic on his coat seemed like the perfect thing to remove that little piece of food?

 

I don’t know.

 

But for some reason, my student decided to stick a piece of plastic between his teeth. And it got stuck. It got really stuck.

 

When I first noticed that something was wrong, I thought that the kid was trying to pull out a tooth and that he had pulled a string from his coat to help him do this. Thinking this a bit odd, I started some dance music for the rest of the class and walked back to check on the tooth removal operation.

 

I quickly noticed, though, that he wasn’t trying to remove a tooth and that the thing dangling from his mouth wasn’t a thin string but a somewhat thick piece of plastic. Thankfully, when I looked at what was going on, I didn’t see blood gushing from his gums. I also didn’t see any reason that that little piece of plastic should be so wedged in his mouth.

 

Then it hit me: My 1st grader had the remainder of a price tag stuck in his mouth. Having put the “T” behind his teeth, close to the roof of his mouth, he had gotten it so tightly wedged that he couldn’t get it out. When he pulled the plastic forward and down, the “T” simply hit his teeth. The harder he pulled, the more futile his attempt to dislodge it. Unless, of course, he had been trying to pull out a few teeth!

 

As the class began to fall apart from a minute of unsupervised dancing, I began to feel a bit panicked. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with a 1st grader with a coat hanging from his mouth! I knew the weight of the coat was not good for his teeth but I also knew that I couldn’t get the plastic dislodged without gloving up and doing a lot of work that I wasn’t capable of doing in the middle of a falling-apart class.  

 

Then I thought: Cut the plastic! The tag might still be lodged in my student’s mouth but at least the coat wouldn’t be hanging from it as well.  So I cut the plastic.

 

Then I remembered: Thursday is nurse day at my school!

 

A little while after sending my 1st grader to the nurse, the nurse called to see if his class was still with me. They were leaving. My student was leaving, too. The class was going back into the building. My student was going home. With a piece of plastic hanging from his mouth, stuck between his teeth. The nurse couldn’t dislodge it either.

 

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said.

“Me either,” I responded.

Then we both laughed in disbelief,

I silently wished some dentist luck,

And I taught two more plastic-free classes.

Thankfully J.

The Frozen River

I recently finished a book called the Frozen River.

It is a fictional work inspired by the life of an 18th century midwife named Martha Ballard.

The author learned about Martha Ballard from a small devotional book that mentioned Ballard. 

From there, she did research into Martha’s life. 

Martha Ballard delivered over 1000 babies and never lost a mother during childbirth.

She had quite a few children of her own, but lost three to diphtheria.

Her husband taught her to read and write and encouraged Martha to keep a day book. 

She did.

As a result, over 250 years later, we still remember her.

She was not a war hero.

She was not a political figure who signed the Declaration of Independence.

No. She was just an ordinary woman with some extraordinary gifts

Who simply spent many days at home. 

 

On Saturday, we celebrated my niece’s 18th birthday. 

As she opened her gifts, I asked if I should be recording who gave her what. 

She said no, that she’d remember. 

I encouraged her to write it down anyway because in a few years she would forget. 

 

So much life happens so fast that 

Despite our best intentions, we tend to forget the every day events and moments. 

 

I suppose that sometimes we want to forget.

I suppose that sometimes we want to move through the difficult parts of living and not look back.

But I would argue that it’s good to record even the hard times

Because they are part of common humanity. 

 

Common humanity hasn’t changed much over the years. 

They may take different technological forms,

But we still have the same basic hopes and dreams of people hundreds of years ago. 

And sometimes it’s good to be reminded that we’re not alone, 

Even if the person walking with us is walking with us only in story and memory. 

 

My mom has a ten year journal.

Jessy The Spanish Teacher does, too. 

They handwrite a little bit each day and then they are able to compare their writings to the same day from previous years. 

Martha Ballard had a day book that she filled in with feather quill and ink. 

I type notes and poems and little vignettes from life and school. 

I print and bind the poems. 

I also keep spreadsheets and lists, 

Lots of lists, 

That help me remember. 

 

It doesn’t matter how we record and remember. 

It just matters that we do…

So that future generations will not only remember us 

But also know that they are not alone in their

Common humanity. 

 

Your life is important, friend. 

Even the mundane. 

So write away. 

You never know when what you have to stay will 

Connect with and influence 

Someone’s life for the better. 

 

Amen.