Modify and Adapt

 

Today is my 47th birthday.

And on this 47th birthday,

I want to share a little piece of wisdom that I received from Barb My First Art Teacher at the end of my 47th year:

 

We must modify and adapt.

 

When Barb and I first began our teaching careers,

We went to the local Walmart and each bought little tool kits.

The whole set of tools was only $4.98, and they were magnetic!

I can’t tell you how many times B and I have used our tools over the years.

Through all our schools,

All our classrooms,

And all our years,

Our tools have been with us,

Offering their help and assistance.

 

While my tools have remained in tact,

My toolbox itself has broken.

It’s a little blue box with a broken handle and latch,

But I kept it because it reminds me of B.

 

Well, I was at Lidl a couple weeks ago,

I saw a new black toolbox that I knew would hold my tools perfectly.

Not wanting to betray Barb,

I wrote and asked if she still had her little blue toolbox.

She responded that she still had the tools but that but she wasn’t sure where the box was.

I shared my sentimental dilemma.

She responded,

“You have to modify and adapt.”

 

And that was that.

 

I bought the black toolbox.

 

It’s no secret that I attach feelings to objects.

It’s no secret that I have trouble getting rid of things because of this attachment.

But maybe this year, little by little,

I will be able to modify and adapt,

To let go and move on.

 

God: Thank you for life, and thank you for another year of lessons learned and lessons yet to learn. Help me, God, as I continue to learn to modify and adapt, to let go and move on. Help me to use my time and resources in ways that honor life, for you are the Life-Giver who makes all things possible. Amen.

 

A Lesson in Parenting

 

I went to Boone last week with my college best friend and her kids. 

We had planned to go to Linville Caverns on Wednesday, but when we looked more carefully, we realized that the caverns were closed on Wednesdays. 

So we looked at Tweetsie Railroad. 

It was closed on Wednesdays, too. 

So we looked at a hiking trail. 

The trail head was closed. 

So we decided to go gem mining. 

We went to the gem mining place because the website said it opened at 10. 

It was closed. 

At that point, we realized that websites were not always correct and that the mountains must be closed on Wednesdays :-).

But it didn’t matter.

We were just happy to be away. 

 

We ended up taking the girls to the Alpine roller coaster and adjoining ropes course.

We called before we went :-). 

Our timing was perfect.

We were the only people at the ropes course for quite a while, 

And this was very good for the girls to learn how to work the hardware.

 

As Angela and I stood on the ground and looked up at the girls dangling from ropes,

We each experienced our own anxieties.

Even though I knew that the girls could not come untethered, 

I still had this fear that they would somehow be the anomaly who broke the system and fell. 

I’m not sure exactly what Angela was thinking,

But at one point, she said,

“This is a good exercise in parenting.

Watching your children do something new and scary but having absolutely no control.”

I may not be a parent, but I agree with that statement!

 

When we care for someone, it is easy to want to take care of everything for them. 

We don’t want our loved ones to suffer, so we do everything we can to remove difficult obstacles. 

We don’t want our loved ones to make dumb decisions, so do everything we can to steer them clear of stupidity. 

We offer advice. 

We yell. 

We scream. 

We try to do the work for them. 

Yet, in the end, it is up to our loved one to do the work themselves.

 

Angela and I spent a lot of time just watching the girls.

We offered words of encouragement along the way, 

And we gave cheers of celebration when they rang the goal bell. 

We marveled at how beautiful the view must’ve been for them at the top of the structure, 

Unobstructed and far-reaching.

And finally we understood when they came down from the tower, excited, full of adrenaline, tired and sore.

We were happy for the girls,

For what they had accomplished,

And how they had done it completely on their own.

 

Oh God: Help us with our boundaries. Help us to know when to hold on and when to let go. Help us to know what is within our control and what is beyond. Help us to know where we end and another person begins. And help us to know how to encourage others even while sitting with our own fears and anxieties. Thank you for friends and family members who cheer us on along the way. Help us to be good cheerleaders and sitters and listeners, and when we must intervene, grant us the strength and the courage to know how. Amen. 

Pets

 

 

One of my friends had to have her dog put down last week.

The dog lived a good life.

She was well-loved and taken care of.

She brought joy to my friend and all who knew her.

But it was time for her to go.

She could barely stand up.

She was sleeping all the time.

Her bowels had left her.

Putting her down was the right thing to do.

Yet it was so hard.

And my friend cried.

And I cried, too.

And then I went through all my pictures and celebrated the dog’s life.

And I memorialized her in a tin art,

Because that’s all I knew to do.

 

I read an article about an Hispanic author who wrote a book for Day of the Dead.

I briefly talk about Day of the Dead in October when discussing Hispanic Heritage Month,

So I decided to buy the book.

Come to find out, the book is written to remember a pet.

And my goodness it is sad!!

Both Shauna the Art Teacher and I cried as we looked through the beautiful pages,

And we didn’t even read the text!

Later, when showing the book to another friend,

I cried again.

It’s just so sad.

 

Pets provide us with snuggles.

They provide us with talk therapy.

They provide us with companionship.

And they reduce our stress by making us slow down to pet them.

 

Pets become part of our lives.

They reserve and move into a special place in our hearts

That will never be forgotten,

Even after they leave.

 

Bullet the Dog is 19 now.

He will likely leave soon.

His devotion to my dad and the happiness that he’s brought for so many years

Is something that can’t be replaced.

 

Annie the Cat is three-ish now.

Hopefully she’ll live a long life

And learn how to control her razor claws

As she continues to become domesticated

And demand turkey and pets.

 

Tell me about your pet.

Tell me something that brings you joy.

Tell me something you remember about a pet who has gone before you.

I think sometimes it’s hard to remember because it hurts.

But life is kept alive through memory…

And our pets deserve that,

For they are a gift from above.

 

Amen.

 

Letting Things Go

6.27.19—Letting Things Go

Some people are good at letting things go. They look an object, assess its importance in their life, decide whether it has served its purpose, hold on to it if it hasn’t, but release it if it has. Other people aren’t so good at letting things go. They look at an object, think about where it came from, connect it to a person or memory, get lost in the story, and then cannot bring themselves to let it go—unless it is quite clearly trash. I am most definitely the latter.

If you come to my house, then you will find yourself surrounded by art, trinkets, practical items, and collectibles that all have meaning to me. Or, if they don’t have a particular meaning, then “they just make me smile” as G-mama once said. While I’ve drastically slowed down my Hallmark and Thrift Store purchases this year, I still have a huge collection of “things” that connect to memories that allow me to think of, celebrate, and pray for people from throughout my life. This is important to me.

So letting go of things is very difficult for me. It is an emotional process that takes time and energy that I don’t often have. But this week I’ve had it. And I’ve been trying something that a dear friend did years ago: She let go of seven items per day. The items didn’t have to be big. Some could be donated; some could be thrown away. But she got rid of seven items per day. And, in time, those seven items added up to many of items that added up to less clutter, more space, and more freedom.

I doubt that I’ll ever be good at letting things go. I don’t let people go very easily either. I know that there is a time and place for everything under the sun—including stuff and relationships. But I still struggle to let go. I care too much. Everything in life is connected in my mind. It’s how I take in information—through intuition and connections—and it’s how I process information as well—through feelings and relationships.

And yet…I don’t want to be weighed down by stuff—by only memories—by things of the past. I want to be free to live now—to move forward—and to make more memories. And so I’m trying. The process is slow. But I’m trying. At least seven items per day…

I used to struggle with fancy coloring books. I’d get overwhelmed by the task of choosing colors for the images. A friend suggested that I limit the colors to 3-5 per page—no matter what the image. In so doing, the task of coloring suddenly became doable…

What is something through which you are slowly making your way? What is something that you struggle to do, and yet you’re doing it anyway? What is something you are breaking into smaller parts so that you can accomplish the whole?

Just seven items per day. Just 3-5 colors. You can do it. I believe that you can.

Who Cares?

If you were at Antioch yesterday morning, then you heard a somewhat diverse set of music. We started with a modern praise song, led by the praise team, and then we went directly into a congregational rendition of “Victory in Jesus.” Next we moved to another congregational favorite of “Just A Closer Walk With Thee,” followed by a very unique, somewhat high church, full of intricate, sometimes dissonant harmonies, choral arrangement of “Abide With Me.” We ended with one verse of “Blest Be The Tie.”

While I was very pleased with the choir’s rendition of “Abide With Me”—it was tough and we had worked really hard to prepare it for worship—and while I always enjoy singing “Victory In Jesus”—after all, it was one of the title songs of my former band—and while the girls of the praise team did a good job introducing a new song—what really hit me yesterday was “Just A Closer Walk With Thee.”

As I was standing in the pulpit singing, I suddenly caught myself smiling and thinking, “Yes!! This!! I hope everyone in the congregation and the world is listening!! This is so important!! Did you hear it, people?! You just sang something HUGE!!”

And what was it that evoked double exclamation marks after every thought?

“Through this world of toil and snares,
If I falter, Lord, who cares?
Who with me my burden shares?
None but Thee, dear Lord, none but Thee.”

Did you catch that?! Really catch that?!

The world is full of toil and snares, speed-bumps and potholes, obstacles and heartaches, failures and heartbreaks, injustice and bigotry, judgment and condemnation, mean people and meaner people, and all kinds of other mayhem that will trip us up. With every feeling of safety. With every risk we take. With any attempt at anything at all, we run the risk of success or failure. And guess what? We’re going to mess up as many times as we get it right! We’re going to goof as many times as we reach near-perfection. We’re going to falter as many times as we experience clear-sailing! But…who cares?!

Really? Who cares?!

What does it matter?!

We’re still alive.
We’re still human.
We’re still able to move forward on life’s journey.

So who cares if we falter??
Really? Who cares?!

Because, in the end, the God who created us and loves us is the same God who never leaves or forsakes us—faltering or not. The same God who created the universe and offers redemption to the world is the same God who shares our heartaches and burdens—willingly surrendered or not.

I don’t know about you, friend, but this all makes me smile and sets a little part of me free.

Chainbreaker Ethan

My dad made me laugh during church yesterday.

While sharing a story from his teenage years, he said, “When you’re dumb, you don’t know you’re dumb.”

And how had he been dumb? When given the opportunity to preach at the age of 14, the text he chose was from Revelation. He wanted to tell the church that they needed to be on fire for Christ instead of lukewarm in their faith—lest God spit them out! Little Dan was frustrated that after coming back from summer camp on a spiritual high, he had watched his fire go out at the hands of those in the church. He admitted, lover of the church he may be, that “the church has a way of squelching people’s fires.” And I thought, “Yep, dad. You’re right. As much as we try, the church so often goes wrong.”

Yet sometimes we get things right:

This past Saturday, Rebecca the Children’s Minister worked with the children to make 100 crisis bags to take to local hospitals and fire stations. The kids wanted to provide something comforting to other kids who were experiencing traumatic events.

Yesterday afternoon, our women’s ministry group served lunch to numerous couples who have been married for more than 50 years.

And yesterday morning, our entire worship service was planned around a theme selected by my bass player, Ethan. Ethan joined the praise team about a year ago, decided that he wanted to play an instrument, and learned to play the bass. He even got a bass for Christmas. Ethan also joined the adult choir. As one point last year, as a 6th grader whose voice was changing, he was singing in both the children’s and adult choirs! Ethan quickly became my errand boy. If I needed to turn on the sound system—I asked the boy to do it. If I needed an actor—I asked the boy to do it. If I needed a music stand—I asked the boy to get it. Ethan was at every praise team practice, singing his heart out, boy band faces and all.

Yesterday was Ethan’s last Sunday with us. His dad received his Permanent Change of Station orders, so the family is moving to New York. As his swan song, Ethan requested that the team learn the song, “Chainbreaker.” After weeks of properly Antioch-izing the song (AKA, making it doable for our little praise team with no drummer), we sang the song yesterday. We also centered the entire service around the theme of God being the one who could break our chains. We laid the altar with chains, we sang songs of freedom, we read scriptures of freedom, and my dad preached about freedom. If it were up to Ethan, then everyone would have left church yesterday with a souvenir chain. But chains are expensive (I did look)! So only the praise team left with commemorative chains.

Friends, I don’t know what Ethan will be when he grows up. I don’t know if he has been called into the ministry like my dad or if he will follow in his dad’s footsteps and be a military man or if he will do something completely different. But what I know is this: I hope that no church, no school, or no human being will ever squelch my boy’s fire for God and enthusiasm for life.

If you've been walking the same old road for miles and miles
If you've been hearing the same old voice tell the same old lies
If you're trying to feel the same old holes inside
There's a better life
There's a better life

If you've got pain
He's a pain taker
If you feel lost
He's a way maker
If you need freedom or saving
He's a prison-shaking Savior
If you've got chains
He's a chain breaker

We've all searched for the light of day in the dead of night
We've all found ourselves worn out from the same old fight
We've all run to things we know just ain't right
And there's a better life
There's a better life

If you believe it
If you receive it
If you can feel it
Somebody testify

If you need freedom or saving
He's a prison-shaking Savior
If you've got chains
He's a chain breaker

Estonia and Poland--Haikus from The Trip

***I may have lost mostly of my photos from my Scandinavian Adventure—the verdict is still out—but thankfully my notes and poems were backed up in that mysterious cloud of invisible information—and some of those notes included a few pictures! As seen in my middle of the night revelation that has resulted in my enrolling in graduate school (see last Thursday’s note), even though I was very far away from real life, my brain continued to think and my heart continued to feel deeply about things having nothing to do with the trip. Some of those “feels” (as a good friend would say) are seen here.***

Friday, 7.22.16, Tallin, Estonia

Today's my birthday
I am in a foreign place
This is rather neat

Professor Umbridge
She clears her throat like Umbridge
God grant me patience

If he wants to try
Let him try. Challenged is not
Incapable. At all.

Large Crowds of people
Pouring through the doors. Tourists.
If only worship.

7.23.16, Sea Day Poems

The day is lazy
A much needed day of rest
Vacation is hard

I want to be more
Than a negative mem'ry
There was so much more

I often wonder
Are the trails I leave behind
Lasting or fading

7.24.16, Gdansk, Poland

Morning bells ringing
Chiming the hour with bright song
Tickling the senses

Sometimes holding on
Suffocates pathways of breath.
Inhale. Let go. Breathe.

I’ve made huge mistakes
Turned left on a one way street
Yet some things were right

Come Back

April is National Poetry Month. In honor of this fact, I read some poetry this afternoon. I found a poetry book while weeding out some books over Spring Break.

Three poems jumped out at me, two of which I’ll share tonight.

One:
Comment, by Dorothy Parker
Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania.

Since reading that fun little verse, I’ve learned that Marie of Romania was a real person. And while she seems like a perfectly honorable person in Romanian history—one who even visited the United States—I mostly like this poem because it’s super fun to read dramatically aloud. Try it!

Two:
Come Back Safely, by Sylva Gaboudikan
even to say good-bye
even if it’s the last time
even reluctantly

even to hurt me again
even with the harsh acid
of sarcasm that stings

even with a new kind of pain
even fresh from the embrace
of another. Come back, just come.

I teared up the first time that I read these words. I just did the same as I typed them out.

During his sermon yesterday, Mister Pastor Patrick unknowingly helped me name something that I’ve been trying to name for years. While discussing the relationship between Jesus and Mary Magdalene, Patrick explained that Jesus was the first person to truly see Mary Magdalene. Jesus saw through Mary’s brokenness and believed in her as the woman that she actually was: a beautiful child of God. No matter what she did—or had done. No matter how lonely she was—or she would become. Jesus saw her and believed in her. He loved her and transformed her. Then he was gone. He was dead. And she was devastated—left with a hole in her heart where love and friendship used to be.

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

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

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

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

Loving Can Hurt

I collect orange fish. My mom collects piano figurines. Finley The Brother-in-Law collects Rubik’s Cubes. Whenever I see a Rubik’s Cube that looks like it belongs in Finley’s collection, I buy it for him. This Christmas added two new cubes to the collection—a pastel cube like I had growing up and a tiny cube deemed the world’s smallest Rubik’s cube. I thoroughly mixed up each cube, then Finley promptly solved the puzzles. I have no idea how he did them, but he did. He said that there is a series of tricks and moves that makes solving the cubes possible. I believe him. I just don’t have the spatial and/or logical intelligence to see them.

I remember attending a workshop on different intelligences during my early years of teaching. That workshop was the first time I’d ever taken an intelligence inventory that listed musical intelligence as a real thing. I silently chuckled as I checked every indicator for musical intelligence and realized, for the first time, that the things that I think are perfectly normal—like harmonizing with the hum of an air conditioner or composing a full rhythmic composition to the sounds of the Wal-mart check out line—are only normal to those of us with a musically geared brain. The rest of the teachers at my table thought me a bit odd.

Other than musical intelligence, my intelligence indicator leaned toward both intra- and inter-personal intelligences. As an intuitive feeler, this makes a lot of sense. I genuinely care about and want to know people. I genuinely want for people what makes them the best versions of themselves. I read about these things. I study them. I stay in counseling. Yet my intelligence and my desires are where I fear that I struggle as much as I excel. Sometimes in my desire to be genuine with people and have them be genuine with me, I often go wrong—cross invisible boundary lines or fail to meet unspoken expectations—and I sometimes invoke equally as deep hatred and love in those around me.

I just got back from having my legs waxed. Some of you will remember that I embarked on my first leg-waxing journey over spring break this year. Since this December has been unseasonably hot, I decided that I’d end the year by returning to the place where my journey started. I wanted to start the new year with clean-shaven legs. Out with the old. In with the new.

As I lay on the waxing table and felt the warm wax applied to my legs, I knew what was coming next. I knew that in a few seconds I would hear and feel a rip and that it would hurt. Yet I still jumped every time the hairy wax came off my legs and I still inwardly winced, “Ouch! That hurts!”

I knew what was coming. I set myself up for it. Yet it still hurt.

I know that loving people is hard. I know that most relationships—however close or distant—will one day end—or at least fade into the background. I know that each time I open up to someone, share a bit of my story, or take a bit of someone’s story into my heart, that we each run the risk of getting hurt. I know that one day I could find myself unfriended and blocked from Facebook. I know that trust can be betrayed and my stupidities used against me. I know that out of nowhere I can receive a message telling me that I am no longer respected, that I ruined someone’s life, or that while I am a great person, I think too much and ask too many questions.
I know what could happen. I stay prepared for it. And yet it still hurts. Every time.

As 2015 comes to a close, I have over 1,100 friends on Facebook. I am surrounded by real-life friends, family members, coworkers, and church members who love me and whom I love in return. I am blessed. I am grateful beyond measure. I truly am. Please hear that. And yet the seven people who have completely blocked me from Facebook over the years are the ones that keep haunting me today.

Joe The Counselor says that this is human nature—to focus on the one 8 on the scorecard of 10’s—and I know that Joe is right. I know that relationships are two-sided. I know that I am not solely responsible for everything that happens between two or more people. I know this. I know it. I know it. And yet having a connection forcefully ripped from my life still hurts and makes me wonder if something is terribly wrong with me. Joe says that this is human nature, too—to wonder if we’re good enough even though we know, in our core, that we, in our fumbling nature, are.

Finley has the spatial and logical intelligence to solve a Rubik’s cube. The steps are clear. The tricks are straightforward. The puzzle can be solved. It is complicated, but it can be done. I don’t have that intelligence. And my inter- and intra-personal intelligences don’t come with tricks and steps that make solving problems easy.

Yet this much is clear:

I know the risks of love. Of wanting the best for people. Of building relationships that very well may fall apart. I know I will do stupid things. I know that things and people may be yanked from my life with little to no preparation while I know that other things and people will stay and fight not to be removed like the stubborn hair that grows on my toes. And so. As 2015 ends and 2016 begins, I will keep on loving. Because it is all I know to do. And it is what I want to do.

As Ed Sheeran says in song Photograph: “Loving can hurt, loving can hurt sometimes. But it’s the only thing I know. When it gets hard, you know it can get hard sometimes. It is the only thing that makes me feel alive.”

Keep loving with me, friends.
For God is love.
And Love really is the only thing that we know.
And it really is the only thing that keeps us alive.
Love is…

No More Fear

Fear is a powerful thing.
Sometimes it motivates.
Most of the time it paralyzes.
Sometimes we choose to face our fears.
Most of the time our fears unwantedly chase us.
Fear is real.
Fear is deep.
Fear is not logical.
Fear makes way too much sense.
Fear is a powerful thing.

God help us overcome the chains that bind—
The known, the unknown, the understood, the misunderstood,
The knowledgeable, the ignorant, the tangible, what we cannot see.
Help us live in the truth that
“There is no fear in love,
For perfect love drives out fear,”
Suddenly, gradually,
When we’re ready, when we’re not.

Fear is a powerful thing.
But not as powerful as Love.

Beautiful Wishes

Have I mentioned recently that I’m an ENFJ? I will talk to you, hang out with you, dream with you, do everything I can to help you, believe in you, show up for you, think of and pray for you every time I see something that reminds me of you, and care for you for as long as you will let me. And then, when you decide that the intensity of our friendship has run its course, I will keep on loving you…and hope to God that the relationship comes to a peaceful point of closure.

Closure is so very important to me. Many times, time and circumstance provide natural closure. An understood goodbye. A farewell of mutual respect and well-wishes. People come. People go. Relationships fade. Mutual distance forms. It’s taken 37 years, but I’ve finally learned that. Yet I still haven’t learned how to hang in the balance of non-closure…how to move beyond statements like, “You have a HUGE heart and mean well, but I have no desire to have a friendship with you,” and then silence. Or just one-sided silence without the words. That’s not closure. That’s a cut off. And cut-offs are really hard for me...and they make me feel incredibly unimportant and unwanted.

I suppose that this need for mutual closure is part of the reason why it was important to me to say good-bye to my friends and coworkers who are leaving JES this year, and why it bothers me that I didn’t get to speak to them all. Truth be known, it bothers me that I didn’t get to tell my friends and coworkers who will be returning to have a good summer before leaving today. Closure. Temporary or permanent. For a friendship or a school year. It’s stupidly and ridiculously important to me.

And so…here is my simple attempt to take a step toward closure where closure is due tonight. Wherever it is due. Past friendships. Past jobs. Current friendships. Current jobs. I make for you Beautiful Wishes. Now and always. Love and Amen.

Be well, my friend, wher-
Ever you go. May God
Add God’s richest,
Unfathomable blessings to you. As they say,
“Today is the first day of the rest of your life,” so
Invite peace to rest in your soul and bask in the
Fullness of God’s steady purpose and grace. And remember:
Unicorns and fairies and minions really can exist inside your mind. So
Let them. And laugh. And don’t let anyone take a-
Way your joy or your spirit. They are yours. And they are beautiful. And
I love them. I love you. And I want the best for you.
So, be well, my friend, wherever you go. And know that my
Heart goes with you, cheering you on,
Encouraging your courage to fully live,
Saying now and always, forevermore: “I believe in you. No take backs.”

The Heart Of The Matter

Last week when Patrick told me that his sermon for Sunday was about forgiveness, I immediately broke into a chorus of, “I’ve been trying to get down to the heart of the matter, but will gets weak, and my thoughts seem to scatter but I think it’s about forgiveness—forgiveness—even if—even if—you don’t love me anymore.” Patrick looked at me like I was crazy. He didn’t know the song. I looked at him like he was crazy. How could he not know the song? It’s obviously one whose words are firmly planted in my brain. Then I remembered that he’s from Texas and quite a few years younger than me, so I was able to forgive him for his song ignorance .

Forgiveness. Such a loaded word. Such a difficult topic. Yet Don Henley gets it right when he sings that forgiveness is at the heart of the matter—and not just the matter of moving beyond a broken love affair—but the matter of life.

Patrick’s sermon yesterday didn’t focus on the how’s or when’s of forgiveness; it very simply focused on the why. Why must we forgive those who have hurt us? Because God has forgiven and will continue to forgive us—always—without fail—no matter how egregious, petty, self-centered, major, minor, justified, ridiculous, ignorant, mean-spirited, pitiful, repetitive, or spontaneous the infraction.

For those of us who believe in God’s heart of redemption, grace and mercy are always present—working to set us free.

Should we, too, then, not offer this same grace and mercy to those around us?

A few years ago, I hijacked a CD from a good friend. It is a compilation CD put together to reflect the feelings and emotions of persons working to loosen the chains of rape, abuse, addiction, depression, self-harm, and more. One of my favorite songs on the CD talks about the power of words to hurt us and includes the lyric, “Goodbye is the best way that I know to forgive and still be letting go.” I’ve been thinking about that lyric recently—about what it means—considering whether or not I agree with it—wondering if goodbye really can be an act of forgiveness—wondering if goodbye really is letting go.

I’m terrible with goodbye. I’m terrible at letting go. I’m supposed to forgive people who hurt me, right? I’m supposed to extend grace and mercy to those around me—give them the benefit of the doubt—see beyond their actions and into their hearts—remember that they, too, are human—believe in their goodness and God’s ability to work through all things—right?

Sometimes, goodbye is the best way to forgive.
Sometimes, walking away is the best way to let go.
Not with bitter determination to hold on to every ounce of anger.
Not with a resentful mindset of remembering every major offense.
But with quiet surrender and the gentle understanding that some things and some relationships and some situations are just so unhealthy, stubborn, impossible, and/or broken that they cannot be salvaged or fixed and must therefore be released—
And not just physically,
But in the heart, soul, and mind.
Day by day,
Moment by moment,
Breath by breath.

But that’s just sometimes. Because sometimes things are worth fighting for. And sometimes it’s our own arrogance that must be held in check. And sometimes it’s we who must forgive ourselves. And sometimes it’s hard to know what is what…because sometimes forgiveness is so very tricky.

Oh God,
Help us know how to forgive—
When to hold on,
When to let go,
When to stay present,
When to walk away—
But help us always to forgive—
To have the strength and courage to give and receive mercy and grace
So that we might live with the freedom that comes from releasing
The negative emotional pulls that damn and bind.
Amen.

That Statement Again

A few years ago, my friend Kay and I started sending each other statements seen on church signs around North and South Carolina. What started as a mission to find funny sentiments to decorate her apartment has become an enduring purpose of communication. We may go months without writing but then one of us will find something worthy of sharing…and then we are connected again. That happened today, actually, after I rode by a sign that said: No bunny loves you like Jesus. Find us on Facebook. I laughed aloud. Then I wrote Kay. And we both agreed that the sign was a little late for Easter and that it was an interesting marketing strategy!

Because of this long-enduring connection with Kay, I find myself reading church signs every time I can. While there are a lot of signs that could stand improvement, there are some that are really good. I’ve found one sign on my way to and from work to be particularly encouraging this year. For instance, at the beginning of the year, when I wasn’t certain that I would adjust to being back in the classroom, I’d drive by and read, “You can make it.” It never failed. When I read those four simple words, I felt them making their way into my heart. God was speaking to me. And I knew that I would make it.

So I suppose that I shouldn’t be surprised that the church sign in mention gave me goose bumps yesterday. After a frustrating Monday and Tuesday, and memories of a really rotten Wednesday last week, I wasn’t overly thrilled about going to work. Yet as I drove that familiar road to school and passed that familiar sign, I found myself reading, “Pray grace over your situation,” and I literally chuckled to myself because I had been wondering how I was going to let go of the aggravation I’d been feeling all week and there was the church sign answering my wonderings. Pray grace over the situation, Deaton. Remember: “I love youregardless of how well you’re performing.”

Ah.

There’s that statement again.

“I love you regardless of how well you’re performing.”

Or more specifically this week: I love YOU, as a person, because you ARE a person, and there IS something good in you, even if I cannot find it right now BECAUSE of your performance which is basically not a performance at all and I don’t understand how you can not do your job and play the martyr and take and take and take. Yet. I (must) love YOU because you are a PERSON. And I am a person, too. And we are all worthy of love simply because we are people.

Love. Joy. Peace. Patience. Kindness. Goodness. Faithfulness. Gentleness. Self-control.
Pray for your enemies and love those who persecute you.
Do not become weary in doing for at the right time you will reap a harvest if you do not give up.
I love you regardless of how well you’re performing.
Pray grace over your situation.

And then somehow,
With time and with breath,
Frustration will begin to fade away,
Light will begin to filter in, and
People will be seen as people...
Thanks be to God,
(and church signs)
Amen.

Say Something

If you know me fairly well, then you know that I don’t give up on people or institutions very easily. If I believe in someone or something, then I am one of the most loyal people you will ever meet.

As such, I find it strange that I’ve been walking around singing lyrics from A Great Big World’s song, “Say Something,” today. What’s even stranger is that I’ve only heard the song twice, and neither of those times was recently.

Yet all day, I’ve been singing:
“Say something, I'm giving up on you.
I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you…
Say something, I'm giving up on you…
And I will swallow my pride.
You're the one that I love
And I'm saying goodbye.”

The strangest thing, though? I’m actually doing it.

I’m giving up,
letting go,
accepting limitations,
saying goodbye.
To persons who, for whatever reasons, do not accept my friendship,
To institutions that, for whatever reasons, do not accept who I am.

Somehow, while singing my mysterious ear worm today, I realized that this surrender has been happening for quite some time. It’s been a quiet surrender for the past year or so: a gradual understanding that I cannot be all things to all people no matter how hard I try or how deeply I desire to be so.

Some people choose me. Some people don’t. The same goes with organizations and institutions. So instead of chasing the ones who don’t, I’m actively choosing to embrace the ones who do—like you, reader—and trusting a Love bigger than myself with the rest.

I don’t understand Love. I don’t understand the vastness of it all—its presence in stark opposites—its miraculous appearance in a baby who grew to be a man who looked into the face of brokenness and said, “I see light in you, too.” Yet I know that Love is vast enough to surround all and not give up on any…even as Love tells me it’s okay to set some free.