Confession of the Purple Shirt

 

“Good morning,” she said. 

 

“Morning,” I said. 

 

“I like your shirt. It’s purple.” 

 

I should have said, “Thank you! I wore it for Lent,” and left it at that. 

 

Instead, I launched into this story. 

 

“Last Wednesday, 

I was looking through my closet for something to wear 

When I decided on this shirt. 

As I was taking it off the hanger, 

I noticed that it was a little dirty. 

So I took it off the hanger and laid it on the stool so I could wash it. 

Well, this morning, 

I went into my closet to get something to wear 

And I saw this shirt sitting on the stool. 

I got excited because it was purple 

So I put it on. 

I thought it had just fallen off its hanger. 

I didn’t realize it was dirty until I got to Lidl. 

When I saw it this morning, 

I totally forgot I had set it aside for washing. 

So. I have on a dirty shirt.”

 

To which she simply responded, “Well. I wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t said anything.”

 

🤦🏻‍♀️

 

At JazzTales on Monday morning,

We couldn’t get the visuals to work. 

We tried and tried but nothing was working 

Yet no one buy the presenters knew how it was supposed to be. 

If we would have just gone on with the show without highlighting the missing visuals 

Then no one would have ever known the difference. 

Because we confessed, though, 

The missing visuals became more missed, 

Just like my dirty shirt became more obvious. 

 

Confession is important. 

Examining ourselves for the ways our thoughts and actions have gone sideways 

Is crucial for personal and spiritual growth. 

Knowing that we have been forgiven is freeing and 

Releases us from the damning grips of shame. 

 

And yet. 

Why do we feel the need to save face with confessions like the purple shirt? 

 

God. 

Help us to know when to speak and when to remain silent. 

Help us to confess when we need to confess and not just to talk to explain or justify our thoughts and actions. 

You are the Word. 

Help us to be little examples of your word. 

 

Amen. 

Confession and Forgiveness

 

Each Sunday at church,

We begin our service with confession and forgiveness.

 

We pray something like:

 

Merciful God,

you speak blessing and compassion into the world.

Forgive us for the ways we act with judgment, cruelty, or indifference.

We ignore the needs of our neighbors;

we resist your call to oppose injustice;

we give in to scarcity and fear;

we assume the worst about one another.

Cleanse us from our faults and release us from their grasp.

Show us your loving-kindness.

Restore our hearts and repair your world, that we may live in Christ’s ways.

Amen.

 

And then hear words of forgiveness

That usher us into song.

 

Yesterday,

As we collectively read our prayer of forgiveness,

It struck me just how powerful it would be if

All proclaiming Christians, everywhere,

Read aloud those words together;

 

If all proclaiming Christians, everywhere,

No matter how pious and well-meaning,

Embraced the fact that we DO

Ignore the needs of those around us,

Resist doing what’s hard,

Give into scarcity and fear,

And assume the worst about the other;

 

If all proclaiming Christians, everywhere

Focused on the heart of Christ which was

Taking care of those around us,

(Not just our families and friends),

Fighting for what is right for all people,

(Not just those who look and think like us),

Living with the idea that there is an abundance when it is shared with all,

(Not just hoarded for ourselves or a minority of people),

And seeing the possibility of good in all people,

For all were created in the image of God and are doing our best to survive.

 

If all proclaiming Christians, everywhere

Focused back on the heart of the Gospel—

That Jesus came to serve rather than to be served,

That Jesus came to usher in the God’s Kingdom which is one of Love,

And that Jesus came to show us,

Once and for all,

That death and darkness and sin do not triumph,

Rather life and light and forgiveness emerge victorious in the end.

 

Reading those words each week

And embracing forgiveness

Is an act of humility and surrender

To something so much bigger than myself.

 

What IF all proclaiming Christians, everywhere

Were to demonstrate those same acts of humility and surrender

And allow God’s spirit to transform even the vilest of hearts?

 

What IF all proclaiming Christians, everywhere,

Were truly to follow Christ?

 

Amen.

Kay

 

It never fails. Whenever there is any type of wintery weather (and sometimes even just the threat of it), I think of Kay.

 

I think of the time when I went against my dad’s wishes and drove two hours in ice and snow to attend Kay’s dad’s funeral.

 

Kay was a pastor. She was a mentor and friend to many. Yet on that day—that nasty winter day—Kay, an only child with no living relatives, was completely alone…until a friend and I got to the funeral.

 

As soon as we got there, Kay came to the foyer of the chapel and hugged us. She then asked if we would sit with her on the family pew and ride with her to the gravesite in the family car. We agreed. We sat with Kay as she cried. We stood with Kay as funeral home workers lowered her dad’s coffin into the ground. We waited for Kay as she retrieved her father’s belongings. And we road alongside Kay as she made her way back to Harnett County. She didn’t have a cell phone or a reliable car. We didn’t want her making the journey alone.

 

Alone.

 

If I’m honest, and an accidental two days without my anxiety medicine will make me completely honest, being alone is one of my biggest fears. I had the fear before Kay, but after Kay the fear grew stronger.

 

Kay dedicated her life to those around her. She gave her money to those in need. She served tirelessly to enrich people’s lives. She was loved by so many people…yet in the end, she died alone.

 

She died on a Sunday night. We found her body on a Tuesday night. We watched as the rescue squad rolled her body away. When it came time to clean out her townhouse, we were there. But no one else was there. None of the people she had dedicated her life to loving and serving were there. A friend and I were left to sort through her belongings—to try to figure out what to do with all that remained. It clearly traumatized and impacted me in a very deep and real way.

 

While I know that there are differences between Kay and me—the largest of which is that I have parents, a brother and sister, nephews and a niece, aunts and an uncle, and cousins—there are also many similarities between Kay and me.

 

And so, on winter weather days, and on days when my brain chemicals are way off balance, I always think of Kay.

 

I celebrate the time when I know I did something right—I grieve her untimely loss—and I face one of my biggest fears, that of living and dying alone.

 

What about you, friend? What is something you know you did right? What is something you grieve? What is one of your biggest fears? Who is someone who has impacted your life in very deep and profound ways?

 

Please share. I’d love to hear.

 

In this season of Lent, may we walk life’s road together.

Toothbrush Prayer

I can’t believe that I’m admitting this to the world.

But sometimes I don’t brush my teeth at night.

Sometimes I’m too tired.

Sometimes I’m angry with myself and treat the non-brushing as some sort of twisted punishment.

Sometimes I fall asleep early.

Sometimes I’m just lazy.

Regardless, sometimes I don’t brush my teeth at night.

And so…I made brushing my teeth at night my Lenten practice.

I know. It seems a bit odd to add something that should already be part of daily life. But. Well. I’ve already admitted the truth. And so I added the practice.

And not just that. I added the practice of standing still while I brushing my teeth.

I’d gotten into the habit of wandering around the upstairs, picking things up, preparing for bed, etc.

But now. Each night. I find myself standing still in the bathroom, brushing my teeth…praying.

I find myself praying each night…for my friends, my family, my students, myself, this world, the impact of this virus, Love to be real, God to be present, any and everything that comes to mind while I brush off the gunk that could create problems if not removed.

So tonight, I challenge you to join me in a tooth-brushing time of prayer. It may only last a couple of minutes, but that couple of minutes could change someone’s life…not the least of which is your own.

Happy brushing, everyone! And…don’t forget to stay in place. Staying in place is important. But it may be harder than you think…

MLK, Jr.

“Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.”

This is the quote that has been on my mind this Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday. This is the quote that has struck me this year and made me ask myself if I am a person of “good will” but of “shallow understanding” and “lukewarm acceptance” when it comes to so many difficult topics and issues. Am I someone who would rather keep peace in the form of cheap comfort or am I someone who is willing to be disliked by the status quo for standing for what is right?

I’m afraid that I know the answer. And I’m afraid that I don’t like it.

God: Help each us to find our own unique voice—our own way of speaking Your voice—and then help us to speak it. As you have challenged, help us to “Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute.” Help us to “Speak up and judge fairly;
defend the rights of the poor and needy.” May we remember that there are so many layers of destitution—so many layers of poor and needy—so many reasons that people cannot speak for themselves—and may we then be a people—may I be a person—who does not settle for shallow understanding or lukewarm acceptance but an absolute understanding of your Love, justice, and mercy for all. Forgive us, God—forgive me—for I have sinned and fallen short today and every day. Help us—help me—to do better than this. Amen.

Buy One, Get One

Sometimes I’m lazy. Sometimes I’m spoiled. Sometimes I’m both. On Thursday afternoon, I was both…and so I found myself waiting for coffee at Starbucks for no less than 30 minutes—and I’d even placed a mobile order and driven for 7 minutes after placing the order.

The wait was quite ridiculous, really. But I suppose it was for a reason: It was “buy one get one free” day…

Except I wasn’t getting buy one get one free. I was just getting one for the next morning.

I drink my coffee cold. I was out of coffee at the house. I thought it would be quick and easy to get a coffee from Starbucks on my way home. I told you. Sometimes I’m lazy.

I was wrong.

After about twenty minutes, I thought about leaving without my coffee, but I’d already spent over $5 on it, and I’d already invested a good chunk of life in it, so I decided to stick it out. I told you. Sometimes I’m spoiled.

And so I sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Less patiently than I would have liked. And waited. Until finally they called my name. And I took my coffee. For Friday morning. And went home.

As I sat there waiting, I began to think: Wouldn’t it be nice if the many people who cared so much about getting “buy one, get one free” at Starbucks also cared about children in our schools—or about persons starving in third world countries—or about missions efforts in our churches—or about social justice in general—or about simply slowing down and waiting to hear God’s voice…and the thoughts went on.

Unfortunately, I think, we have begun to value the wrong things in this society of plenty...

God, forgive our laziness—our greed—our misplaced time, energy, and money—and begin to transform us…transform me…one cup of coffee at a time. Amen.

Think Before You Speak

9.16.19—Think Before You Speak

I asked a dumb question today.

A student had gotten soap on her pants and was very concerned about how it looked.

Without really thinking yet somehow still thinking about 15 things at once, I said, “How’d you get soap on your pants?”

As soon as I’d muttered the question, I realized that it didn’t matter how she got soap on her pants. What mattered was that she was concerned about how it looked and was afraid that she was going to be picked on.

Instead of thinking about the details of the event that led to the problem, I should have said something like, “How can I help you?” and then worked with the student to solve the problem.

Instead of focusing on the details of the event that could have been embarrassing to the student, I should have said something like, “I’m sorry you got soap on your pants. Let’s see if we can figure out how to get that off or to cover it up.”

How many times do we encounter persons in need, feel compassion for them, want to help them, but then ask the most ridiculous, oftentimes hurtful, questions?

How many times do our heart and spirit have genuinely good intentions but then our mouths get in the way?

Thankfully, I quickly moved the conversation away from my dumb question, and the student and I figured out a way to detract from the soap spill.

But still…this encounter stuck with me and has served as a gentle reminder that I, myself, need to do something that I’ve been encouraging my students to do: Think before I speak.

Is what I’m going to say:
True
Helpful
Inspiring
Necessary
Kind

Think, Deanna. Think before you speak.

Think, friend. Think before you speak.

God, help us to think before we speak and to not let our good intentions be derailed by our mouths…and forgive us and help us get back on track when we do. Amen.

It Takes Everyone

Confession: I am a Battle of the Books dropout.

For those who may not know, Battle of the Books is a trivia-like competition for students who enjoy reading. The NC School Library Media Association publishes a list of books to be read and studied each year. Various persons then write fact-recall questions about the books and different schools select teams of students to compete again other teams in answering said questions. Teams have no idea what the questions will be until they hear them at the competition.

I started reading this year’s Battle of the Books books at the end of last year. I read a handful of the books and had every intention of completing the entire list…but…I didn’t. I somehow managed to run into a brick wall of anti-reading, and I’ve yet to overcome the wall.

Not reading all of the books = disqualified from the Battle of the Books team = Deanna disqualifying herself as a coach. I, Deanna Deaton, am a Battle of the Books dropout.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t help with this year’s competition.

It sounds small, I know, and it really is small in comparison to the hours of practice that the team and coaches put into this year’s competition, but I provided the plants for stage decorations and the microphones for the sound system at this year’s countywide competition.

The coaches were hoping to rent some stage decorations, but the rental fell through. I always buy my mom plants for Mother’s Day, so I decided to buy the plants early this year and loan them to Battle of the Books. [Happy Mother’s Day, mom :-D!]

I used to sing in a band. At the height of our career, we bought our own microphones. I have six microphones that now sit in a closet at home. We have no decent microphones at school. I was asked to set up the sound system, so I decided to bring my microphones from home so that the sound would be consistent between teams. I figured that the microphones are much more useful at school for two days than they are in the closet at home.

Like I said, I know that these two things are really small in the scheme of the entire event. Yet they needed to happen. And I could fill the needs. So why not step up and play my part?

The truth is, friends, everything is a sum of its parts. None of us stands completely alone. Ever. Sometimes, our role in an event or happening is as big as coordinating or coaching. Other times it’s as small as providing plants and microphones. Regardless, we each have our roles to play—gifts and talents to offer—things that we can do to help those around us—support that we can give—solutions that we can offer if we will but take a few minutes to see what they are. And I don’t know why, but this truth is especially good news to me today.

I may be a Battle of the Books dropout, but I’m also a Battle of the Books supporter. I did what I could to lead to today’s victory for our school. That’s right—my team won! And I couldn’t be prouder to have been a part of it all.

“ For by the grace given me I say to every one of you: Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the faith God has distributed to each of you. For just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others. We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us. If your gift is prophesying, then prophesy in accordance with your faith; if it is serving, then serve; if it is teaching, then teach; if it is to encourage, then give encouragement; if it is giving, then give generously; if it is to lead, do it diligently; if it is to show mercy, do it cheerfully. Love must be sincere.” Romans 12:3-9

The Power of Naming

4.4.19—The Power of Naming

Kindergarten Student One: “Ms. Deaton. We had you for music today.”
Me: “Yep. You sure did.”
Kindergarten Student Two: “Ms. Deaton! My grandma always looks for you in the car rider line and she misses you when you aren’t here. She says that when you’re here, the line moves faster than it does for everyone else.”
Me: “Well that was nice of her to say.”
And then I walked to my place smiling.

I wasn’t very gracious with myself at the beginning of the year, friends. The transition from Johnsonville to Greenwood was, first, not expected, and, second, much harder than I think it should have been. With all my years of counseling—with all my knowledge of being present, not judging myself too harshly, allowing life to happen as it comes—with all my understanding of transition and grief, letting go and moving on, time and patience—I found myself being incredibly hard on myself and not granting myself patience or grace for not immediately knowing every students’ name or every cars’ driver…which I knew was ridiculous because I know that it takes time to learn the names of 700 students and their cars’ drivers!

Here’s what I’ve realized recently, though: I was doing the best that I could. What I didn’t want to admit was that my brain chemicals were falling out of whack and I needed to adjust my anxiety medication. Some of you may judge me or look down upon me for this next statement, but I have been on anxiety medicine for the past 12 years. I have been diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), and its effects are mentally and emotionally crippling. Everyone has anxiety. Everyone deals with ups and downs in moods and emotions. Anxiety and depression are normal parts of life. But those of us diagnosed with GAD struggle with anxiety to the point that, untreated, it interferes with our ability to properly function in our every day lives. I didn’t want to admit that my body had become used to the dosage of medicine that it had been taking. I didn’t want to admit that I needed something different. And so I struggled my way through months of transition, beating myself up for things I knew weren’t worthy of the time and effort that I was pouring into them…yet I couldn’t stop…

Today, for the first time this year, I did roll call without having to depend on my class list to know the students’ names. Friends: This was huge to me! Finally, after nine months at Greenwood, I have learned an entire class of names! I’ve learned a lot of names. I know more names now than not. But sometimes I still get confused as to who is who, so to have that certainty for even one class is a really good feeling!

What’s more, I’ve almost got the car line memorized! There are just a few cars that trip me up—and then the daily guests. I’ve had a few parents and teachers comment on how efficiently the line is running this year and how impressed they are that I have learned so many names. I must admit—the compliments feel nice—especially knowing how hard I was on myself for not having names memorized at the end of week one!

Needless to say, I’ve come a long way since the beginning of the year, friends. And it’s not just with names. It’s with heart, soul, and mind as well. I have recently adjusted my medication. The crippling, relentless anxiety is subsiding and I am starting to see, feel, and think more clearly again. I am starting to think about hopes and dreams again and renewing my desire to see beyond fear and what if’s and to remember that life truly is a series of todays that God is creating into tomorrows with us, for us, and oftentimes despite us…

Kindergarten Student Three: “I love you, Ms. Deaton.”
Me: “I love you, too.”
“And I know your name,” I thought, “Just as God knows my name.”
And I smiled.

God knows your name, too, friend, and cares for you and your struggles…even those, like mental illness, you think you must hide.

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.

Giving Voice To Fear

Well. Having no voice is turning out to be a interestingly frustrating experience. I lost my voice walking around Highland last Monday, but it didn’t come back while I walked around Highland today.

Two half days last week; an early incorporation of videos that I usually don’t teach with until much later; a guest speaker; no singing at all—even at choir practice or during Sunday morning worship; no extracurricular activities that would tempt me to use my voice; an entire day in bed reading on Saturday—with my eyes!; a vaporizer, essential oils, pain medication, anti-inflammatory medicine, cold medication, nasal spray, hot tea, cold tea, lemon, honey, cloves, and water later…I still don’t have a voice.

And I don’t mean that my voice sounds weak. I truly don’t have a voice unless I force out sound by pushing my diaphragm as hard as I can—and I know that this is not good for me.

This started as my normal cold two Friday nights ago—sore throat, runny nose, hopes for one clear nostril to sleep, eventually into a little cough. But it settled on my vocal chords last Monday and decided not to move. I haven’t been to the doctor. Laryngitis can normally last one to two weeks. But I fear that a trip to the doctor is in store if things don’t clear up soon.

If I’m honest, then I must admit losing my voice is one of my biggest fears. Truly losing it. Have a vocal cord rupture or paralyze. Having nodes or nodules. Having to have a scope inserted down my throat so that doctors can see what’s going on. I gag just thinking about it.

One of my music teacher colleagues showed us the procedure where doctors looked at her vocal cords. While it was sort of neat to see the vocal cord vibrate—and only one vibrated because the other was so enlarged—it made me a little sick watching the scope get to where the camera could see. My colleague had to go on vocal rest for an entire month. Not just teaching vocal rest. Everything vocal rest. Home. Church. Grocery store. The North Carolina Symphony. Everywhere. I remember it vividly. She wore a button that something like, “Please excuse me for not speaking. The doctors have me on vocal rest.” Vocal rest, folks, means any type of sound from the mouth—whispering included. Having to be wise about my words this week, I’ve imagined what it must have been like for my colleague…and what I’ve imagined has been awful.

So I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned that the same was going to happen with me. I hope it won’t. I hope that this is just a bought of laryngitis and that it will clear up in due time. I hope that this is a wake-up call that one of my biggest fears could come true if I don’t take better care of my voice. How many teachers actually do take care of their voices, though? I can’t think of many. My colleague does. She must. She knows the consequence.

I was supposed to sing at a revival last night. I played piano and horn instead. I am thankful for a mom who could go with me and save my musical butt. I’m supposed to lead my graduate school class in a song for our group presentation next week. What happens if I still can’t sing? I’m thankful that I found a singer in my group at revival last night; she was leading the praise songs. But still. That’s my job. My duty. I don’t want to let the group down. I don’t want to let my students down either. I have too much that I want to teach. Not long lectures. But questions. Guidelines. Suggestions. Encouragement. I had a kid tell me last week that students in her class were laughing at me when I made the morning announcements because I sound so ridiculous. I don’t want to sound ridiculous. I don’t want kids to laugh at me. But I can’t even use my voice to explain that laughing at people whose voice is different doesn’t show kindness or respect. I feel like I’d be wasting my words. And when you’re afraid that your vocal cords are dying, every word counts.

I am a teacher. I teach music. I am a music minister and worship leader. I lead music. I am a minister. I share words. I am an extravert. I thrive off of conversation. Yet all of that is stunted with no voice. And when I’m teaching my students about the four different ways they can use their voices, I can only actually properly demonstrate one.

Though it may not seem as such, I don’t write this to sound pitiful. I know that having no voice is such a minor thing compared to so many others. I know that woe-is-not-me. But I needed to confess a fear that I’ve been afraid to admit. I needed to cry these tears and pray this prayer that only confession and admission of fear can pray.

God, in this forced quiet, help me to listen more, to be more creative, to learn anew the power of words, and to find the voice that exists beyond inflamed vocal cords. I love you. And I’m really trying to not let fear and frustration spin out of control. Amen.

I Give Up My Right

Yesterday during the children’s sermon, as I was explaining some of the words from the hymn we’d just sung, one of the preschoolers said, “I think you’re trying to make a point.” I realized I must have been boring the kids, chuckled, and said, “I do have a point. The point is that no one can act so bad that God cannot still love and forgive him.” We were talking about Saul’s conversion and how, after being blinded by the light of Christ, he received forgiveness and his life was changed.

During the actual sermon of the day, Patrick the Pastor took his points a bit further. In talking about Saul’s conversion, Patrick wondered what would have happened had Ananias not been willing to visit Saul in his blindness and to carry God’s message of redemption to him. What if Ananias had been too afraid because of Saul’s reputation? What if he had refused to go because of their differences?

As Patrick pondered these questions, he also spoke about forgiveness—about the importance not only of God’s forgiveness to humankind but of humankind’s forgiveness toward one another. If we are to be the church alive in this world, then we must be a people who forgive—a people who can look at one another and say, “I give up my right to be angry with you.”

…I give up my right to be angry with you…

Folks…I need to confess something. While it takes a lot to make me angry at anyone other than myself, it doesn’t always take a lot for me to struggle to be around certain people. I do my best not to show it, but there are people who challenge my capacity to truly be kind and there are people who I would prefer not to keep in my company. I am not proud of this reality and it is a reality with which I struggle, so Patrick’s statement about giving up my right to be angry with someone really struck a chord in me.

It’s not really anger that I feel most of the time. Oh. I feel anger at unfair and unjust systems and toward the figure-heads who promote those systems. But toward individual people in my life, it’s usually something else. Something different. Something that made me zone out of part of the sermon for a few moments and jot down these words:

I give up my right to be angry with you...angry, annoyed, hurt by, bothered. I give up my right to worry what you think of me. You only have the power I give you. You are not better than me. I am not better than you. I give up my right to think of myself more highly than you. I give up my right to judge.

Fabio Napoleoni, my favorite artist other than Barb the Best, has a piece called Jimmy’s Revenge. I’ll include its image with this note. The story with this piece is this:

To fully understand this title you have to understand the story of Jimmy. Jimmy is that odd little boy in school (the outcast) that sits there doesn't talk much and seems to be very shy. In reality Jimmy is very observant, witty and greatly dislikes those who lack compassion, those who feed of greed and most of all those who thrive of sorrow...

And what is Jimmy’s revenge? Love bombs. Jimmy throws love bombs.

I give up my right to be angry with you...angry, annoyed, hurt by, bothered. I give up my right to worry what you think of me. You only have the power I give you. You are not better than me. I am not better than you. I give up my right to think of myself more highly than you. I give up my right to judge. And I embrace my right to throw love bombs.

And that, dear friends, is the point.

The Wrong Side of The Bed

I’m pretty sure I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Or as Sara Groves once said in her song How Is It Between Us: “Woke up on the wrong of the bed, the wrong side of the room, the wrong side of the world…”

I haven’t had a particularly bad day. My classes weren’t terrible. Nothing overly frustrating happened.

Yet I feel a little like I could snap off someone’s head. And I’ve felt like this all day.

I’m pretty sure this desire is not very Reverendly. Yet it’s very human. And Reverends are human, too.

As I drove home today, brooding about all of the things that are bothering me in my snap-off-someone’s-head grumpiness—borrowing but not returning, making plans but not communicating, taking but not giving, pretense but not integrity, surface but not depth, expecting someone else to do your job, leaving things worse than when you found them, beauty skin deep, ignorance, jealousy, disrespect, rejection—I prayed that God would help me turn my wrong-side-of-the-bedness into something that might be meaningful to someone else.

Immediately, I thought of a recent conversation with a friend. “Please keep us in your prayers,” she said—as she pointed to her family. She said no more; I asked no questions. A few days later, when we had a few moments to talk, I said, “I’ve been praying for you. Is there something you want to talk about?” With tears in her eyes, she shook her head and said, “I can’t.” And she couldn’t. There were no words. I made a guess as to what might be burdening her. She affirmed that my guess was correct. I told her that I would keep praying. And I will. And I did in the car in the midst of my brooding…suddenly feeling really small for being so ridiculously and selfishly petty in my thinking when there is so much deep hurt and suffering in this world.

Have I experienced deep hurt and suffering? Yes. Is it ridiculous and selfish to acknowledge and feel that hurt? No. Please hear that. I think sometimes we diminish real suffering out of a misguided sense of humility and selflessness and an unhealthy comparison of there always being someone struggling with more. But deep hurt is not what I’m feeling today. I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed…and I never found a way to get myself to the other side.

Although…I think I may be finding a way to get myself to the other side right now. I think that in praying specifically for my friend, I’m finding a way to lay down my brooding and awaken a calmer sense of purpose in myself—a quiet, steady service of love.

Oh. I pray all day, everyday. Sometimes I feel as if I have credits rolling through my mind—a long list of people who are important to me, who I want to offer to God in prayer—students, coworkers, family members, people from my past, people from my present—but sometimes those credits roll so quickly that they can roll at the same time as other thoughts—and brooding.

But this intentional praying. These specific prayers. They don’t leave room for anything other than themselves...and the reminder that, “Greater love has no one than this that (she) lay down her life for her friends.”

And then…evidently…she will have the opportunity to get up on the right side of the bed.

How Are You?

Many years ago, a coworker asked how I was doing. I lied and said, “Fine.” She said, “That’s great to hear.” I thought, “What if I told her how I was really doing? What would she do then?”

Shortly after that encounter, I wrote these words:

What if I told you I’m a sinner and just yesterday ~ I drank till I blacked out on my black couch just to take the hurt away ~ And when I woke up to my family, the kids were crying, my husband not home ~ What is this thing I call life? I hate my life. I need help, but I’ve nowhere to turn. What if I told you?

What if I told you that I’m angry. I’m a liar, a gossip, a cheat. I steal from my company, look at pornography. I’m a glutton. I’m full of greed. I’m a criminal, an adulterer. I’m divorced. I’ve aborted a child. I don’t walk the straight path. I feel all alone. I’m depressed, I question and doubt. What if I told you?

In the years since that conversation and those words, I’ve learned a lot about humanity. Sadly, one of the biggest lessons that I’ve learned is that many of us just don’t care. For many, “How are you?” isn’t a question asked to warrant an answer. “How are you?” is simply another way to say hello. I always think it’s funny when someone says, “How are you?” and I answer, “Ill,” or “Aggravated,” or “In a really bad mood,” and the person responds, “That’s good,” and keeps going on his/her way, not hearing the answer at all.

I’ve found, too, that while some of us want to care, many times we don’t know how—or something inside of us is so broken that we can’t. If the conversation moves too far beyond the surface, we often change the subject or shut down. It’s easier not to talk about feelings and emotions than it is to dive into the difficult messiness of life. Or when we do open up, because we’ve decided that we can trust someone, we are often met with responses like, “Do you have a counselor?” or “Have you prayed about this?” or “Don’t worry about it. God is in control. Things will be just fine,” or *silence,* or “I have no respect for you,” or “You are too intense. I need space,” or, “I just have no desire to be friends with you,” or *I don’t know what to do with what you just told me, so I’m going to tell someone else…who tells someone else…who tells someone else.*

And then we’re left hurt. And betrayed. And living with the sore reality that maybe it’s better to lie than to tell the truth of, “How are you?”

The thing is?
I actually really care to know the answer when I ask, “How are you?”
And I stupidly want people to care to know my answer to the same.
And I’m not very good at lying.
And being genuinely shallow or shallowly genuine is not something that comes easily to me.
And so I struggle to be genuine,
To respect boundaries and time,
And I continue to sing “What if I told you?”
And try to let go all of the times that the answer has gone wrong.

Oh God: Living in this world of broken humanity is hard. You tell us to love unconditionally, yet so often we fall short and/or end up hurt. Help us to know how to love—truly, deeply, genuinely—even when the practicalities are not clear. Help us to know when to speak and when to stay silent. Help us to know how when to hold on and when to let go. Help us to be good friends and lovers. And help us to genuinely care how others are doing—even when it means that we must sacrifice a few moments of our day. We can’t do this alone, God. We need your help. Daily knowing that you truly care—always care—how we, your children, are doing…Amen.

Confession: But By The Grace of God

A coworker asked me the other day how I remained so positive.
But by the grace of God, my friend. But by the grace of God.
Because here’s the truth.
I’m really not a very positive person. At all.

In fact, when left on its own,
The script in my head is one of the most damning places one could ever be.
“You’re such a stupid piece of crap. You should just stay in bed instead of getting up and subjecting the world to your junk. You’re overbearing and ridiculously annoying. You think too much and talk too much and no one wants to be around you. You’re a pitifully sad excuse of a
minister and teacher.”

Those are the thoughts that stay with me, folks.
But by the grace of God, my friend. But by the grace of God.

When I’m rested and my appreciation tank is full,
I can quieten the lies.
But when I’m tired and overly stressed,
They are all that I can hear.
And when they’re all I can hear,
I get really messed up.
I feel lonely. So I talk more. Then I feel like I say too much and annoy people. So then I get mad at myself and want to disappear. But then I get lonely again. And when I say lonely, I mean deep down irrationally alone. So I talk about it and try not to turn it inward. But then I get mad at myself for burdening the world with my mess. And then I shut down and want to disappear because I dislike myself so much And cannot believe that anyone else would actually want me around.
Crazymaking, huh?

But by the grace of God, my friend. But by the grace of God.

I’ve had to learn how to soften the lies and I have to face them every day.
Counseling has helped me build new neuro-pathways and
given me language for a new script.
I’ve learned to breathe and to give the Spirit space to settle.
I’ve learned the value of silence and contemplative prayer.
I’ve learned that I’m not alone in my damning thoughts and
that I do not have to carry them alone.
I’ve learned that people are praying for me, too…

But by the grace of God, my friend. But by the grace of God.

We’re in this together.
And I believe in you.
Which is one positively true statement,
Even when I don’t believe in myself.

But by the grace of God, my friend. But by the grace of God.

*Selah*

When Patience And Grace Fly Out The Window

I try to be a patient and grace-filled person. Really. I do. And for the most part, having become a believer of compassion as shared humanity, I do a pretty good job with it. I try to “be kind, for each of us is fighting a great battle.” I try to breathe in when I feel frustrated and breathe out the calm that I desire. I try to remain mindful of the fact that I am not the only person in the world feeling what I am feeling (nor will I ever be), and I try to breathe out peace for other persons feeling frustration, stress, fear, hurt, confusion, betrayal, loss, or whatever the emotion may be. I even try to do this with happy emotions—breathing out prayers for continued joy.

Yet there are moments—boy are there moments—when patience and grace fly out the window and bitter words fly out of my mouth faster than unsecured trash flies out of the back of a truck...or else they build up behind clinched jaw with such intensity that my head begins to hurt…

One of my favorite lessons to teach is a lesson based on a musical version of The Little Red Hen. In case you don’t know the story, here’s a summary: The little red hen wants to make some bread (starting with growing the wheat) but everyone she asks for help refuses. In the end, when the bread comes out of the oven and smells delicious, all of the hen’s friends come running for a taste. “You didn’t help me make the bread,” she says, “so you’re not going to help me eat it.” So she eats it herself.

When I first started teaching this lesson, I wanted the ending to change. I wanted the little red hen to forgive trumpet, flute, clarinet, violin, and trombone and give them bread regardless of their sloth. But she never does. Nor does she forgive cat, dog, hen, duck, rat, pig, or any other character in other versions of the story.

Yet these days, I’m okay with the ending. I’m okay with the fact that the characters get what they deserve in proportion to their efforts. I've learned all too well that we must sometimes suffer the consequences of our actions.

But I've also learning something else: I'm okay with the ending because it really bothers me when people do things that do not hold other persons in regards. And the little red hen's friends did not hold her need in regards.

It bothers me when people:

Refuse to help someone who obviously needs help.
Use something that belongs to someone else—without permission—and then does not put it back from where it came.
Laugh at someone with disabilities.
Make a mess and leave it for someone else to cleanup.
Take for granted simple gifts and acts of service.
Say that they will do something but not do it.

Like I said. I try to be patient and grace-filled. But sometimes things get to me. And surprisingly enough--thanks to the little red hen--I now know what those things are: people not holding others in regards.

For the times when I do not hold others in regards, oh God, forgive me.
And for the times when I lose my temper and act out of anything other than Love, forgive me as well.
Forgive us, oh God, we pray.
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.

Time Out

I’ve had to put myself in time-out two times this week.

A variety of factors have combined to produce a very bad mood.

Rather than submitting my coworkers to my terrible disposition, I’ve locked myself in my room and tried to work my way through my frustrations.

It hasn’t worked.

I’m still quite aggravated by the many factors I cannot control and the many more that I can but don’t seem to have the time or organizational system in place to influence.

This morning as I was preparing to do the morning announcements, I realized that we have a teacher workday on Monday. When I learned this fact, I literally cheered. I need a workday. My colleagues need a workday. The kids need a break. We all need a breather…

And so, friends, I confess my current negativity tonight.

I admit my utter humanity and inability to always remain a calm, non-anxious presence in the midst of high stress and seeming chaos.

And I acknowledge that I, chaplain-at-heart though I be, too, need a chaplain to listen, support, and respect me for the person I am and work I attempt to do…

Even when that work leads me to put myself in time-out.

Willard Pride

I got Old Man Willard when I started full-time graduate school in 2007.

That summer, I was working at a camp and one of my primary jobs was to supply shop at Walmart.

As I was exiting the store one day, with two full carts of stuff, I rounded the corner and almost ran over Willard the Walmart Greeter.

That day, I named my computer Willard. Willard is a Dell Inspiron.

Last week, I was entrusted with a school laptop. Currently, I have a MacBook Air, but I will likely need to exchange it for a MacBook Pro. Either way, I’m thrilled to have a school laptop. I’ve never had one before.

And their names? Respectively--Little Willamina and Willamina.

Here’s to hoping for a good year with Willard and the Willaminas…mixed computer types they be.

--------------

On a more serious note:

Sometimes my pride gets the best of me. So when it does, I must remember:

I am not savior of this world.

I cannot single-handedly and instantly change the culture of any system or organization. I can influence the system and initiate new movement but I cannot instantly cause change…good or bad.

I do not always know the best way to complete a task.

I will not always be the best.

I do not and will not know everything.

Not everyone likes, respects, and/or connects with me, nor can I make them.

And all of this? All of it is okay.

Not For Failing

I have another confession.

I know the music classroom is where I’m supposed to be for now. The peace that I feel combined with the windows and doors that have flung wide open have made that perfectly clear.

However.

I must admit that saying, “I’m going back to the classroom,” has been a struggle.

It’s not been a struggle because I’m ashamed of the call.

It’s been a struggle because of my pride.

Even though I know that finishing divinity school, moving to SC and working for WMU, teaching piano to Griffin and Amelia, caretaking for Mrs. Flora, completing a unit of CPE, nannying Journey the Dog, and spending extra time with my family has grown and positively changed me beyond what I ever could have imagined, part of me still feels as if I have failed.

Part of me feels as if people are thinking, “Oh. She didn’t make it in the ministry, so she’s going back to teaching.”

As if I’m living into the idea that, “Those who can’t, teach.”

But that’s not it. That’s not it at all.

I happen to think that teachers are some of the most important persons in the world. I hold teachers in highest regard and find them to be the most patient, creative, caring, giving, loving, self-sacrificial, multi-tasking, intelligent, and capable persons I know. I believe that teachers teach because they can make a difference—not because they can’t do anything else.

I want to scream these facts to the world. I want people to know. I want people to understand that re-entering the music classroom is something that I am choosing because it is where I have been led…however bumpy the leading may have been.

My pride wants people to know that I’m not going back into the classroom because I failed—because I didn’t make it in the ministry—because I was stupid to leave the school system in the first place and lose five years of benefits and retirement.

My pride wants people to know that teaching is my ministry for this time in life—that it’s not just a job that I’m doing because I can’t do anything else. (For the record, I turned down two jobs before taking my current position).

My pride is struggling with projected criticism and turned up noses at work the legislature has recently deemed a factory to be run like a business instead of a person-forming place of learning and welcome that I know to be vitally important work. And I guess, truth be known, my pride is struggling to reconcile these thoughts with myself.

So there you have it folks: My circular, somewhat ridiculous, but all-together true confession on this first official teacher workday and the day that I signed my contract.

I imagine I’m not the only person with a confession tonight. A fear, anxiety, worry, concern, regret, broken heart, ill feeling, unpopular belief, skeletal closet, or something else. And while you may not want to make that confession here (or maybe you do), I hope that you will speak it aloud to yourself and the God in whom you believe. There is something healing about speaking the truth.

Speak away, my friends. And know that this fumbling music teacher will be singing a prayer of peace, strength, and courage for you…and herself…tonight.