Land of Plenty

 We live in a land of plenty. If one ever doubts this fact, then all she has to do is turn on HGTV and watch its programming for a couple of hours. Granted, our plenty is not equally distributed and too many of us take for granted the backs on which our plenty stands, but that is a note for another night.

 

A few weeks ago, my mom and I stumbled onto a Tiny House Marathon. Ever since that day, I’ve been turning on HGTV to try to find another Tiny House Marathon. In the process, I’ve found myself watching a plethora of different shows—and talking to the TV quite a bit, almost always making the wrong decision when given a choice between house 1, 2, or 3.

 

Last night, I found myself watching a beachfront property show where the couple was looking for a new home for their family. The husband and wife were both lawyers and their budget was between two and three million dollars. Yes, million. When talking about their children, the couple said that the kids were, “energetic, especially the boy.” When interacting with the kids, the couple was very awkward. And when talking about how happy they were with their new home, the couple was playing tennis, marveling about how much less stress they feel with their new life, and how happy they are to have made the move—and their children were nowhere to be seen.

 

Evidently, this show bothered me so much that I dreamed about it. In my dream, I met the nanny who quite clearly was the person raising the children and said, “I knew it. I knew that they had a nanny. I knew that they were hands-off parents and that those segments were staged.” In my dream, too, the boy was identified autistic, which I would wager money that he, in real life, should be but that he will not be because his parents will not want the diagnosis.

 

I know. I’m sounding very judgmental and investing a lot of emotional energy into something far beyond my reality. But I can’t seem to get it off my mind. Maybe I’m jealous of the money and properties and wishing that I could have three million dollars to invest in a tropical island home. But I don’t think that’s it. I think I’m bothered by how expendable the children seemed in that segment—and in other segments as well. Today, for instance, a couple opted to spend their “nanny budget” on a beachfront property and to push back their efficiency date of having a child exactly one year and nine months.

 

We live in a land of plenty. We have so very, very much. Even our tiny houses are bigger and nicer than many homes around the world. Yet when our plenty causes us to lose site of our children and to live life to our present fullest with little to no thought of leaving the world a better place, is our plenty worth it?

 

Dear God, we come to you tonight aware of the many good things that life has given—and the many people who have died to make these good things possible. Help us to turn our plenty into so much more than we can imagine and to devote our lives—our time, devotion, talents, and resources—not just to living our lives to the fullest but to helping others live their lives to the fullest as well. Children, teenagers, adults. Body, soul, mind, spirit, and strength.--Amen.

 

(Originally written on 5.29.16) 

ISS Is Not Where I Need To Be

It’s true. I wouldn’t be a good ISS teacher. Read this Throwback Thursday note from 5.19.16 to find out why.

 

——

 

I learned something today: I wouldn’t make a very good ISS teacher.

 

On Field Day, my job is to help cover the re-focus station with Barb The Art Teacher.

 

Instead of being firm and strict with the students who come our way, though, I usually end up talking to them and giving them the individual attention that they crave.

 

This happened today when I began talking to a student about math and ended up sitting with him and discussing the vocabulary in a beehive book. It was actually a very good book. I learned that bees put nectar in cells and leave it there to dry, thus making honey!

 

To hear Barb talk about it, I was patting the student on the back, saying a lot of “Good job, sweetie’s,” and filling the room with rainbows and butterflies 🙂. 

 

I’m not sure about all of that! But it’s true, friends. I wouldn’t be a good ISS teacher.

 

What about you, friends? What have you learned recently? About yourself or the world? I’d love to hear!

 

God of Light and Wisdom,
thank you for giving us
minds to know
and hearts to love.

Help us to keep learning every day--
no matter what the subject may be.
Let us be convinced that all positive knowledge comes from you
and let us know how to find you and love you in all the things you have made.

Encourage us when life is difficult
and when we are tempted to give up.
Enlighten us when our brains are slow

and help us grasp the truth held out each day.

Grant us the grace to put our knowledge to use in building your kingdom on earth
so that we may enter your kingdom in heaven.

Amen.

Little Love Monsters

My years at Johnsonville were the most difficult years of my teaching career, yet with great difficulty comes great reward. The school was broken. I offered steadiness and hope and safety and encouragement, and the students and staff graciously took what I offered and returned it as best they could. Somehow, I was always flooded with gifts at holidays and during teacher appreciation week and I knew that the kids and staff loved me because I loved them.

 

Today’s Throwback Thursday note takes us back to those days at J’ville. A lot has changed in education in ten years. But one thing remains the same: The need for steady, consistent relationships with people who care. 

 

5.6.16

 

I think I’ve accidentally created some little monsters.

 

Picture me standing in the front hallway of the school, right in front of a set of double doors that are placed at the intersection of a T.

 

Picture a 36 inch stool in front of me, my computer sitting on top of the stool, me working on morning announcements while monitoring the comings and goings around me.

 

I open the door for bus drivers, stop wayward parents from going too far into the building, speak firmly to kids loitering in the bathroom, say good morning to both students and staff over and over again, and give quite a few hugs.

 

It’s in the saying good morning that I’ve accidentally created little monsters.

 

I have one little monster who hugs me every morning and stays right beside me until I kiss him on his forehead.

 

I have another little monster who slowly walks toward me every morning and pretends not to be waiting for me to say, “Good morning, handsome,” but is really waiting for me to say, “Good morning, handsome,” at which point a tiny, almost unnoticeable smile appears on his face and he proudly walks to class.

 

I have one little monster who expects to see me in place each morning, lest her morning start in anxious tears.

 

I have at least five little monsters who stop for a hug every morning and many more who stop at least a couple of times a week.

 

I have a handful of 5th grade boy monsters who like to walk past and speak to me about random 5th grade boy things like shoes and hair cuts. Last week, when the question of the week was to write about someone you admire, one of those boys wrote that he admired me for teaching him music and for always making his mornings better. What got me was that he added the little detail of me making his morning better. Until that moment, I’d not considered my 5th grade boy conversations overly important. But evidently, they are.

 

Friends, I have accidentally created a bunch of little monsters:

 

Little love monsters.

 

It’s one of the greatest privileges I can think for a person to have.

 

To all of you, especially teachers, who daily create and influence little love monsters, too: Thank you.

 

Thank you for giving love and receiving love and teaching others to love in such a way that differences are accepted and quirks embraced and personalities nurtured exactly as they are.  

 

Amen.

Oh Bullet

Oh Bullet. Bullet was our shared custody dog for over 15 years. He was something else and we still miss him…although I’m not sure that he and the cats would have gotten along! 

 

Today’s Throwback Thursday note takes a look at Bullet’s love for my dad and God’s love for us. Let’s see what it says! 

 

Yet…So Much More…5.2.16

 

Bullet Williams Deaton loves my dad and is fully devoted to him above all else. 

 

Currently, I let Bullet off of his porch each morning, watch him bullet through the garage to open the house door, watch him speak to my dad, and then leave him either eating his breakfast with my dad or running around the yard marking his territory after speaking to my dad.  

 

If, for some reason, my dad isn’t home, then Bullet will not stay in the house. He usually chooses to keep watch in the garage—for my dad. 

 

If my dad takes a shower, then Bullet sits on a bathmat in the bathroom and waits—then he licks the water off of the bottom of my dad’s legs. 

 

If my dad goes outside to mow the grass, then Bullet either follows around the lawn mower or digs himself a hole, sits, and watches. 

 

If Bullet is ready for a nap, then he will not sleep peacefully unless my dad is napping beside him. Notice—my dad is the theme of Bullet’s life.

 

It doesn’t matter if my dad fusses at Bullet. It doesn’t matter if he ignores Bullet’s requests to go outside. It doesn’t matter that I am the one who walks the dog. It doesn’t matter that I am the one who most often releases him from his porch.

 

Bullet loves my dad. Fully. Completely. Wholeheartedly. Unconditionally. Period.

 

And yet…God loves us so much more.

 

When I came home from school today, Bullet met me at the door. As I was speaking to him, my dad told me that Bullet did something new today: He dragged his entire dog bed to our house from his porch. Dad said it looked like he was moving in! 

 

Friends: Bullet’s porch has a regular, hinged door; there is no dog door through which he enters and exits. When Bullet decides that he wants to escape from his porch—which my next door neighbor and I called Houdini-ing—then he has to use his little paws to pry the door open and then stick his nose in the door to open it enough to scoot his fat little body out.

 

So for Bullet to somehow open his door and drag out his dog bed! Let’s just say that he must have been determined to get to our house to ride out the storms that have been raging this afternoon!

 

And yet…God has done so much more just to be with us.

 

I wish that I could take this metaphor further. I wish that I could invite everyone to meet the little guy and to receive warm, therapeutic dog love. I wish that Bullet were welcoming and affirming and accepting of all people. But he’s not. In fact, he is so protective of my dad that he’s quite mean to everyone other than my family. Most people who meet him want to kick him!

 

Evenso…God’s love is unwavering and fierce. And for this I am glad…

 

…maybe even more glad than Bullet when he hears my dad opening a package of food. And that, my friends, is dancingly glad!

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. 

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

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. 

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

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

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.

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! 

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.**