God Still Is

 

I was away at a retreat this past weekend,

But I got to go home for a few minutes on Saturday.

While I was there, I took off my shoes.

As I was getting ready to leave,

I thought to myself,

“What color shoes did I have on? Blue or green?

That’s right. It was the green.”

(I have multiple pairs of the same shoes—just in different colors.)

So I put my shoes back on,

Got the stuff I’d gone home for,

And went back to the retreat.

 

When I got there and started talking to a friend,

She said,
“I see you changed shoes while you were home.”

Thinking to myself, “Oh. I must have put on the blue shoes after all,”

I looked down to see a blue shoe on my right foot…

And a green shoe on my left!

“Oh goshk,” I said. “I put on two different shoes.

And I even stood there and debated which ones to wear!”

We both laughed.

And then it was my turn to speak, so

I totally, 100% forgot about my mismatched shoes until someone later said,

“Umm, Deanna? Is there a reason you have on two different shoes? 😊”

 

Friends:

There I was, delivering a 25-minute talk about grace,

Playing my guitar,

Speaking about communion,

And serving communion to everyone in the group…

In totally mismatched shoes!

 

What a beautiful picture of proof that

I don’t have it all together!

Sometimes, I am a total mess.

Sometimes, I overthink.

Sometimes, I doubt.

Sometimes, I say or do stupid things.

Yet God still is…

 

Working to create good from my worst mistakes,

Working to create life from my deepest grief,

Working to create light in my darkest nights, and

Working to create hope in my anxiety-producing fears.

 

When I seem to have it together,

And when I clearly don’t,

God still is…

 

And God still is…

With you, too.

 

Thanks be to God.

We Should Tell Them

5.23.19—We Should Tell Them

I was recently looking through some old poems when I stumbled across one that hooked me. It is a 2014 update of a song that I wrote in 1999 for a dear friend whom I learned had been molested by her babysitter when she was a kid. At the time, her story was the first of its kind that I had heard. It naturally broke my heart. Since that time, I have heard (and witnessed) many more terrible stories of childhood sexual trauma—and other forms of childhood trauma as well—and my heart still breaks for their reality today…

Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing as a music teacher. I have my Master of Divinity and my Master of School Administration degrees, and yet I am outwardly using neither of those degrees on a daily basis. Yes, the process of getting the degrees influenced and changed me for the better. But sometimes I wonder why I spent so much time and money earning degrees that I do not need as an elementary music teacher. Sometimes I wonder if I’m wasting my life and call in this classroom. But then I remember the kids…the brokenness…the pain and heartache…mixed with promise and hope…and I remember that I can provide 45 minutes of goodness and attempted unconditional love to 700 students each week—and that’s big. I can also provide music…and music has a way of healing us when nothing else can—that’s big, too.

I don’t know what doubts you carry today, friend. I don’t know if you, too, wonder what you’re doing with your life—if you wonder how you can simply influence your family, much less the world. I don’t know if you have experienced a trauma from which you are still healing. I don’t know if you know someone who is hurting so deeply that it makes you cry. But I do know this: the God who provides us with goodness and true unconditional love is wooing you to accept that goodness and unconditional love and to try to share it with those around you—however you can, in whatever you do—even if it seems like your attempts are pointless.

Show up. Sit. Listen. Tell stories. Laugh. Give. Hug. Sing. Do your best work. Be patient in the midst of chaos. Remain calm when tempers flare. Smile. Drive someone to therapy. Realize that therapy is okay. Share a meal. Share a spare room. Share Jesus.

There is so much brokenness in the world. So much from which we must heal. But we have the Great Physician on our side and God wants to heal and redeem the world with and through us…and that’s just so big…

-----

“I Don’t Know About You But I Think We Should Tell Them”

No child should have to:
know all she knows,
see all she sees,
hurt all she hurts,
be all she is.

No child should have to:
face life alone,
doubt her next meal will come,
feel she’s not good enough,
believe who is she is, is wrong.

No child should have to:
joke to hide all the pain inside,
think she's weak if she cries,
fear the touch of another’s hand,
hear words that wound and damn.

But so many do.

Just look into eyes: shame.
Just listen to voices: humiliation.
Just look at shoulders: embarrassment.

If only they knew who they are.

If only they knew they are loved as they are:
Beautifully broken, resilient children of God,
Created and able to grow by the creativity of God,
Redeemed and made new by the grace of God…

We Are All Broken

We are all broken,
Searching for the divine.
Some find God,
Others do not.
And so we keep looking,
Hoping to find meaning,
Needing to feel whole,
Longing to belong to something more,
Reaching for a future of purpose and peace,
All the while broken,
Seeking the divine.

May we always be thankful for friends and family, old and new, who walk with us, stick by us, inspire us, and cheer us on as we face life’s broken road. May we never take love and friendship for granted...for they are two of God’s greatest gifts.
Amen and amen.

When Broken

When Broken…11.21.16

An internal auditor came to speak to us during class tonight. In typical nerd fashion, I found her information quite fascinating, and I not only took a lot of notes but I also asked a lot of questions. I will spare everyone the details, but I must share this: If ever you see any part of the Fraud Triangle, then consider it a red flag. “And just what is the Fraud Triangle?” you ask. Well, here is your answer:

Point One: Pressure. Pressure can cause a person of integrity to commit fraud even though he/she ordinarily would not. Most people live their lives with good intentions but intense pressure can tempt us in ways we didn’t think possible. Medical bills, addiction, living beyond means, unexpected death. Any or all of those things can put undue pressure on a person and cause him/her to think, “If I can just pay of this bill—if I can just control this situation—if I can just take care of this—then I can rid of this pressure and then start over.”

Point Two: Rationalization. A person will only willingly work so hard before he/she feels that he/she deserves some type of validation or encouragement. When that validation or encouragement doesn’t come through healthy avenues, then sometimes we start to think thoughts like, “I don’t get paid enough for everything that I do, and it doesn’t look like I’m ever going to, so I might as well take what I deserve.”

Point Three: Opportunity. When there is a crack in the system—a loophole—an occasion for secrecy—a thought of, “Well, no one is watching…”—and pressure and/or rationalization are whispering in a person’s ear, sometimes temptation is too strong and a person gives into the opportunity to break the rules—whatever the rules may be.

People will do crazy things when they are broken.

All people. Not just those that we think of as “different” or “other” or “immoral” or “them.”

Under any circumstance. Not just shady situations.

No one is above pressure, rationalization, or opportunity.

No one is above just flat out messing up when we are broken.

So maybe we should stop judging so readily and start extending grace more freely.

And maybe we should start asking for and receiving help when we find ourselves gliding along the lines of a triangle like fraud.

In The Aftermath of Murder

Maybe I’m a bit OCD, but I don’t like to have notifications lingering on my phone. So on Friday afternoon when I finally had a chance to look at my phone, I immediately opened Facebook to address the 12 notifications that were alerting me. After clearing the notifications, I absentmindedly began scrolling down my page. I liked a few pictures, skimmed past a few advertisements, and then stopped when I got to a post by my friend Sarah. Sarah had posted a tribute to her mother, whom I knew, and I was curious to know what occasion we were celebrating—a retirement, a major birthday, an award, something else? As I read the tribute and felt somewhat encouraged by the impact that an elementary music teacher and active church member and mom had made on the writer’s life, I suddenly found myself stunned into disbelief by the following words: “Mrs. Carol was murdered in her home last night.” For the next fifteen minutes, I sat in my elementary music classroom with my jaw dropped in shock.

……

A few years ago, Sarah’s dad died suddenly from a heart attack. He was on his daily run when he crumpled onto the side walk and died. When I visited the house and funeral home in the days following that loss, the family was deeply saddened and shocked. But this?! Mrs. Carol hadn’t been sick, or didn’t have a major stroke or heart incident, and she hadn’t been in tragic accident—all of those things horrible in and of themselves. She had been murdered. Killed. On purpose. In her home. In the house where I had last seen her. In the house where I had spent countless hours in the early years of my adolescence before my family and I moved two hours away.

……

My friendship with Sarah was actually a bi-product of my friendship with her older sister, Ellen. Ellen and I came to know each other through piano and band competitions, and we later spent a summer together at Summer Ventures in Math and Science and visited with one another a couple of times during college. I played my horn in Ellen’s wedding and visited her home in Charlotte after she had her first child. Over the years, as is too often the case with those we love, we lost touch, yet Ellen often comes to mind. She once wrote me a very silly song that I can still hear her singing: “Dee! I love you, Dee! I really do! I love you. De-ann-a!” When I look at those words and hear her voice, I can’t help but smile.

And Sarah. Well, Sarah, the younger sister who I imagine looked up to the older sister and her friends, once gave me a poem that endeared me to her forever: “To live you must be loved. To be loved you must love. To love you must know the Lord.” That poem hung in my room for years until it made it into a book of quotes that profoundly influenced my life. Sarah and I reconnected at her dad’s visitation. We have been friends on Facebook for the past four years. For whatever reason, her posts are ones that often come up on my newsfeed. I am glad. I like to see how she is changing the world.

I fell asleep thinking about Sarah and Ellen (and their brother Max) on both Friday and Saturday nights. I fell asleep trying to make sense of their mother’s horrific death. I fell asleep praying that unexplainable light surrounded her and somehow calmed her spirit and lifted her pain in the midst of unspeakable evil. I fell asleep knowing that every person who is senselessly murdered has a family left in the aftermath and I fell asleep with my heart breaking for their heartache and grief. I fell asleep angry yet full of love and prayers for peace.

……

When I arrived at the visitation yesterday, I knew that I had nothing to say. What do you say? No amount of pastoral counseling or chaplaincy training prepares you for something like this. So I just hugged Sarah, and I held Ellen’s hand, and I stood in the family’s presence silently sending out light, love, strength, and peace as I watched grief finally settle upon the children after being strong for well over two hours of visitation.

Then I drove away sobbing. The dam that had been holding back the tears since that moment of disbelief on Friday afternoon had finally broken. And then I wrote. Haiku. Because I didn’t know—I don’t know—what else to do.

Two hours is nothing ~ The pain of this tragedy ~ Is overwhelming

I have no words. (Pause) ~ That’s okay. There are no words. ~ You have hugs and tears.

I don’t understand. ~ A life devoted to Love ~ Senselessly murdered

Assault on women. ~ Attack for sport. Turns him on. ~ Where did life go wrong?

Brother and sisters ~ Too soon without a mom. Gone. ~ Weeping arm in arm.

…….

Friends: Please keep Sarah, Ellen, Max and the rest of the family in your thoughts and prayers. Also pray for the neighbor who found Mrs. Carol’s body and everyone who will feel her absence so poignantly. Mrs. Carol was stabbed to death and her car stolen by a man who had broken parole and previously been convicted of assault on women. Pray whatever else you will, too. And then make it your commitment to Love in such a way that broken lives are transformed and healed. If Love is going to win, then we must make it so…We must follow in the footsteps of the One who has already made it so…

Defining Moments: Please Fill This Emptiness

“I just saw some of your favorite artist’s work,” I read. “There’s a big display in an art gallery in Miami.”
“I love him,” I replied.
“I like him, too. His work makes me feel. And that’s a good thing in art.”

His work makes me feel, too, and it’s made me feel deeply since the moment I laid eyes upon it at Pop Art Gallery in Downtown Disney in July 2011.

After spending the week at a work event in Orlando, FL, my friend Amy and I stopped at Downtown Disney to get some food and visit some shops before beginning the drive back to South Carolina.

When we walked in Pop Art Gallery, Amy and I parted ways, each walking around the store to take in the sights on our own.

As soon as I looked at Fabio Napoleoni’s display wall, I was mesmerized. I stood there and gazed upon his paintings and prints, and I wept.

I felt sort of stupid standing in the middle of a busy store crying, but I couldn’t help it. Fabio’s work spoke to me in a way that no artist’s work had spoken to me before. I got it. It made me feel. And so I soaked it in respectful awe until Amy came around the corner, shook her head at my tears, and laughed at me for wearing my heart on my sleeve (and everything I own).

Fast forward a few months and find my brother at Downtown Disney. Having unsuccessfully been able to find Fabio’s work cheaper online and having been unable to get his images out of my mind, I asked my brother if he’d see if the piece that had resonated with me most deeply was still there. It was. And not only that, but Fabio was going to be at the gallery that next weekend. If I purchased the canvas then he would sign, date, and Remarque it for free.

I purchased the canvas. “Please Fill This Emptiness.” And to this day, when I look at it, I get it:
I get feeling beaten down. Exhausted. No energy left to keep going.
I get longing for love. Reaching. Hoping against hope that love will come.
I get being surrounded by beauty but only being able to stare at nothing.
I get being shielded by friends and family stepping in to hold the weight of the world.
I get it.

And tonight,
as I process the suicide of a former student and member of my youth group,
as I feel the hurts of those who have been emotionally damaged and abused,
as I still grieve Kay’s death and mourn the loss of baby Sam just two short months ago,
as I cry for students whose parents are so absent that they do not realize their child has no underwear,
I am reminded that I am not the only one who gets it—
Who prays each day,
God, please fill this emptiness.
Please.
Fill this emptiness.
Amen.

A Teacher's Bad Day Confession

I was a smart aleck for a brief moment at car rider duty today. One of my coworkers said, “I have one more car rider slip for you.” I said, “Fine. But you can keep it. I don’t want it.” She responded, “Did you have a bad day today?” I smiled, chuckled, and said, “Nope. I was just being difficult. My day was fine. But yesterday was horrible.”

Yesterday was one of those days that I didn’t have it in me to joke at the end of the day. I was so exhausted and had dealt with so many behavior challenges that all I wanted to do was put the day to bed at 3:30. Do you know those days? The ones where hardly anything goes right and you feel like you’ve either been fighting a steady battle or run over by a truck?...

Each Wednesday night at the beginning of choir practice, I lead a brief devotional with my choir. I usually read a passage of scripture from the coming Sunday’s lectionary texts, offer a brief reflection or challenge, and lead a time of prayer. More often than not, I read the text from Psalms since it lends itself well to what we do as worship leaders. Yet last night I chose the New Testament reading because, truth be told, I was struggling in my desire to be there. Like I said, I wanted to put the day to bed at 3:30.

For it is commendable if someone bears up under the pain of unjust suffering because they are conscious of God.
But how is it to your credit if you receive a beating for doing wrong and endure it?
But if you suffer for doing good and you endure it, this is commendable before God.
To this you were called, because Christ suffered for you, leaving you an example, that you should follow in his steps.
“He committed no sin, and no deceit was found in his mouth.”
When they hurled their insults at him, he did not retaliate; when he suffered, he made no threats. Instead, he entrusted himself to him who judges justly.
“He himself bore our sins” in his body on the cross, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness;
“By his wounds you have been healed.”
For “you were like sheep going astray,” but now you have returned to the Shepherd and Guardian of your souls.

As I read those words last night, I felt God’s spirit connecting with my heart, reminding me that I am exactly where I need to be right now…and in the process giving me a peace that I hadn’t had all day.

Teachers do experience the pain of unjust suffering and have insults hurled at us.

We see the pain of abuse, neglect, hunger, hurt, apathy, exhaustion, and over-indulgence in our students eyes, and we are met with the plethora of resulting actions—acting out to be seen, blending in to not be seen, going back and forth between the two in an effort to find one’s voice.

We receive attitude from students who push as hard as they can to make us react in anger because reacting in anger is all they know and expect, and we are questioned by parents who do not agree with our actions.

We teach students who truly have mental and emotional needs that differ from the “norm” and we do so in classes of at least twenty students of varying socio-economic class, cultural expectations, and academic levels—many of us being the only adult in the room.

These things are parts of the job.
This is what we signed up for.
Yet day in and day out, it is hard work.
It is especially hard when we watch students whom we know capable of success begin to follow behavioral and/or academic paths that we know to be troublesome.

But we keep showing up.
And we keep trying to do good.
And we keep sacrificing monetary success for the belief that investing in lives is much more important than investing riches in the bank.

Jesus was not a public school teacher. But sometimes I wonder if he would have been had such schools existed. And sometimes I wonder if he would be now if he were alive today.

By his wounds we have been healed.
By his strength we keep going.
By his example we welcome the children as they come.
By his Love we are changing the world…
One student at a time…
Even on our very bad days…
Thanks be to God:
The shepherd and guardian of our souls.
Amen.

I Don't Know About You, But I Think We Should Show Them

My pastor said something on Sunday that made me think of an image of Jesus that I hadn’t considered in a long time:

Jesus, on the cross—beaten, bloody, and bruised;
Me, kneeling beneath the cross—looking into Jesus’ eyes.
Jesus, on the cross—beckoning me to join him;
Me, climbing up the cross—looking into the eyes of love.
Jesus, on the cross—arms open wide;
Me, embracing Jesus—his broken body folding into mine.

I wrote a song inspired by this image when I was in college. I opened my computer today to see if I’d typed up the song, but I hadn’t. In the process of looking, though, I found another song that I hadn’t considered in a long time. I wrote this song after being introduced not to moving images of Jesus’ compassion but to sad images of a wounded child. Little did I know that that introduction to childhood trauma would be only the first of countless stories that would come to break my heart over the years.

I updated that song today…and the poem that follows means more now than ever.

No child should have to:
know all she knows,
see all she sees,
hurt all she hurts,
be all she is.

No child should have to:
face life alone,
doubt her next meal will come,
feel she’s not good enough,
believe who is she is, is wrong.

No child should have to:
joke to hide all the pain inside,
think she's weak if she cries,
fear the touch of another’s hand,
hear words that wound and damn.

But so many do.

Just look into eyes: shame.
Just listen to voices: humiliation.
Just look at shoulders: heartache.

If only they knew and believed in who they are.

If only they knew they are loved as they are:
Beautifully broken, resilient children of God,
Created and able to grow by the creativity of God,
Redeemed and made new by the grace of God…

Broken Human Reality

I ate shrimp on Monday
and I didn't die
and this is a big deal because I have avoiding shellfish for years
because I've been standing in solidarity with my grandmother who is allergic to shellfish
and I've been living in the anxiety instilled in me by a friend who also has become allergic to
both shellfish and mushrooms...

A little over two years ago, I began having panic attacks when I ate.
At the time, I didn't know what was happening.
All I knew was that I was afraid to eat for fear that my throat would close up and I couldn't be able to breathe.
After a month of living with this fear and cutting out about half of the foods I ate because so many were attached to that feeling of
tongue swelling, throat closing, chest hurting, head floating, skin sweating, and lungs gasping,
I went to the doctor.
I was convinced that I, like my friend, had suddenly become allergic to shellfish, mushrooms, and most of the rest of the food in the world.

After sitting with the doctor and sobbing for ten minutes,
I was relieved when she kindly looked at me and said,
"1) Let's change your acid reflux medicine because sometimes reflux can cause things to feel weird in your throat.
2) I'm not sure that you're actually allergic to any foods, but let's do a food allergy test to make sure.
3) We need to adjust your anxiety medication. I think it's stopped working! It sounds like you've been having panic attacks and those are horrible. So until the new meds get into your system, I'm going to give you something to take when you start to feel like this again. It should act immediately to calm you down."

I've not yet had to take that emergency medicine.
I hope that I never will.
Just being able to name what was happening as panic attacks--
being able to speak it out loud and have someone carry the weight with me--
has helped me be able to talk myself through them when they start to happen:
whether it be while eating alone, eating in crowds of people, eating with individuals for the first time,
walking through large crowds of people, walking through the mall alone, singing or playing an instrument with a group, or any other time I've ever felt those feelings of getting ready to die.

Looking back, I realize that I've had panic attacks
(some minor, some more severe)
for over half of my life.

Am I proud of this fact? No.
Is it difficult to admit that I'm on medication for anxiety--that when I don't have medication in my system my brain chemicals flow out of control, irrational fear and worry seize my mind, and depression begins to creep into my soul? Yes.
Is this embarrassing for a recovering, people-pleasing perfectionist who places her faith in a God she believes not to be a God of worry and fear? Absolutely.

And yet.
This is my broken, human reality.
And I'm okay.

Actually,
I'm more than okay:
I am created in God's image,
and I was deemed good, though far from complete,
and I am chosen and dearly loved,
and so are you, my friend--
so are you.

On Mass Murder

My pastor did it again; he delivered a sermon that shed new light on a story that I’d heard many times before.

Yesterday’s light-shedding was on the story of King Herod and the three Wisemen. Specifically, he led me to think about Herod.

Over the years, Herod, though not a Jew himself, earned the title “King of the Jews” through hard work and government-pleasing decisions. In the process of obtaining this title, Herod became obsessed with power and began living a paranoid, possessive, self-absorbed reality.

Herod had people killed if he even suspected a threat or sensed disloyalty, so it’s no surprise that he was not happy when three strange men, obviously from a far away land, arrived in Jerusalem asking for the newly born King of the Jews. It’s also no surprise that he quickly devised a plan to find and destroy this newly born babe. Noone, and he meant no one, was going to usurp Herod’s power—not today, or tomorrow, or any day in the future.

And so…when Herod’s first plan to capture Jesus failed, Herod went into survival mode. Ruled by fear of losing the status that consumed him, Herod made a decree that he likely never imagined himself making: kill all the boys in Bethlehem and its vicinity who were two years old and under. Mass murder. To kill one, unknown child who could possibly, one day, pose a threat to Herod’s throne.

Sometimes, when we’re in survival mode—when we’re trying to hold on to everything we know—good or bad—we do things we never thought we’d do. As my pastor said, “When Herod was young,I’m sure he never said, ‘When I grow up, I want to be a mass murderer.”

Likewise, I would wager that none of us ever said, “When I grow up, I want to be an adulterer. Or an addict. Or a thief. Or a liar. Or a murderer.”

But sometimes, when the world is falling apart, and all that we have worked for is slipping away, and thoughts of being alone scream louder than anything sane, and we see nothing in front of us except a string that is slipping away, we think, say, and do things we never dreamed possible. We order the mass murder of all males under the age of two,along with dreams of fidelity, freedom, righteousness, humility, integrity, and truth.

Whether we like it or not, life really does come down to a battle between two kingdoms: the kingdom of God and the kingdom of self. When Jesus was born into this world, he ushered in the kingdom of God which stood in stark contrast to Herod’s kingdom of self…and Herod wasn’t yet ready to lay down his crown.

Lyrics from two songs come to mind as I wrap up this note:

“Grasping to a string in the cold, dark stale air. It won’t get you very far. It won’t get you anywhere. It’s crying out in the night and standing for what it right that’ll heal the hurt.It’ll heal the hurt…” (--D.Deaton)

(and)

“I will rise up, rise up. And bow down and lay my crown. At his wounded feet.” (--Caedmon’s Call)

This holiday season, as we wait in anticipation to celebrate the radically, unsettling but all-together world changing birth of the King of the Jews, ask yourself to what strings you are grasping and if you are ready to begin letting go. When Jesus was born, Herod wasn’t yet there and henceforth made a horrific decree. Yet if we believe in the redemption that Jesus was born to provide, then maybe one day Herod got there. And maybe his crown is now at Jesus’ feet. And maybe ours can be, too.

When The Closet Comes Crashing Down

My parents and I were watching TV last Sunday night when we heard a huge crash upstairs. Upon walking up to see what had fallen, I found my closet in complete disarray. After working for a week to get my things settled after moving back from South Carolina, I found myself staring at my work lying in shambles—everything I’d done in my closet undone thanks to a shelf falling out of the wall. I guess after sixteen years of holding stuff, the shelf got tired.

As my mom and I slowly began to go through the mess the next day, I found myself remembering a November day in 2006 when I was staring at a similar mess—only the shelf in the closet hadn’t collapsed—my friend Kay had simply been too sick to put her belongings away…and from what I saw, Kay had been sick for a long time.

Kay was a teacher’s assistant in a special needs classroom, a music minister at a local church, a cat owner, and a dear friend to many. Based off of the condition of her apartment when she died, Kay gave everything she had to the world and then came home and collapsed. Domestic chores were evidently the least of Kay’s concerns. Why deplete energy on self when it could be spent on others?

The stuff from my closet is sitting on my floor, waiting to go either back into the closet, to a different part of the house, or to a local thrift shop. The stuff from Kay’s closet was all discarded because the condition of her belongings was too bad to give away. To this day, the smell of Lysol reminds me of the hours spent sorting through Kay’s closet, wishing that she’d not been too selfless to ask for help while she was still alive.

There were periods of Kay’s life when she was unemployed. There were times in her life when the next step in ministry was unclear—times in her life when the ministry had hurt her. But in those moments, Kay kept going. She kept believing. She kept giving. And she kept trusting that good would come…because she believed that God is good.

I don’t know if Kay cleaned during those times—if, in the midst of uncertainty, Kay tried to create order and certainty through watching what was once dirty become clean. But I know that that’s what I’m doing these days. And that my muscles are sore from washing windows. And that I’m not afraid to ask for help. And that Kay’s life and death continue to influence me in ways I never imagined…like in speaking to me through the closet…especially when the closet comes crashing down.

Brother- and Sisterhood of Weary Souls

“Hey, fiend.”
“Oops. I forgot the R.”
“Hey . I figured that much. I just laughed.”
“I needed that laugh, too.”
“How are you?”
“I’m exhausted.”

Such is the conversation that I have had with so many of my friends lately (minus the fiend part that I find really funny! ):

• New moms trying to adjust to motherhood while seeking to successfully juggle all of their other hats.
• Persons with established careers seeking new employment after losing their jobs.
• College students burning both ends of the wick in order to complete assignments, attend jobs, be good family members, and participate in extra-curricular activities.
• Ministers dealing with brokenness, disease, death, and depression while trying to stay in tune to God’s call for God’s people and be God’s prophetic voice.
• Families trying to get settled after major moves across the country.
• Young adults living in fear of being rejected were they to come out.
• Persons trying to keep up the façade of being okay when really they’ve been deeply hurt and betrayed and/or are carrying large amounts of grief.
• Husbands and wives struggling to hold their marriages together.
• Employees trying to live up to the constant demands of their employers.
• Bosses trying to keep their companies afloat.
• Senior adults adjusting to retirement.
• Young couples trying to hold to hope after years of infertility.
• Adult children taking care of aging parents while seeking to successfully juggle all of their other hats.

So many people are exhausted.

There are so many layers of exhaustion.

And I just don’t think that life is supposed to be this way.

Oh God of Rest and Giver of Peace, grant us rest and peace in the midst of this chaotic world. When the world says no, give us the courage to say yes to moments of self-care and silence that are crucial to our souls. You say to come to you when we are weak and heavy laden, so I come to you now, oh God, on behalf of the brother- and sisterhood of weary souls…of which I am part. Amen.

Energy Level Of A Slug

My mom said it would be a good title for a book. Since I’m not writing a book, I decided to make it the title for today’s note. Because it’s true. I have the energy level of a slug.

The past weeks’ whirlwind withstanding, being sick has sucked the life out of me. My body has lain down its emphatic statement, “Slow down. Rest. You’re pushing me too hard. I’m not a fan of the pace you’re making me keep.”

And so. I’ve slowed to the pace of a slug and I have a bit of whiplash.

I’ll recover soon. I’ve been faithfully taking my medicine and resting. I have a big pile of mess upstairs that I must unpack and figure out where to place. I have an apartment to move out of in South Carolina :-(. I have a lot of grief to work through. I have a retreat to plan. I have some massages to receive. I have a call to discern. I have a life to plan. I have a play to see. I have legs to shave. I have a dog to bathe. I have friends to see.

Like I said. I’ll recover soon. I hope. But for now, I have the energy level of a slug. I’m just glad that I’m not slimy and that I have hands and feet.

Standing in the Downpour

I doubt Michael W. Smith meant a literal downpour when he wrote the song, “One More Time,” but I certainly did find myself standing in a downpour on Saturday afternoon. A simple trip down the steps to get my book bag turned into my jumping into the lake in the rain after I felt a beckoning to float on its waters.

After standing in the rain under a tree for about 10 minutes, I said, “I’m going in.” Don’t worry. I wasn’t completely irresponsible. I went upstairs and got my earplugs and went to the gazebo and got my floatation devices, and then I jumped in.

The rain stopped and started, sometimes barely falling, sometimes falling so hard that it bounced high off of the lake. As I lay back and floated, knowing that I was safely held, I thought the words to Michael’s song:

There always seems to be a door that you can't open
There always seems to be a mountain you can't climb
But you keep on reaching
You just keep on reaching

When your destiny is out there in the distance
But the road ahead's a mine field in disguise
And you keep on moving You Just keep on moving
You will make it through this
Just give it time You gotta give it time

This is what you're made for
Standing in the downpour
Knowing that the sun will shine
Forget what lies behind you
Heaven walks beside you
You got to give it one more try
One more time
You just keep on reaching
You just keep on, you keep on moving

When the shadows fall on everything you're dreaming
When the promises turn out to be a lie
You just keep believing
You just keep believing
Oh, don't stop your dreaming
It's gonna be alright

As I continued to lay suspended on water, raindrops falling on my face, I sang to myself:

What can wash away my sins?
Nothing by the love of Jesus.
What can make me whole again?
Nothing but the love of Jesus.
Oh precious is the flow
That makes me white as snow
No other fount I know
Nothing but the love of Jesus

As water covered my body and I felt the water surrounding me, holding me, I prayed:

Create in me a clean heart oh God
And renew a right spirit within me
Cast me not away from thy presence O Lord
And take not thy Holy Spirit from me
Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation
And renew a right spirit within me

And as I “stood” in the downpour in total surrender, I said:

Therefore, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable, whatever is excellent or praiseworthy, think about such things. And the peace of God, which passes all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

This is what I’m made for. Standing in the downpour. Knowing that the sun will shine. And the sun did shine. And I returned to the lake to watch it set last night. And I kept believing. And I’ll keep believing. And I’ll give it one more try. One more time. Again and again. Amen and Amen.

Broken Gardens

This morning on Facebook, I asked the question: If you could go back in time to be with Jesus on this Thursday of Holy Week, would you rather be with him when he washed feet, served "the last supper," sang a hymn before going to the garden, or prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane?

While I don’t usually publically answer my own questions—I always answer them in my head as I type them—I want to answer this one aloud.

Even though I think that having Jesus wash my feet would have made me cry and thus washed, also, my face; that sharing the Seder meal with Jesus for the last time would have been lovely and powerful and symbolic; that hearing Jesus’ singing voice would have been super-duper neat; and that if I were given an opportunity to witness any of those events then I certainly wouldn’t turn it down…if I had to choose, then I would choose to be with Jesus while he prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane—not because I want to be a disciple hero and stay awake when the others go to sleep—but because I find his struggle in the garden so raw and real and passionate that it is one of the beautiful, gut-wrenching images of my life.

Earlier this morning, I received an e-mail from a dear friend. She shared with me a bit about her family and how they have influenced her life. I’d heard a bit of her story once before. We’d watched a film together on a retreat and the film hooked something deep inside her and made her weep. I vividly recall those tears and I vividly remembering my respect for her strengthening tenfold. In that moment of raw brokenness, I saw a depth of humanity that I’d not seen in her before. And when that happens to me, my respect and care for a person sky-rockets because I know just how genuine they are. I know that they feel their emotions and aren’t afraid of the ups and downs of life’s journey…and those ups and downs can be so frequent and so extreme.

Jesus was the son of God. It’s easy for us to focus on his divinity and forget his humanity. It’s easy to forget that Jesus got tired and hungry and weary and angry and needed both time with friends and time alone. It’s easy to forget that Jesus once wore diapers and had to be potty trained (or something like that). It’s easy to forget that Jesus laughed and hummed and followed customs and used manners. But Jesus was fully divine AND fully divine. And Jesus actually seemed to like his life in this world.

In Matthew 26, we read that Jesus prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me.” I don’t know about you, but I hear anguish in that prayer. I hear Jesus not wanting to be arrested, beaten, and hung on a cross. I hear Jesus not wanting to leave his disciples and friends and mother. I hear it even more in John 17 when Jesus prays for his disciples…and for us. I hear this struggle…and this deep, deep love.

Just as I already respected my friend before she wept that night, I already respected Jesus and his life without this plea of anguish. But this plea—this prayer—this hope against hope—this moment of desperation—this raw cry of brokenness that ends with ultimate surrender…it makes my respect for Christ so much deeper because it helps me see the honest courage with which he faced his human life’s journey. It helps me know that I can face my journey with that same honest courage, too.

To see Jesus tired and spent. To watch him cry a weary cry. To see him surrounded by signs of life in the garden. To hear his voice praying aloud to God…that is where I would want to meet him…fully divine…fully human…and fully the man I adore.

On Covering Fish Ball Deaton's Ears

I know, I know. Bowling balls don’t have ears. Nor are they alive. Nor do they have feelings.

But a few months ago as I stood on the lane approach at AMF Park Lanes, I found myself in a slight panic to cover Fish Ball Deaton’s ears. I didn’t want him to hear what the man beside me was saying to his ball. I didn’t want Fish to think that he, too, was a *$# #$%# #^&%$^@ piece of worthless #^&%$^ @#$% simply because he missed the desired pins. So I stood there and cleaned off excess icky lane oil and whispered, “Don’t listen to him, Fish. You’re a good ball—even when you don’t go where I want you to go. I want you to go down the middle now, but if you don’t, I’ll still love you. I won’t say horrible things to you.”

Such is the experience when we bowl Stinkin’ Jim.

I know, I know. It’s not nice to call people names. But it’s how we identify the people we bowl with—Big Cindy, Softball Boy, Rubberband Man, Stinkin’ Jim—they’re nicknames—terms of endearment, I suppose—and they mostly come from how people bowl. But not Stinkin’ Jim.

Stinkin’ Jim’s language is so bad that, well, it stinks. Jim curses in ways that I never knew possible. Jim curses when he’s mad. Jim curses when he’s glad. Jim curses when he’s done poorly. Jim curses when he’s done well. On Season Opening Night, Jim wore curse words and crude symbols on his clothing and named his team B.A.M.F. We don’t know for sure, but we’re pretty sure that those letters are short for words that rhyme with Tad Bass Other Trucker.

So bowling with Jim means trying to cover Fish Ball Deaton’s ears (not to mention the ears of the real, live children who often accompany parents and grandparents for the night). Bowling with Jim means being prepared to hear language not ordinarily heard and seeing a league shirt with a half naked, beer-drinking woman on the front. Bowling with Jim isn’t the most fun night of the season…but bowling with Jim reminds me that there is a hurting world beyond the walls in which I live and work and that that hurting world needs the transforming light and love and peace and hope and joy and freedom of Jesus Christ.

I don’t know much about Stinkin’ Jim. But I know that he has a job that requires him to travel. And from the half naked, beer-drinking woman on his bowling shirt, along with the language and behavior that I’ve observed at the bowling alley, I can assume that he visits “Gentlemen’s Clubs,” treats women (and maybe even humanity in general) with disrespect, and likely uses pornography to help him feel connected to someone or something larger than himself.

I don’t know. I could be very wrong. And I realize that I just made some huge assumptions about Stinkin’ Jim. But regardless of whether I am right or wrong about Jim, there is a hurting world beyond the walls in which I live and work and that hurting world needs the transforming light and love and peace and hope and joy and freedom of Jesus Christ…just as I daily need the transforming light and love and peace and hope and joy and freedom—and forgiveness—of Jesus Christ.

I usually wear the same shirt to bowl each week—an Appalachian State University shirt that one of my friends gave me. But tonight I’ve planned to wear a shirt that says, “Live Love,” on the back and I’m curious to see if its presence will have an effect on Jim’s language. I usually don’t wear blatantly Christian shirts. I usually don’t try to scream my faith through my clothes or my words but through my actions. Yet last night as I was laying out my clothes for the day, I felt compelled to find a shirt that clearly communicated what I believe…

I didn’t want to communicate judgment for terrible language or half-naked, beer drinking women, but I wanted to communicate love. For as strange as it sounds, I hurt for Stinkin’ Jim and for the emptiness that I see in his eyes and I love Stinkin’ Jim with the love of a God who created us all and wants to redeem us through the transforming light and love and peace and hope and joy and freedom of Jesus Christ.

We live in a hurting, broken world. Life has chewed us up and spit us out and we’re doing the best we can to survive. I believe that. And I believe that Stinkin’ Jim’s frustrations with life come out on his bowling ball and that makes me sad…but it also makes for an interesting challenge of covering Fish Ball Deaton’s ears…while living love.