One Letter

 

A few months ago,

I saw a friend’s Facebook post about an interest meeting for a mission trip to Belize.

Something stirred within me and

I found myself at the meeting the next day.

After listening to the trip leader talk passionately about the work he’s been doing in the area for well over a decade,

And after asking quite a few questions to make sure the trip did not conflict with my theological beliefs,

I found myself agreeing to go on the trip.

 

We will be a team of four,

Traveling in July,

I will be the only female,

And we will be doing construction work,

Which is odd for me,

Because I’m not known for my construction prowess,

Although I have become pretty good with a hammer!

 

For months,

I didn’t hear anything about the trip.

I was becoming anxious knowing so little and wondering so much,

So I finally wrote my friend to check in and ask for information.

“Have you not been getting the team lead’s e-mails?” he asked.

“No.” I responded. “I’ve heard nothing.”

“Ahhhhhh,” he said. “No wonder you haven’t responded.”

 

The team lead had the wrong e-mail address.

 

Instead of dldeaton, he had dideaton.

 

A seemingly minor mistake,

But a huge error when it comes to vital communication.

 

My inbox now has a handful of messages from the team lead.

I know how much I owe ($1500) and I know how to make it through customs.

I have my medical form to fill out and I see which shots I need to take.

Now…

I wait…

And I pray…

And I ask you to pray with me, too.

For a great trip,

A safe trip,

Smooth travels,

Funding,

Safety on the work sight,

Good health,

No sickness or injury,

Good fellowship that transcends language barriers,

Comfortable weather,

Clean water,

Non-infectious mosquitoes,

And God’s love to be seen and felt through word, deed, and action.

 

Amen.

Duty and Call

 

1^st Grade Student: Ms. Deaton, can I tell you something?

 

Me: Yes.

 

Student: You can’t tell anybody, okay?

 

Me, feeling a little worried about what I was getting ready to hear, not knowing if I was going to need to tell somebody about neglect or abuse: Okay.

 

Student, reaching in his pocket: I found this on the playground.

 

Me, concerned that he had found some type of weapon or a condom…

 

Student, opening his hand: Now don’t tell anybody.

 

Me, relieved to see that it was a 50/50 raffle ticket…

 

Student, excited, with a sense of awe and wonder: You see these numbers? I’m gonna use them  to win the lottery!

 

He was so proud of himself, and so very hopeful, and all I could do was smile as he stuck the ticket back in his pocket…and silently ask him for forgiveness because I knew that I was going to tell his story.

 

Here is this kid whose parents are dead,

Who lives with his grandparents (who evidently play the lottery 😊),

Who loves to wear either a bowtie or a huge (fake) golden chain,

Whose skin is brown,

Yet whose innocence sees nothing but goodness and possibility in this world.

 

…

 

Friends:

Let’s do our part to fill the world with goodness and possibility so that everyone—

Those young AND those old,

Those with AND those without significant childhood trauma,

Those who have everything AND those who scrape to get by,

Those who fit in AND those who are different and unique,

Those with white skin AND those with brown and black skin—

Has an opportunity for happiness, love, and joy.

 

Standing against society’s injustices may be hard.

Recognizing privilege may be hard.

Naming personal judgments may be hard.

Doing something about the wrongs we see may be hard.

But it’s our call if we profess to follow Christ and

It’s our duty to common humanity if we do not.

 

Amen.

Ministry-Sized Hole

 If you’ve known me for awhile,

Then you know that I am an ordained Baptist minister

Who once thought herself called to full-time vocational ministry.

 

I have two graduate degrees:

A Master of Divinity in Christian Education and a Master of School Administration.

If I were to get another degree, I would most likely pursue a Doctorate of Ministry,

But unfortunately, I haven’t found a program compatible with my life as a public-school music teacher because

I’m technically not “in the ministry,” and

My schedule is not set up for day-time school.

 

Yet there is a constant yearning—

A ministry-sized hole that longs to be filled.

I often wonder what I’m doing with my life,

Spending my days with snotty-nosed kids who don’t know how to tie their shoes or

Stinky kids who haven’t yet figured out that they need deodorant.

I often hear echoes of voices telling me that I’m “wasting my gifts” and that

I could be “doing so much more.”

 

…

 

I didn’t want to go to church yesterday.

Sometimes, when church is over 30 minutes away,

One just doesn’t feel like making the drive.

But I did.

And the Holy Spirit completely, totally, 100% unexpectedly showed up and poured certainty into my ministry-sized hole.

 

Pastor Ann’s sermon was not about vocational call.

She spoke about that a few weeks ago.

I was moved by the notion that all vocations are called to share the love and grace of Jesus Christ.

But even then, the ministry-sized hole gaped open.

 

Then yesterday, while preaching a sermon about “The Good Life,”

Pastor Ann briefly mentioned something about ministering to children.

Tears formed in my eyes.

I quickly pulled myself together, though, because the statement was passing and not the focus of her sermon.

A few minutes later, in total context of what she was preaching, Pastor Ann asked how we would feel if Jesus looked at us, like he did Peter, and said, “Get behind me Satan.”

Tears swelled in my eyes as my gut reacted to the statement and

I knew that I never wanted to hear Jesus say those words to me.

Then, as Pastor Ann was ending her sermon, she once again mentioned something about children,

And at that point I couldn’t contain the tears.

They rolled down my face.

I was hearing the words I never wanted to hear yet they were revolutionizing my life:

Get behind me voices telling me that I’m wasting my life.

Get behind me voices telling me I could be doing so much more.

Get behind me Satan.

 

I, Deanna Deaton, am called to be a public-school music teacher for such a time as this.

And there is nothing more important that I could be doing.

 

God has a way of moving when we least expect it.

God has a way of planting us exactly where we need to be.

God has a way of commanding evil to get behind the cross.

And God has a way of speaking fullness into the gaping holes of our hearts...

 

Amen. 

Thursday Night Thoughts From A Recovering People Pleaser

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

…

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

…

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

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

…

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

I Like Spreadsheets, But You Might Not. And That’s Okay

I spent my day doing the administrative work that goes into planning and keeping up with:
• First Friday Festivities (which include a morning food component and a night-time activity),
• Secret Pal,
• Eaglet Trees (a school-wide class incentive program that involves tracking data, displaying it on a bulletin board, and communicating it to PTO), and
• The Morning Announcements (for which I must compile a list of everyone’s birthday, make and distribute a schedule for classes to help with the announcements, set up a template from which to read the announcements, and make up writing/drawing prompts for each week).
I then went to my first class of my Master of School Administration program and proceeded to stay after class to work on my school webpage for a couple of hours (https://sites.google.com/a/harnett.k12.nc.us/deaton/home). I have no idea what possessed me to work on my school webpage, but working on it forced me to complete some of the work that I didn’t complete during the school day, so I am grateful.

Before school started, I attended a PTO meeting. Something came up about budgeting, so I showed the treasurer my budget sheet. She said, “Is that for your personal records?!” I sheepishly said, “Yes.” She said, “Wow. I feel dumb!”

As I was updating the school phone list yesterday—it comes alphabetically but I like to reorganize it by grade level/team so that I know who works with whom—our administrative assistant looked at me and said, “I don’t understand this. You’re an artist. You’re not supposed to be so organized.” I chuckled and said, “I’m a musician and music is very structured, so I guess my brain is, too.”

My family picks on me because I make a spreadsheet every chance I get. My aunt needed to write on a calendar to visualize our Scandinavian Adventure. I needed to make a spreadsheet.

I thought my assistant principal was crazy yesterday when she said she enjoyed making the master schedule for the school. While glancing at the master schedule to isolate just the music schedule is a bit overwhelming to me, I found myself today feeling a small bit of the enjoyment that my assistant principal feels while I created the master food schedule for First Fridays. I was stupidly content systematically copying and pasting group names into different rows and columns.

I suddenly think about Barb-The-Art-Teacher-Who-No-Longer-Works-With-Me-But-Who-Will-Always-Be-My-Art-Teacher-In-My-Heart and about how just the thought of making a spreadsheet makes her cringe. I bet many of you have cringed while reading this note. And I smile.

I’m having a moment similar to the moments I have when I go to the dentist:

To put it simply, I am so thankful that each of us is different and that, in large part, we have the opportunity to live into those differences and build lives around work, activities, and routines that fit with who we are.

Yet, I’m thankful, too, that as Maya Angelou says:

[There are] obvious differences
between each sort and type,
but we are more alike, my friends
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.

Maybe I should go make a spreadsheet of oxymorons.

I Like Spreadsheets, But You Might Not. And That’s Okay

I spent my day doing the administrative work that goes into planning and keeping up with:
• First Friday Festivities (which include a morning food component and a night-time activity),
• Secret Pal,
• Eaglet Trees (a school-wide class incentive program that involves tracking data, displaying it on a bulletin board, and communicating it to PTO), and
• The Morning Announcements (for which I must compile a list of everyone’s birthday, make and distribute a schedule for classes to help with the announcements, set up a template from which to read the announcements, and make up writing/drawing prompts for each week).
I then went to my first class of my Master of School Administration program and proceeded to stay after class to work on my school webpage for a couple of hours (https://sites.google.com/a/harnett.k12.nc.us/deaton/home). I have no idea what possessed me to work on my school webpage, but working on it forced me to complete some of the work that I didn’t complete during the school day, so I am grateful.

Before school started, I attended a PTO meeting. Something came up about budgeting, so I showed the treasurer my budget sheet. She said, “Is that for your personal records?!” I sheepishly said, “Yes.” She said, “Wow. I feel dumb!”

As I was updating the school phone list yesterday—it comes alphabetically but I like to reorganize it by grade level/team so that I know who works with whom—our administrative assistant looked at me and said, “I don’t understand this. You’re an artist. You’re not supposed to be so organized.” I chuckled and said, “I’m a musician and music is very structured, so I guess my brain is, too.”

My family picks on me because I make a spreadsheet every chance I get. My aunt needed to write on a calendar to visualize our Scandinavian Adventure. I needed to make a spreadsheet.

I thought my assistant principal was crazy yesterday when she said she enjoyed making the master schedule for the school. While glancing at the master schedule to isolate just the music schedule is a bit overwhelming to me, I found myself today feeling a small bit of the enjoyment that my assistant principal feels while I created the master food schedule for First Fridays. I was stupidly content systematically copying and pasting group names into different rows and columns.

I suddenly think about Barb-The-Art-Teacher-Who-No-Longer-Works-With-Me-But-Who-Will-Always-Be-My-Art-Teacher-In-My-Heart and about how just the thought of making a spreadsheet makes her cringe. I bet many of you have cringed while reading this note. And I smile.

I’m having a moment similar to the moments I have when I go to the dentist:

To put it simply, I am so thankful that each of us is different and that, in large part, we have the opportunity to live into those differences and build lives around work, activities, and routines that fit with who we are.

Yet, I’m thankful, too, that as Maya Angelou says:

[There are] obvious differences
between each sort and type,
but we are more alike, my friends
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.

Maybe I should go make a spreadsheet of oxymorons.

A 3AM Conversation That Changed My Life (With Haikus)

It took me most of the trip to get used to the time difference. With the exception of the two days that we were in St. Petersburg, we were six hours ahead of home; in St. Petersburg, we were seven. When I was getting up, everyone here was either in bed or getting ready for bed. When I was going to bed, everyone here was preparing for supper or enjoying a late afternoon storm. When I was touring the world, everyone here was exploring dream land or beginning to explore what the workforce would present him/her with for the day.

I suppose it’s no wonder, then, that I had a fully functioning conversation with one of my friends on July 20th at 3:00 in the morning.

I’m not exactly sure what caused me to wake up at 3am—I suppose it was the sound of the text coming through—but I had indeed been asleep but was at that moment awake, my body clock sensing 9pm. I will admit: sometimes a text will awaken me and I will do my best to carry on a text conversation, but it will come out completely incoherent because, well, I’m asleep. For instance, I fell asleep yesterday afternoon and awoke when I heard a ding accompanied with this question: “How was your TOY interview? How do you feel?” I responded: “I don’t know that I’ll win becussd of my luck is school Invigorating but I was myself and the osslicsyiom too. J fix my best.”

So there I was, lying in my bed en route to Russia, fully awake but not in the mental space to have been premeditating thought, having the following conversation as a continuation of a previous talk about her going to graduate school:

Friend: I’m considering an online program so I can do it in my home and not in an intimidating classroom.
Me: I’ve been secretly thinking about going back…I’ve not talked about it at all.
Friend: For what?
Me: School administration.
Friend: I thought so. You’re terrific at public speaking. You could totally lead faculty meetings.
Me: Well thank you.

*We then wandered off topic for about ten minutes, but I was feverishly counting syllables and write the following haikus*

Crazy idea
In the middle of the night
Falling into place

It’s making sense now
The diverse path I have trod
A call coming clear

Racing heart running fast
To the edge of excitement
It is time to leap

A profound moment
Or is this a vivid dream
Only time will tell

Everything that’s me
Has been leading to this time
I think I’m ready

Keeping the haikus to myself, I came back around to the conversation by saying this: I will be contacting Campbell when I get home. It’s probably too late to start in the Fall. But I think I am heading back to school, friend. It’s as if some pieces of my life just shifted into place. At 3am. Thank you.

Then my friend inserted clapping hands and the emoji for a-okay, and I fell asleep.

I didn’t mention this experience until a week after returning from my trip (which was over two weeks after the above conversation occurred). Unlike the text that I found on my phone yesterday when I woke up from my nap, I remembered the conversation vividly—yet my conscious self filled my subconscious self with all kinds of doubts to refute the certainty of that night. I secretly researched the program and contacted Campbell and found out what I needed to do to enroll in classes. I talked myself out of it. I talked myself back into it. I felt good about the things I might learn in class; I really do like administrative things. I felt really weird to think about having the title principal attached to my name; it still feels weird and I’m not even sure it’s what will happen. I imagined myself failing. I imagined myself succeeding. But what I couldn’t imagine was going through this semester without being in class one night per week—which is somewhat insane considering that a lot of things are going to be very different and unknown at both school and church with changes in staff and personnel.

My acceptance letter into the School of Education at Campbell University was mailed today. As soon as I settle upon a class, I will be enrolled in the Master of School Administration program. My top spiritual gift is administration. I guess it’s time to do something with that little known fact that made its voice clear at 3am in the middle of the Baltic Sea, on a vacation that truly changed my life.

Little Love Monsters

I think I’ve accidentally created some little monsters.

I’m pretty sure that my favorite artist other than Barb the Art Teacher, Fabio Napoleoni, could sketch an image perfectly depicting the monsters’ creation. In fact, I’d commission him to do this sketch if I had the money to pay for it!

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 Willard 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’ve written about him before.

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. 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. Now. Sometimes I get answers that I’m pretty sure are written to sway my opinion toward that student’s writing because the student wants a prize. For instance, a student once wrote that if he could go anywhere in the world then he would go to Beethoven’s house :-). But what got me about my 5th grade morning monster’s answer 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. Right down to conversations about shoes and hair cuts.

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.

One More Try

I have a very vivid memory of playing rhythm sticks with my kindergarten students during my first year of teaching. While the lesson was a success and I was having fun with my job, I remember thinking, “Is this really what I’m called to do for the rest of my life?”

Four years later, I started classes in divinity school. I taught music during the day; I studied at night. Eventually one night of classes turned to two nights turned to three, until I ran out of night-class options and had to make a decision: continue teaching or finish my graduate degree. I chose the latter.

For the next two years, I was a full-time student. I threw myself into my classes and learned everything I could learn. I worked as a church-secretary and became nationally certified to do the work. I served as a music-minister. I assisted one of my professors. I went to pastoral counseling for spiritual direction. I grew leaps and bounds and felt that the work that I was doing to complete my degree was setting me up for the rest of my career—I just wasn’t sure what that career would be.

Shortly after finishing my graduate degree, I was offered a job working with the organization that I had wanted to work with since the summer after my freshman year of college. Even though the call would move me to South Carolina, I knew that it was where God was leading, so I took the job and relocated life to Columbia. I found an amazing little apartment that overlooked Lake Murray and I dove into my work with everything I could give. The move away from family and friends wasn’t easy, and figuring out the new language and expectations of the job wasn’t easy either. But I did it. And I was content. I was making friends and making a difference through my work—especially through my work of educating about human exploitation…yet just as quickly as the door to my dream job had opened, it closed. Sudden. Unexpected. Forceful. The end.

One stormy afternoon, as I packed up my stuff to move out of my amazing little apartment that overlooked Lake Murray, I found myself wanting to jump into the lake’s waters, fully clothed, so that the lake could wrap her arms around me and hold me as I cried. As I floated on my back, rain crashing onto my arms and face, ears listening to the sounds of nature as she poured our her fury, I found myself repeating a lyric that I had learned only weeks before: “This is what we’re made for, standing in the downpour, knowing that the sun will shine. Forget what lies behind you, heaven stands beside you, you’ve got to give it one more try. One more try.”

This past Friday, my principal called me into her office. “Ms. Deaton,” she said. “I’ve got something to tell you. You’re going to be our 2016-2017 Teacher of the Year!” After we finished our conversation and I was presented with a beautiful vase of flowers, I went straight to car duty. I could hear thunder rolling and rain falling, so I knew that we were in for a difficult dismissal. Pants legs rolled up, baseball hat and rain-jacket in place, umbrellas left in the library for fear of lightning strike, my team and I walked boldly into the parking lot to get our students home.

As I stood in the parking lot on Friday afternoon, soaking wet from the worst car-rider weather of my three years at Johnsonville, I couldn’t help but smile. “This is what we’re made for, standing in the downpour,” I sang…

Because, friends, the sun had shone. Heaven had stood beside me through shell-shocked brokenness and confusion to home to chaplaincy to my school where, seven years after I walked away from another wonderful classroom, I was given a lovely little hut overlooking the playground.

Walking away from teaching the first time was not easy. My heart was—as it continues to be—in the public schools. Yet I knew, in my gut, that walking away was what I needed to do.

Though my graduate degree pays me absolutely nothing when I look at my paycheck, and though my three years of vocational ministry seem like a distant dream, they pay me everything I need when I look at my colleagues and students and know that my work isn’t necessarily about rhythm sticks but that it is about influencing lives by showing up and being fully-present every day—not wondering what’s next, not longing for something more, not being so off-balance that my angst comes out on those around me—but being present, ready to face the good and the bad and the everything in between, with stubborn, steady love.

“This is what we’re made for. Standing in the downpour. Knowing that the sun will shine. Forget what lies behind you. Heaven stands beside you. You’ve got to give it one more try…”
One moment, one day at a time.
…One more try.

Amen.

Loving The Hell Out Of Them

I have a friend who works with at-risk teenage girls. Last week, one of the girls pushed her and started to run away. Sadly, this isn’t abnormal behavior for girls who haven’t learned how to form healthy boundaries or how properly to communicate thoughts and feelings. The staff members who work with the girls know the risks involved with the work and are trained in proper restraints and mediation techniques. Even so, it’s hard to be pushed and it’s a helpless feeling to watch someone run away—literally. Yet as the organization’s main supervisor likes to say: The staff is loving the hell out of the girls.

The hell.
The loneliness. Worthlessness. Betrayal. Rage.
The fears. Neglect. Abandonment. Doubts.
The abuse. Molestation. Bullying. Deep anger.
The learning difficulties. Helplessness. Aggravation. Anxiety.
The hell.

They are loving the hell out of them.

…

I love you. Take a moment, be still, and thank about that. I am the Creator of the universe, the Ruler of time, the Master of all you see—and I love you. My love is so big that it fills up all of space, time, and eternity. I know that you don’t fully understand the hugeness of my love for you. You see glimpses of it now—as you feel me guiding you, drawing you closer to me, and answering your prayers. But one day you will see me face-to-face. Then you will know exactly how wide and long and high and deep my love for you really is. For now, just know that my love is so huge it cannot be measured. And it goes with you through every moment of every day. (from Jesus Calling for Kids).

And it goes with everyone. Me. You. Our family. Our friends. At-risk teenage girls and elementary school boys. The people who annoy us and bother us the most—whether we know them personally or not.

God loves all of us.
Joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control, and peace
Love all of us.

God is love and loving the hell out of all of us.

…

I think I want to love the hell out of people, too.

A Big Little Reminder

Last week, I had a parent come to me and share that she and her daughter were moving.
The parent’s main concern was that they might be leaving before this year’s field trip to the NC Symphony.
She said, “All my daughter has been talking about for the past six weeks has been this trip to the symphony. She comes home every week talking about all of the things that she’s learning in music class and how excited she is about the field trip.”
Inwardly shocked by what the mom had just told me, I outwardly carried on a conversation that ultimately led to the student remaining enrolled at my school through yesterday’s field trip.

Now…I suppose that it’s every teacher’s goal to actually teach her students some things.
And while I work really hard to teach my students to understand and experience music
and while I work even harder to help my students understand that music is not an isolated subject but a subject connected to every other
and while I work even harder to let my students know that they are safe with me and that they are loved,
I must confess that I didn’t really think that my students were actually learning anything—
That they might actually be going home and telling their parents about music class—
That I might actually be accomplishing my goals.
Even when I see progress—
Even when I give an assessment that clearly shows that musical knowledge has grown—
I still didn’t necessarily believe that my students were actually learning beyond my hut.

Until last week’s conversation.

While talking to that parent,
I felt as if an educational angel were shining a light upon me and confirming that I’m doing the work that I need to be doing right now—
Not just because I know that I’m doing more ministry now than when I was in full-time ministry—
But because I’m helping ignite a spark for learning in my students—
Because I’m helping “inspire” them, which is exactly what a student said after yesterday’s concert.

I don’t know about you, friends, but I think that every once in awhile each of us needs to be reminded that our lives are making a difference.
Consider this your reminder tonight.
No matter who we are. Where we come from. What we look like. How well we perform.
Each of our lives makes a difference to someone somewhere somehow.
Even when we don’t really believe it.
purp

I Wasn't Expecting That...

I recently told someone that my weeks had fallen into such a steady routine and that if anything gets off schedule then it could completely throw me off.

Mondays are work (first go at the week’s lessons and updates as needed, continued work on the week’s announcements), meetings, home for TV with my parents, and note writing. Also, beginning on Monday, each work-week afternoon includes setting up coffee for the next day on my way to afternoon duty.

Tuesdays are work and counseling or dinner with friends.

Wednesdays are school work, brief rest, and church work (worship service planning, choir practice, worship team e-mail).

Thursdays are work (compiling school-wide incentive data, e-mailing PTO, updating the incentive bulletin board, judging a school-wide writing challenge), home for TV with my parents, and note writing. The last Thursday of each month is dinner with a friend.

Fridays are work (handing out school-wide writing challenge prizes, changing the writing bulletin board, making a writing book, working on lesson plans) and either home or time with family and friends.

Saturday is my Sabbath--with as much rest and as little work as possible.

Sunday is church (two worship services), cleaning/nap, church (praise team practice), and weekly morning announcement preparation.

If I get off schedule, then, well, sometimes I get behind. Or if I don’t get behind, then I sometimes find myself ill that something has intruded upon my schedule.

Today, I found myself both behind in my work (from getting off schedule last week) and feeling ill that something had intruded upon my schedule.

Tonight was the Little River Baptist Association Annual Meeting. It was also the night that my dad was planning to announce his retirement (effective March 2016).

As my dad’s daughter, I knew that I needed to be at the meeting. As a teacher fighting a cold and feeling like poo, I knew that I had little desire to be at the meeting. But I went. And I’m glad that I did.

Not only was I there to support my dad (and mom), but I was also there to see a couple near the top of my “nicest people in the world” list.

We met many years ago when B and I started teaching and the wife of the couple, Betty, became our favorite volunteer.

As we talked tonight, and caught up, and I shared my heart for JES, I confessed my desire to be a chaplain in the schools—to support and encourage the many teachers who do and give so much to their work and students. I also confessed my wish for Betty to come volunteer at JES. She really was/is an amazing volunteer!

As I started to leave tonight, I mentioned that I was going to go to Starbucks to get some coffee. Betty agreed that that was a great idea and then reached into her purse to get something. I thought that she was reaching for a card but instead she was reaching for $10 to pay for my coffee.
As I was saying thank you, she continued reaching in her purse. Still thinking that she was reaching for a card, I was shocked when she handed me $100 and told me to use it however I felt led for my ministry—at school.

Speechless, I hugged her and said, “Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.”

She said, “I wasn’t either. This was a God-thing. I just felt led to do it.”

Then we both cried.

Folks, Betty comes from humble means. She does not have $100 to spare. And yet, hearing my heart tonight and having a heart for the public schools herself, she sacrificed out of the goodness of her heart.

Because she believed in me.

And my ministry.

And to think that I almost missed it because it wasn’t part of the schedule…

God: Thank you for structure. Thank you for schedules. Thank you for giving us the opportunity and ability to organize our lives so that we can make the most of our days. But God, when that structure and those schedules become so confining that they cause us to begin missing life, forgive us. Help us always to remain open to you and your leading—even when it interrupts our plans—and even when it doesn’t seem to make sense. And, God, help my dad as he begins to transition into retirement. I love you, God. Amen.

The Waiting

So I’m back in the place where these twice-weekly notes began.
I’m back in the place that seems like a distant reality.
Sometimes I wonder if my time here even happened.
The years came and went so quickly.
Goals realized. Dreams shattered. Purpose redirected. Life forever changed.
It’s been three years since I made the journey back North from South.
It’s been three years since I truly began to actively wait.

I went to the NC Zoo on Tuesday.
On Saturday, I’ll go to Riverbanks on Columbia.
I spent a lot of time with the otter and the bears on Tuesday.
I’ll spend a lot of time with the elephants, siamongs, and bears on Saturday.
I love watching the bears.
I love standing there waiting—
For them to open their eyes, to yawn, to stretch, to scratch, to walk, to swim, to play, to eat.
I love observing their fierce beauty and imagining how it would feel to hug them.
I love seeing children get super excited and adults put words to how the bears must be feeling.
And I love standing there longing than anyone else—
Knowing that the people who stop for only a minute are missing out on the fullness of what they would see—
If they would just wait.

In today’s society, very few of us like to wait.
We want everything and we want it now.
We expect food, results, internet connections, and answers instantaneously and when they don’t come instantaneously we complain.
And yet…
So much of life is in the waiting.
And so much of life’s beauty and lessons are in the same.

When I stand and watch the bears,
Waiting,
I’m not wasting time.
I’m actively observing, paying attention to what’s going on, knowing that more is to come, but okay if nothing different happens than the experience itself.

When I try to discern purpose and call or to dream new dreams,
Waiting,
I’m not wasting time.
I’m actively teaching, giving everything I have to where I am, believing that there may be something different to come, but okay if I’m led nowhere other than to where life catapulted me three years ago.

So I’ll keep on waiting
With the bears and my students and my family and my friends
And I’ll keep on singing with all that I am.
I’ll keep on watching one moment fade into the next
And I’ll keep on praying that God will make God’s presence known.
Goals realized. Dreams shattered. Purpose redirected. Lives changed.
It all happens in the waiting.
From North to South and back again.

When I Grow Up, I Won't Work in The Medical Profession...But I'm Thankful For Those Who Do

My friend Kelli leads her 1st grade team in a college readiness project each year. This year, the New York Times caught wind of the project and did a report on it. If you’re curious about it, take a look here: http://mobile.nytimes.com/2015/02/08/education/edlife/is-your-first-grader-college-ready.html?referrer&_r=0. I think it’s pretty cool. Really cool, actually.

At their end of year awards program, the first grade team teachers chose to continue with this project by announcing where each first grade student wanted to attend college and what they wanted to be when they grew up. I enjoyed listening to this part of the ceremony. From what I remember, most students wanted to be police-people or fire-fighters. A few wanted to be teachers. One girl wanted to be a construction worker. No one wanted to be president. And I can’t remember if anyone wanted to be a doctor. I don’t blame them if they didn’t. I know I certainly didn’t want to be a doctor. Nor do I want to be one now.

It never fails that I leave the hospital, doctor’s office, or dentist office thankful that God didn’t call me into the medical field. I suppose that if God had called me into the field, then my gifts, talents, interests, and tolerances would have been much different than they are now. But still. I’m always grateful that I don’t have to do the work of medical personnel each day—and that there are people who do do the work—and who are good at it.

My mom had some really good doctors and nurses while she was in the hospital this week. She has a really good family doctor, too, that willingly answered my texts of distress this afternoon and had her nurse call to check in with the patient. I am grateful.

And so tonight, I offer my first public prayer of thanksgiving and supplication for those in the medical profession—and those who will one day be in the medical profession like some of our first graders who will undoubtedly decide not to be police-people but servants of public health. Whether it be physical, mental, or emotional needs to which they attend—which, in most cases it is all of the above—the work that they do is so important—and, I believe, will become increasingly more important in years to come—especially in regards to mental health—which, I believe, is something that we cannot keep ignoring unless we want to continue seeing horrific tragedies like that of Charleston this week.

Loving God, giver of life and health: Daily strengthen and comfort the men and women who work to prevent and relieve pain and suffering and give to them the power of healing as they minister to the needs of those who cross their paths. Fill them with a sense of purpose and help them always to know that the work that they do is important and that the lives that they influence will forever be tied to the labor of their time and hands. Grant discernment. Grant hope. Grant integrity. Grant wisdom. Tonight, tomorrow, and in all the nights and tomorrows to come. Amen.

An Accidental Name

For a few short months last year, I had the privilege of knowing a student that we’ll call Bob. Something happened to Bob’s legs at birth, so while the rest of his body grew normally, his legs did not. For this reason, Bob’s primary mode of transportation was his wheelchair. Bob’s hands were strong. The rest of his body was, too. He would participate in music class just like everyone else, scooting himself out of his wheelchair and walking himself around on his hands whenever it came time to move. I enjoyed teaching Bob…and I told him many times that I believed that he could be an amazing athlete. I still do.

Each morning that he was with us before he transferred to another school, Bob descended the bus on the chair lift. For safety purposes, I held his chair in place when he was on the lift. While he was more than capable of wheeling himself into the building and taking himself to class, he liked it when one of his friends, TJ, met him at the bus and rolled him into the building. Faithful friend that he was, TJ waited on Bob every morning. As he waited, we talked. In the process of talking, I started calling TJ, Teej. I’ve called him that ever since.

Recently, Teej did something out of character in music class.
I don’t remember what he did, but in the midst of a class transition,
I looked at him and quietly said, “TJ. What were you doing?”
He very respectfully responded, “TJ?! My name is not TJ, Ms. Deaton.”
A bit confused, I said, “Okay. Then. Toussain.”
Again very respectfully but somewhat playfully, he said, “My name isn’t Toussain either.”
Very confused by this point, because I knew that I knew the boy’s name, I said, “Well what’s your name?”
He smiled and said, “My name’s Teej.” It was sort of like, duh.
I smiled softly and then we all went on with class.

That conversation quickly got lost in the chaos that was the rest of his class—his was the class that I wrote about last Thursday that ended with three students crying because one of them was moving—but I remembered it yesterday when Teej showed up during his recess to show me his recorder. I had no idea that he was coming, but it was a neat little visit and it ended with us making plans to exchange his dollar store recorder for a five-dollar store recorder and a borrowed recorder book. [Teej is in a lower grade; I currently only do recorders with 5th grade. So this plan was top secret.]

Curious about last week’s name declaration, I asked TJ when I saw him today if anyone but me calls him Teej. He said no. Then he added that some people in his class are starting to call him Teej. I said, “Because they hear me calling you Teej?” He said, “Yes, ‘mam.”

I confess. I unashamedly smiled.

There are many days when I wonder what in the world I’m doing teaching. I come home exhausted, feeling like I’ve been run over by a bus, wanting to beat my head against a wall, because it often feels like I’m talking to a wall of overly chatty bricks that don’t want to listen.

But then I have a very chill student who rarely shows any emotion ask me to play an upbeat character education song from months ago because she remembers it and it was her favorite.

Or I have a very hyper student who rarely shows any interest in music ask me to show his class a clip that he enjoyed from Fantasia.

Or I have a very excited group of Harnett Off-Broadway students descend upon my room as a thrilled pack of loud animals and wholeheartedly sing songs that they haven’t sung in weeks.

Or I have a struggling student draw a picture of me and write about how he wants to make me proud.

And then I think about Teej and how I accidentally gave him a name and I think, “This is why I do what I do.”

It’s little moments of light, love, hope, and humor that keep teachers doing what we do.

Sometimes We Just Need To Cry

It’s no secret that I’m a crier. In fact, I have very talented tear ducts. They cry in joy and in sorrow, and they cry prayers and allow release. They cry over meaningful stories and they cry over ridiculous jokes. They cry when I’m full of energy and they cry when I’m exhausted from life. They cry if someone talks about putting in contact lenses and they cry for other people when those people cannot cry for themselves. Yet. Seldom do they cry raw, flowing tears when I’m around anyone else. Those tears—those deeply hurting, lonely, sad, frustrated, agonizing, almost-full-body tears—are usually reserved for God alone.

I remember one specific time, though, when I cried those tears in front of a dear friend, and she pulled me into her arms and let me weep. I burrowed my head into her shoulder and sobbed—for mean words and heartbreak and failed plans and misunderstanding and the work-dementors that were sucking life from me at the time. She held me as I cried and she didn’t flinch when my tears literally wet her shoulder. In that moment, I was so broken that I couldn’t even apologize for falling apart. All I could do was let someone support my weight and…cry.

…

As my first class approached the doorway today, I heard someone crying—and these were not petty, passing, she skipped me in line, tears—these were those deeply hurting, almost-full-body tears. By sheer good fortune, the guidance counselor was in my room at that moment, so she got the rest of the class settled while I held the crying kid. Literally. I wrapped my arms around his sobbing little body and held him to my heart. “Breathe, sweetie,” I said. “Deep breaths. In and out. In and out. Breathe with me. In and out.” After a few moments, I noticed that I had started rocking him back and forth, still gently whispering, “In and out. Breathe in and out.” After another few moments, I felt the fight leave his body and his breathing fall into rhythm with mine. After another few moments, I gave him the option of going to his seat or going to lie down in the back of the room until he was ready to join class. He chose the latter. Then he did join class and had a wonderful time.

I have no idea why he came to music class sobbing. Had something bad happened at home? Had something bad already happened at school? Had he been blamed for something he didn’t do? Had he gotten caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing? Had he eaten breakfast? Had he gotten enough sleep? I have no idea. But what I do know that is that he needed to cry.

…

A student on Tuesday needed to cry, too. He went from his normal attitude of “I hate music” to a place of deeply sad tears in a matter of minutes. One moment, he and his friends were defiantly choosing to sit at the back of the room under the refocus table so that they could talk and be silly, but the next minute all three of them were covering their heads with their shirts and crying. Not wanting to stop the rest of class from a strangely productive and focused music lesson, I went on with the lesson. After class, on my way into the building for lunch, I was bombarded by other students telling me that the three were crying because one of them was moving and the friendship posse was going to be separated.

As I stood in the class’s classroom, waiting for their supervision to arrive, thinking about how I wasn’t going to have time to eat lunch, wondering what in the world I was supposed to do with the kids for the next however long I had them, I felt someone come from behind on the right and latch on for a side hug. This particular class has a couple of huggers, so I didn’t think anything of it. Until I looked down. And I saw the top of “I hate music”’s hoodie. And I realized that a kid who ordinarily doesn’t even acknowledge that I exist was burrowed into my right shoulder, sobbing.

One of his classmates said, “Ms. Deaton, you’re going to miss lunch.”
I said, “No worries. I’ll be fine. I’ll stand here for a few more minutes.”
So I did. Holding “I hate music.”
He cried. He didn’t say a word. Then he wiped his tears and walked away.
I left the room with a tear-soaked shirt, wondering what in the world had just happened.
I guess “I hate music” needed to cry. And I guess maybe “I hate music” knew that music didn’t hate him.

…

Sometimes, friends, we all just need to cry.
And sometimes the safety of loving arms is exactly where we need to land.
My arms are open.
I often imagine God’s arms open as well.
Are yours?