Tears As Baptism

For the past year, 

I’ve been taking a course through the Lutheran Chruch to become certified as a lay preacher.

I’ve taken an Old Testament course, a New Testament course, and a theology course. 

I’m currently in a preaching course.

 

One of our assignments for the preaching course was to write a sermon for Bof our Lord Sunday on January 12, 2025.

I decided that instead of waiting until the last minute, I would go on and write the sermon.

I finished the sermon last week.

 

I enjoyed the process of studying and reading and preparing for the message.

I also enjoyed remembering my baptism.

 

Baptism is a complicated topic:

Infant versus believer’s baptism;

Sprinkling baptism versus baptism by immersion;

Still water versus running water;

John’s baptism versus Jesus‘s baptism--

Those are just a few of the things that I read about in the process of writing my sermon.

The scholarly articles debating the merits of each are vast and wide, 

So I finally had to stop reading and just write. 

 

One of the things that didn’t make it into the sermon but that made an impression on me

Was the idea of tears being a way of remembering our baptism.

Tears—

Those little drops of water that come when we are hurt, upset, angry, or sad.

Tears—

Those little drops of water that come when we’re overly happy or joyful.

Tears—

The natural expulsion of emotion.

Tears—

A catharsis of everything we hold inside.

Tears—

Water running down our faces,

Reminding us of our baptism:

Of being held in God’s arms,

As God’s beloved,

In whom God is well-pleased.

Tears—

Water running down our faces,

Reminding us of our baptism:

Of being saved from the mess of ourselves

And cleansed into the wholeness of Christ.

 

So the next time you cry,

For joy or sorrow or allergy,

Remember your baptism.

Remember your place in God’s Kingdom.

Remember what God has done for you through

The life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Remember that your faith is by grace alone,

And remember that,

Through it all,

You are God’s beloved,

In whom God is well-pleased.

Always.

 

Amen.

Blessing of the Backpacks

It gets me every time. 

The blessing of the backpacks. 

The first year, it was the whole concept. 

Last year, it was the opening of hands to receive the blessing. 

Yesterday, it was my sweet 5th grade friend Caius. 

After admitting that he was not looking forward to going back to school, 

He announced that the only thing he was looking forward to was seeing his teacher. 

He added his friends as a PS. 

“But mostly my teacher,” he said—

His teacher who looped up with his class because she liked them so much—

His teacher whom he knows and loves because she knows and loves him as well. 

 

…

 

I spent at least three hours over the weekend typing up my class lists and making my grade book. 

It would have been much easier to ask my data manager for the lists electronically and then to copy and paste them, 

But typing out the names allowed me to remember. And pray. And feel out class make-up. 

It was a step in processing the beginning of the year. 

It was an exercise in patience and perseverance. 

It was a simple gesture of love. 

 

…

 

I teach over 600 students per year.

Learning names isn’t always easy,

But I do my best to learn names because names are important.

Names help us feel seen and heard and valued.

Caius’s teacher sees him, hears him, and values him.

She is why he wants to go back to school.

 

…

 

If I could be the reason that just one of my students wants to come back to school,

Then it would all be worth it.

Just one of those names.

Just one of those little people.

If I’m there for just one student to feel safe,

And seen,

And heard,

And valued,

Then I am there for the world.

…

 

Oh God: Help me hold to the one. Even if I never know which one it is. Amen.

And Then I Cried

 Shortly after finishing Monday’s note,

I realized that I didn’t have a picture of Kay.

As any good 21^st-centurian would do,

I took to the Interwebs to look for a picture of this woman who had come to mean so much.

The thing is?

I found obituaries and old scholarship information,

But I couldn’t find a picture.

As I continued to search,

I came across an article honoring Kay.

At the end of the article,

Kay was quoted as saying:

 

“I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through…I trust that you already know that my heart just aches for you…I know that all things work together for good to those who serve God. So I trust that as I act moment by moment to follow God’s leading, God will work through my decisions. In any event, I know with assurance that God is already working. God’s action is to bring about good things for you and for the body of Christ. There’s no doubt. We just have to wait. As we’ve all figured out for one reason or another, life isn’t fair and justice is hard to find. Mostly I’d like for you to get through it. It happened and requires you to work in order to get through it—but I pray that you get THROUGH rather than remain in it. So I hope you’ll spend exactly the right amount of time processing it all and doing what it takes to attend to it so that it will be well and truly over. I love you very much! You take my love and respect and appreciation with you where you go…I’m proud of you, you’ve been faithful.”

 

I screen-shotted her words.

And then I cried.

 

God: Thank you that our hearts and words live on long after we’re gone. May Kay’s words, today, bless and encourage someone who needs to hear them…seventeen years after they were written. Thank you, God, that you are already working and that your action is to bring about good in a world that seems to celebrate evil. You ARE good. And we ARE trying to be faithful. Amen.  

 

Oh! And by the way—

After thirty minutes of tears and searching,

I found Kay’s picture in a PDF brochure.

It’s not the best quality in the world.

But it will do.

😊

One Of Those Days

Today was not my best day. Actually, Thursdays in general are tough. I begin and end my days with challenging classes and the ones in between aren’t always easy. Sometimes it’s okay. Sometimes it bothers me. Today it bothered me. I felt like students not following directions and students being disrespectful was not part of a larger system or pattern of behavior but single-handedly my fault.

Today, I kept hearing professors and workshop presenters say that if kids are consistently “acting up” then it’s up to the teacher to change something in what he/she is doing—because the lessons must not be good enough or the rules not clear enough or the discipline not consistent enough.
And I kept thinking, “This must be my fault. Ms. X can keep them quiet. They seem to respect her. They must not respect me. Class must be boring. I guess I really am a boring music teacher.”

On other days, I hear professors and workshop presenters say that perfectly still silence does not always equal learning. I hear them affirming that kids learn through movement, discussion, and singing and I know that my classes are full of students with special needs and that students with special needs need special considerations. I know that I’m a reflective teacher. I know that I care about my kids. I know that my kids—at least most of them—know that I care about them. I know that what happens in my 40 minutes per week with my students is directly affected by what happens in their classrooms—that their classroom teacher’s discipline structure (or lack thereof) influences their behavior everywhere else in the school. I have watched this reality play out for 13 years.

But today wasn’t one of those days.

I know that I’m weary. I know that no amount of work seems to get me caught up with the stuff I need to do for school, church, or graduate school—not to mention the things that I want to do with my friends and family. I know that I am beyond burdened by some of my students’ lives. Kids are being exposed to perverted, harmful, and dangerous situations younger and younger and I just want to scream at a society that is so broken that on one hand it encourages children to believe that adults are stupid and that they are entitled to anything they want but on the other hand ignores children or treats them as disposable toys. I know that these factors contributed to the negative self talk that planted itself in my head this morning as I watched a challenging child roll onto the floor, put his arms in his shirt, and attempt to do the worm with the rest of his body while the rest of the class watched the distraction. Nothing could make him get up. Nothing could keep the rest of the class focused. And nothing could keep me from thinking, “Is this my fault? This must be my fault. I must not be strict enough.”

Last night, as I was anticipating this day, I updated the serenity prayer. I posted it in my status on Facebook, but I want to include it at the bottom of this note. Because maybe you aren’t a teacher, but maybe you work a job or have a family situation in which you sometimes feel helpless. Maybe you have tried the things you know to try but maybe they just aren’t working. And maybe your self-talk gets pretty negative, too, and maybe on days like today it leaves you feeling so very defeated. So maybe you need to rewrite this prayer for yourself. And maybe together if we keep praying, a loving, steady, just God will put all things in order—even if it’s only within our own minds, hearts, and souls.

God grant me the serenity to accept the students I cannot change;
The courage to influence those whom I can;
And the wisdom to know the difference.
Teaching one lesson at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting disrespectful and overly talkative classes as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as Jesus did, this sinful world full of broken people
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that You can and will make all things right
if I surrender to Love--
That I may be reasonably happy with my life's work
and supremely happy with You forever in the next.
Amen.

Love

I made a B in organ. I practiced harder for that class than any other and I made a lot of progress, yet I still made a B. I was so mad. Yet I already had a blemish in my GPA from my epic B-Failure in freshman English so I tried not to let it bother me too much. (But it still did bother me.)

Grades are somewhat important in the Deaton family. While I’ve come to realize that the goal of 98 or higher on every assignment was a self-imposed goal that built a wall of unrealistic expectation and subsequent fear of failure around my heart, academic achievement is, indeed, something that is valued in my family system. Straight A’s are not demanded or rigidly enforced, but there is a desire to do well and a hope that one’s best will be honored by the grades that he or she receives.

Such is the reason that in the middle of our family Christmas celebration today, we found ourselves in a flustered discussion about a grade that Jack The Oldest Nephew received in his art class. For what was clearly an A+ project to everyone in the family and our very own Barb the Best and for what was displayed in his school’s display cabinet for a couple of months, Jack received a C.

Outraged, all of the adults were expressing comments of disbelief and discussing ways that the grade could have been adjusted, yet Jack was fine. He admitted the even he was a little surprised by the grade since he knew that the teacher liked his piece, yet he also admitted that the teacher had a rubric for all projects and that he had intentionally not completed one part of the rubric.

“He wanted us to use at least three different colors,” Jack said, “but I knew that I was making this for you, so I just wanted to use orange. It’s a coat hanger and two other kinds of wire that I twisted into the shape of a fish. I wanted it to look sort of like a Nemo fish, so I only put orange beads on part of the fins. And I cut up an orange Fanta can and wove it through this wire mesh stuff for the body.”

Somewhere in the sea of adult disbelief, I heard Jack’s mom mention that he knew that his grade might suffer for only using one color but that Jack wanted to do it anyway because he knew how much Aunt Dee would like it.

I didn’t cry in that moment but a lump formed in my throat and I got a bit teary-eyed. I’m crying now.

Jack sacrificed his grade for me.

He spent hours designing and crafting an orange fish for my collection, knowing that his work might not receive the marks that it deserved because he had intentionally gone against standard expectations.

Jack did that for me!

Have I mentioned that I’m crying?

Love came down at Christmas and lay in a humble feeding trough that held him in the first days of his growing into a man who would feed millions with words of hope, peace, purpose, and joy, even in the midst of judgment, misunderstanding, lack of appreciation, and lies.

Sometimes Love makes sacrifices that we don’t feel that we deserve or that we just can’t believe have happened even when they are staring us in the face.

And yet love does what Love must do to reach the hearts of those it cares about the most.

Jack reached my heart today with a gift more profound that anything I can explain.

Love is here.

Love is alive.

May Love be yours this Christmas.

May Love be yours tonight.

Sometimes We Just Need To Cry

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

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

…

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

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

…

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

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

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

…

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

Don't You Remember?

In their fright the women bowed down with their faces to the ground, but the [angels] said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen! Remember how he told you, while he was still with you in Galilee: ‘The Son of Man must be delivered over to the hands of sinners, be crucified and on the third day be raised again.’ ” Then they remembered his words.

“Do not fear,” is the phrase that the angels usually spoke to those whom they visited. But as Patrick pointed out at the sunrise service yesterday morning, “Do not fear,” is not what Mary and her friends heard when they arrived at the tomb on Easter morning. Instead, they almost received a reprimand—“Don’t you remember?” they said. “Don’t you remember that Jesus told you that he would be killed but that in three days he would rise again? Don’t you remember that he told you not to fear—not to worry? Don’t you remember that today is the third day? Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember?”

“Of course they didn’t remember,” I said to myself as Patrick finished asking those questions. “Of course they didn’t remember.”

I didn’t remember that a student had promised to bring me a sandwich until he pulled the sandwich out of his book-bag the next day.

On Thursday, I had a sandwich conversation with one of my 4th graders. I have no idea why we were talking about sandwiches, but he asked what I liked on my sandwiches. I said, “Not onions.” He said, “Do you like ham?” I said, “Yes.” He said, “Do you like cheese?” I said, “Yes.” He said, “Then I’ll make you a ham and cheese sandwich.” I said, “Okay!”

Then I thought nothing more of the conversation. I even forgot that we’d had it…until the next morning when he said, “Oh! I have your sandwich for you.” Then I remembered.

Figuring that he’d pull out a squished sandwich in a sandwich bag, I had to fight back tears when he pulled out a full lunch box. “I packed a little dessert for you, too. And a napkin. And a bottle of water. And I put one of those little lemonade packets in there so that you can mix it with the water and have lemonade.”

Did I say that I was fighting back tears?

I’ve told this story quite a few times since Friday. I even announced the student’s kindness on the morning announcements that day. Yet if I had remembered the student’s words from the day before, then I wouldn’t have been so surprised…not that being surprised is a bad thing…but…

If I couldn’t remember a simple sandwich promise from the day before, then of course Mary and her friends didn’t remember Jesus’ promise of resurrection from weeks before.

And if I can be moved to tears and be led to share a simple sandwich story with the world, then how much more should I not be moved to tears and led to share the amazing story of life that comes through Jesus Christ.

Jesus is risen. He is risen indeed.

And I bet he’d bring each of us a sandwich.

Defining Moments: To Shave Or Not To Shave

I remember shaving my left forearm when I was in elementary school. I don’t know what inspired me to do this. I suppose I was curious as to the function of the razor. So I shaved my left forearm. Thankfully the hair grew back normally.

I do not, however, remember first shaving my legs. I don’t know what inspired me to do this either. I suppose I was following peer pressure. So I shaved my legs. And my leg hair has never been the same.

Not trying to gross anyone out, but, thanks to my dad, I have man legs.

One summer at camp, a friend dared me not to shave my legs for the summer. I took the dare. As I entered the movie theatre one weekend afternoon, the ticket-taker tore my ticket stub, looking down as he did, and said, “To the left, sir.” Then he looked up and realized I was a woman and was mortified. I laughed. I have man legs.

I also have terrible vision. When in the shower, I cannot see my legs well enough to accurately shave them. So I need to shave in the bathtub. Then, more often than not, I get razor burn. So I prefer to shave with an electric razor. Then, sometimes I still get razor burn.

Shaving is a pain. Literally. And it takes up time that I could use for something else—like sleeping. So all in all, shaving is not a priority for me. Is it any wonder, then, that shaving is an activity that I often skip?

[Point of clarification: I’m talking about my shaving my legs. A Garbage Pail kid that I had as a kid instilled in me an aversion to stinky arm-pit hair.]

Back up to late last December…I hadn’t shaved for quite sometime, yet my family was preparing to go on a cruise and my parents had requested that my leg hair be gone for the trip. It was a reasonable request. My legs do look much better shaven, and I’ve taken reasonable shaving requests before. I actually took a request to shave that summer I took the dare, and I shaved my legs for my birthday. It was my birthday present to everyone else!

But when I got into the bathtub on December 29, 2013, I had a full meltdown. I imagine it sounds ridiculous—especially since I actually like how clean shaven legs look and feel—but I was sobbing real tears of anguish at the thought of shaving my legs.

I sent a text to a friend that said:

If a woman doesn’t shave then she is thought disgusting. In general. I know people who are horrified if I don’t shave. Like something is wrong with me. But there’s no reason for shaving other than it’s what is expected for females in America. To me, it just takes time and resources that produce trash that fills up our landfills. And yet. I feel like I must fit the societal norm. Like if I don’t shave my legs then my family and friends will be ashamed to be around me in shorts. Most people don’t mind shaving. I get that. And I suppose that shaving isn’t a huge deal for them. It’s an extension of their shower. But I can’t shave in the shower because I’m that blind. So it takes effort. And I’d really rather do other things. Yet. I let outside forces control my actions.

I sat in the bathtub for around thirty minutes that night. I cried. I prayed. I thought. I wrote. And I got out of the tub with legs as hairy as they were when I got in. I was tired of letting outside forces control me.

I shaved on New Year’s Eve, willingly, as a symbol of getting rid of the old and welcoming the new…

On Friday afternoon, I came home from school to pack for an overnight retreat with some of the girls from my church. I was weary from a long week, so I reclined on the couch to take a little nap after changing clothes and packing. It was at that moment that I realized that I was going to the beach with unshaven legs. I thought, “Uh oh. Some of the girls may think I’m gross. I guess I should shave. But if I shave then I won’t get to nap. And I’m sleepy. And I’m going to be driving a lot this weekend. Oh well, hairy legs. You’re staying hairy. I’m taking a nap.”

The focus of the girls’ retreat was being yourself. The girls talked about the importance of knowing who God had created and was creating them to be and living into that creation instead of the creation of the world. There I was, walking around with hairy legs and shorts, personally not caring that my legs weren’t shaven, but feeling self-conscious that the girls were thinking poorly of me.

And so…I asked if I could share a testimony and told my bathtub story and declared that, sometimes, when life gets really busy and someone dies and work demands so much, we have to make choices and set priorities and that, for me, shaving is nowhere near the top of my priority list. And that’s okay.

I think the girls understood. They even asked why we shave our legs in the first place. I smiled. Then I took my hairy legs down to the dock, listened to the sound of waves and water, and silently thanked God for creating and loving me for me...hairy legs and all.

One Statement Three Ways

My dad is a very sentimental man. So when I came downstairs on Friday morning and found him crying at the kitchen table, I wasn’t surprised. He was doing his morning devotion and had just read something that deeply moved him. In typical dad fashion, he read aloud what had touched him and I listened in typical Deanna-to-Dad fashion—which meant that I continued making my breakfast and not appearing terribly interested in what he was reading but really taking in his every word and inwardly smiling at his impromptu theological discourse.

Something that he read that morning made its way into my mind and became the source of my own theological ponderings for the past week. Quite simply, he read, “I love you regardless of how well you are performing.”

Sarah Young, the writer, wrote this statement from the perspective of Jesus talking to the reader. She wanted her readers to know that they were loved regardless of their actions and that even though we are to strive to live holy lives we are not going to be disowned when we fall short. I get that. And it is a comforting thought and a wonderful message for the “recovering perfectionist” that is me. But it’s totally not what I heard when my dad read the statement on Friday morning.

What I heard was this:

If God loves me regardless of how well I’m performing and I am supposed to love with the love of God, then I, likewise, must be able to look at people in my life and say, “I love you regardless of how well you’re performing.”

I love you when you don’t act like I think you should act.
I love you when you don’t write when I think you should you should write.
I love you when you don’t show up when I think you should show up.
I love you when you forget about something that’s important to me.
I love you when you take your frustrations out on me or hurt me.
I love you when you need to take space from me.
I love you when you’re absolutely ridiculous and refuse to believe that I am right .

I don’t mean to put expectations on the people in my life. But I do. And I therefore accidently set myself up to feel resentment…

So all week I’ve been telling myself, “I love you regardless of how well you’re performing,” and all week I’ve found my heart opening toward content grace.

Then, yesterday, while listening to a book about Rwandan genocide and the atrocities that led countless people to question God’s presence in the killing of 1,000,000 people in just 100 days, I suddenly found myself flipping that statement on its head again by saying aloud to God, “I love you regardless of how well you’re performing.”

There is a lot about God that I do not understand. I don’t understand how or when God chooses to intervene in the natural world order and when God allows God’s created world—including human beings—to do its thing. I especially don’t understand why some people are miraculously healed while others are not—even when prayers for healing are being prayed by hundreds of people each day. Don’t get me wrong. I get that good can come from all things and that little sparks of light can be seen even in darkness. But that doesn’t mean that I always understand God…and yet…I can—and do—still love God…regardless of my understanding of God’s “performance.”

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

Thanks, Dad, for sharing this thought through your morning devotional tears. I know you weren’t really talking to me when you read this statement, but…I know you mean it...and...I love you, too.

Being Human Is Hard

The next time I volunteer to sing a solo, ask me if I can sing it without having an emotional breakdown. Okay?

I woke up yesterday morning feeling sick. Not head cold sick. Not stomach sick. But back quivering, I’m-going-to-be-vulnerable-and-lay-my-life-on-the-line-for-people-to-examine-it sick.

And rightfully so.

I sang one of the most emotional and guarded songs in my repertoire yesterday. And I sang it twice. (The words are at the bottom of this post.)

The first time I sang I was fine. But the second time…well…I got choked up at the end of my singing and found myself in tears after the song was over.

And these weren’t quiet, little tears. They were loud, big tears…only I was sitting in church during a prayer, so I couldn’t really be loud…so my face turned bright red and my veins popped out and I pressed my fingers into my eyelids to hold in the tears…which I’ve never really understood because it really doesn’t work…but I did it anyway because I didn’t know what else to do.

Then my mom gave me a tissue and Patrick said amen and I somehow managed to stop crying…but I started again when a friend hugged me after church…and then I came home so emotionally spent that I had absolutely no trouble falling asleep for my Sunday afternoon nap.

“And what were those tears for?” you might ask.

Broken relationships.
Loss.
Betrayal.
The difficult realities of being human because, as I said yesterday, “Being human is hard.”

Yet being human is exactly what we are...and being human is exactly what Jesus was when he was handed over to be tried, convicted, and punished for crimes he did not commit.

So Jesus understands this being human.
And Jesus cried.
So it must be okay for me to cry, too.

Although… the next time I volunteer to sing a solo, ask me if I can sing it without bursting into tears and having an emotional breakdown. Okay?

Thanks.


--------

You came into my life and you gave me a new song
We were very best of friends but then something went wrong
I compromised what’s right, didn’t always stand for Christ
And it hurts, life without you hurts

But without you I see what true love is meant to be
Not a game we have win, but a path we have to walk
Just like the father of the son, who waited with open arms
To embrace the hurt, he embraced the hurt

So you can hate me and curse my name
Run away in silence, write words to shame me
I understand, I understand
I still love you and bless your name
Give Christ the anger, the hurt, the pain
And trust His hand, to take your hand
Because I can’t

If I’ve had a thousand friends, I’m lucky to have one
Whose light won’t fade away with the setting of the sun
But as the days come and go, we change as we grow
Though it hurts, growing apart hurts

But grasping to a string in the cold, dark, stale air
Won’t get you very far, it won’t get you anywhere
It’s crying out in the night and standing for what is right
That’ll heal the hurt, it’ll heal the hurt

So you can hate me and curse my name
Run away in silence, write words to shame me
I understand, I understand
I still love you and bless your name
Give Christ the anger, the hurt, the pain
And trust His hand, to take your hand
Because I can’t

When I Opened My Mail

I got a card in the mail last week but I didn’t open it. I added it to my pile of mail to go through later, thinking that I’d need a few minutes to read the enclosed holiday letter. I had no idea that I’d actually need a few minutes to pull myself together after bursting into tears.

The card said:

“Returning one of the nicest gifts a friend gave us during one of the hardest times we’ve had, and also one of the times we are most thankful for. There is no ‘should’ attached to this gift. Use [this gift card] however you want, be it for something you need, something you want, or a way to nurture your love language of gift giving. Know that we are thankful for you.”

Yesterday afternoon, sitting on the couch in my pajamas, doing little more than experiencing a day-long television marathon with my parents, I received one of the most meaningful gifts of my life. The gift card was very nice. I will use it and am grateful. But the words. The thoughts. The tangible expression of lasting friendship. The confirmation that my life and actions once made a difference in someone else’s life during a hard time. Those are the things that washed over me and pulled out speechless tears along the way.

The ironic thing? I have no recollection of sending the gift that my friend wrote about. I guess we really don’t know the difference our lives make when we simply seek to live them as outpourings of God’s love, hope, and grace…

And now to answer my questions of thankfulness:

What is one Thanksgiving leftover for which you are grateful? Field peas! I’m a big fan of field peas.

What is one game (board, card, dice, sport, computer, or logic) you really enjoy playing? I like word games: Scrabble, Boggle, Banagrams, Nab-It, etc. I also enjoy playing Mahjonng on the computer when I remember it exists.

What is one piece/type of furniture you are very grateful exists? I’ve thought about this a lot and I’m going to say the sofa. I suppose most recently I’ve been thankful for my sofa at the Lake Apartment and our sofa downstairs. I used my Lake Apartment sofa to sit on, eat on, and sleep on. It was pretty old but it had a really nice dip in the middle that was great for sleeping—not to mention the sofa’s position allowed me to overlook the lake. Our sofa downstairs currently looks pretty rough thanks to a big man, a little dog, and some kids; however, it’s really soft, fluffy, and comfortable—especially when I pop the button to make it recline!

What are some kitchen gadgets you are thankful exist? Upon pondering this question, I realize that the word “gadget” is difficult to define. The kitchen things I’m most thankful for seem to be either appliances (though small appliances) or cooking utensils. However, I really like using the egg slicer when we have boiled eggs, the melon ball scooper even though I don’t like melon, and the grippy thing you can use to open jars and bottles. I think the first two are fun and the last one is just practical .

Dear God,
For friendships that endure the tests of time,
For gifts that encourage us when we’re down.
For food and games that we enjoy,
For furniture and gadgets that remind us just how blessed we are.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Amen.

These Crying Eyes

As I write this note tonight, my eyes are crying quiet, steady tears. I just told my bowling team goodbye, and that goodbye signaled the true beginning to the end of my time in South Carolina. I’ve been saying goodbye for the past few weeks, gradually packing things up and letting things go, but the whole time I’ve known that I’d see my bowling team again tonight.

For almost every Thursday night of the past three years, I have bowled with Bob, Mel, and Laurie. Our team mom, Mary Ellen, has been with us most nights, cheering us on, and our team brother, Kevin, has been our faithful substitute when we could not bowl. We have had good nights and bad nights. Nights of laughing so hard that we could not speak. Nights of finishing early and nights of finishing late. Days in tournaments when our only goal was to bowl “average or above.” Days of wins and days of losses. Days of wearing out bowling shoes and wearing in new balls. Hours of watching bowling form and naming our opponents with appropriate names. And tonight, for the first and last time ever, we had a frame in which the whole team got a strike. I presented Coach Bob with an antique pewter bowling plaque after this moment occurred!

My eyes are tired. They are tired from two good days. Days where they have seen:

A surprised look on the McDonalds drive-thru worker’s face after I told him he smelled good.
A group of children enjoying a well-done children’s play that starred one of my dearest friends.
A sincere car appraiser whose goal was to make my post-fender-bender experience as pleasant as possible.
One of the best zoo visits of my life, during which the animals were super active and I ran into Christine the 77-year-old zoo volunteer with a cool British accent. Christine and I walked together for at least an hour and talked about the animals and life and how she lived in Africa for 12 years, writing for documentaries. She also worked for NPR for a few years. The brown bears swam, walked, jumped, pooped, peed, and sat up. The koala bears were awake and one of them was eating. The gorilla was splayed out for the world to see. And the siamongs were singing. It was all quite amazing.
A confused massage therapist’s face when I told her that my right butt cheek could make my left arm-pit numb.
Two beautiful friends for coffee.
One disorganized mess of finances become organized.
My counselor for the last time.
One amazing friend and her loving husband in a lovely park on her birthday.
The difference in the Moe’s dinner crowd between 5:15 and 6:00pm.
The rundown comfort and familiarity of AMF Park Lanes.
The final Thursday night journey home from the bowling alley, at the end of which I greet my beautiful lake.

I think I will put my happily sad, joyfully mourning, gratefully grieving eyes to bed now. The end of my time in South Carolina is drawing near, and the mixture of emotions coupled with the physical labor of moving is going to leave me needing all the rest I can get.

God, thank you for eyes to see, ears to hear, and a bed in which to rest. Help me, now, to rest. Amen.

Tiny, Salty Tears

On most weeks, I couldn’t do this because I usually cry at the drop of a hat. But this week, I’ve only gotten teary eyed three times, so I’m going to share about each of those moments, all of which are very different.

Moment One: I conducted SC WMU Youth Panelist interviews yesterday. The entire morning was an encouraging experience—talking with teenagers who really have things together—but one particular moment quietly moved me to tears. As I spoke with the last girl we interviewed, I asked if there was a particularly missionary who stood out to her. She responded that the missionary who stands out to her was one of the speakers from Blume last year—a young woman whose life was profoundly and dramatically changed by an Operation Christmas Child shoebox. She said, “I just really liked her story because Operation Christmas Child is my thing. I try to pack twelve boxes a year and keep my eyes open for things to put in the boxes throughout the year.” She went on to say that she used to try to pack one box per month, but since she learned about couponing and store sales, she tries to get supplies when she can save money.

Even now, as I write this, I am moved to tears. A teenage girl. Culturally expected to be focused on herself. Has the vision and desire to single-handedly stuff 12 shoeboxes per year. Using financial skills that exhibit wise stewardship. Completely, but quietly, living outside of herself. Twelve shoe boxes per year is one box per month AND one box for a girl and boy of every age level bracket that Operation Christmas Child serves. Twelve shoeboxes per year has the potential to change twelve lives per year. And this is coming from an American, public-school educated girl. This is coming from an Acteen.

Moment Two: I was watching the Olympics last night when I saw a human interest feature on John Orozco. While I’m a sucker for all of the human interest features—I love the dramatic music and video footage from the past—I hadn’t been moved to tears until the end of John’s piece last night. One of John’s main goals at the Olympics was to somehow make life easier for his family—to help ease their financial burden so that they wouldn’t struggle anymore. At the end, as John was talking about how important his parents were in his life, he said, “I just want to make them proud.” With tears in my eyes, I said aloud, “You already have, John. You already have. It doesn’t matter how well you perform. You have made them proud by just being you.”

Again, I find myself with tears in my eyes. There he was, an Olympian who had accomplished so much in his life, still just wanting to make his parents proud. We put so much pressure on ourselves to perform—to be accepted—to earn approval—to be loved—yet, really, we are already loved…not because of our accomplishments but because of who we are. I wanted to remind John of that last night. [Shoot. I've wanted to remind all of the Olympians of that.] And I’m sure his parents wanted to remind him, too.

Moment Three: This morning, Facebook suggested that I become friends with someone who used to be a really good friend (in real life). As a form of self-discipline, I rarely allow myself to send friend requests, rather I wait for the requests to come to me. She hasn’t sent a request, so we are not FB friends. Yet. Like a dufus, I broke my other rule of self-discipline and went to this friend’s page to see if anything was public. It was. And I found myself looking at pictures of a terrible car wreck that almost took both her and her children’s lives. The wreck happened last week. I had no idea. I cried. I cried for the wreck, yes. But I also cried for how time, distance, and life can pull persons apart.

Isn’t it amazing how tears can come from so many different feelings and emotions?
Inspiration, Hope, and Encouragement.
Love, Respect, and Belief in others.
Relief, Loss, and Grief.
All in the form of tiny salty tears.

Only Lonely Understands

I found some old CDs at home in NC this weekend. As I drove back to SC last night, I listened to three of the CDs, singing along and feeling grateful for the music that was keeping me company. Toward the end of the trip, a song came on that I wasn’t expecting and the next thing I knew, I was crying. The song that played was “Tonight” by Sara Evans and the tears that flowed were from deep inside me...

I’m not exactly sure what hit me so hard when the song began. Maybe it’s my being a sucker for songs with a prominent piano part and it includes a strong emphasis on the keys...or maybe it’s the fact that the chorus says, “I don’t want to go home tonight,” and I was feeling sad about having to drive away from my family and friends again (although I realize that that’s totally not what that line is about in the song)...or maybe it’s the loneliness that I could hear throughout the storyline of the song and my self-proclaimed spiritual gift of crying for others who cannot cry. Whatever it was, it smacked me in my gut and left me crying an ugly, gasping cry for at least twenty minutes after I got back.

Despite fast-paced technology and social networking/media that keeps us instantly connected, we live in what I believe to be a lonely world. My dad recently told me that some of his most lonely moments occur when he is surrounded by people. I understand. It’s very possible to feel lonely when surrounded by people...especially when loneliness extends beyond passing feeling into permanent state of being.

I think that Sara Evans describes that permanent state of loneliness so well when she sings, “There's just some things only lonely understands.” [She also uses incorrect grammar, but I can forgive that here because of the profundity of the statement.] She also sings:

“I might be just a sinner
Who wants to be a saint
One justifies the reason
Oh, one understands the pain
And I don't know what's wrong baby
And I sure don't know what's right
But I don't want to go home tonight.”

Living in a permanent state of lonely leads one to do a lot of unhealthy things, and when unhealthy actions result in sinful actions—actions that hurt others and go against God’s design of love—the permanent state of lonely justifies the action out of a need to feel wanted, needed, and good enough—or maybe just to feel anything at all. The permanent state of lonely, I believe, stems from a hole in the core principle that we are loved—that we are authentically created beings with worth, value, and potential, and that despite what this world says, we are good enough—imperfect, different, and unique we may be. The permanent state of lonely, I believe, leads to isolation and secrecy that lead to more isolation and secrecy until we feel as if we are completely alone in our thoughts and often our shame—regardless of how many people truly love us.

I know what it is to live in the permanent state of loneliness while surrounded by love, but I also know what it is to have permanent made temporary through the transformational process of time, hard work, confession, acceptance, and grace.

So for everyone who has felt the “silent desperation” of loneliness, I must have hurt for you last night. I must have remembered that place and hurt for you—hurt for you and for those affected by and hurt by you—because we really are all connected. And while I was sad to drive away from my family and friends, and while I recognized the feeling of loneliness stirring inside me, I knew that I was not truly lonely in life anymore. I don't have that silent desperation. And I'm so thankful. And I’m so hopeful for everyone living in a permanent state of desperation—hopeful that it will be made temporary, that it will pass, and that each of us will daily realize that we are loved with a love so much richer and deeper and steady than anything we can comprehend.

----------

When You Can’t Escape
(from the lonely years)

Descending out of nowhere,
Exploding like a bomb,
Pressure securely locking windows and doors
Rendering daylight worthless.
Exaggerated lies become truth,
Stealing life from the breathing,
Smothering breath from the trying.
Intense heat scorches hints of soothing balm
Opening wounds that dangle between
Numbness and pain.
Heaven cries.
I love you falls on deaf ears.
Tomorrows linger.
Sleep cannot come soon enough.
Hearts shatter from calloused hands
Operating on figments of imagination.
Merciful Lord! Please break the fall.
Eternal God! Please hold me now.

A Humblingly Weird Thing

I don’t sing well with myself. Seriously. Dee’s and Dee’s voices don’t sound very good together. I sing better with myself when singing harmony. But singing in unison? It’s not my strong suit. It wasn’t thirteen years ago when I recorded my first CD, and it wasn’t today as I tried to sing with myself in the car. Thankfully my best friend Angela recorded the CD with me…because Dee and Angela actually sound pretty good together.

Now…I don’t usually drive around listening to my own music; however, a good friend recently made a mix CD for me, on which she included six of my songs. Most of the time, I skip over those songs (because I feel a little narcissistic listening to my own music), but today I let the CD play. [By the way, it’s humblingly weird to know that those six songs rank as some of my friend’s all-time favorites, alongside truly famous songs by truly famous singers and bands!]

As I listened to three of the six songs today, my mind took me on a journey down memory lane—a journey on which I remembered when and where the songs were birthed and felt the depth of emotions surrounding the processes. I remembered sitting in the Centennial Building at Mundo Vista with my friend Allison; sitting in the sanctuary of Friendship Baptist Church feeling alone; and pouring out my soul in a practice room at Mars Hill College one hot summer night. As I remembered, I marveled at just how far life has brought me while somehow leading me back to the same places again.

Just as I got stuck in a sea of helplessness in that practice room that night, wondering what in the world I was doing with my life and how in the world I could make a difference with anything when so much around me was broken—including myself—I find myself swimming in that sea over and over again.

HERE ARE THE LYRICS to the song I prayed that night—through very hard tears and very loud banging on the piano. (And here are the struggles and thoughts that I had then, mixed with the struggles and thoughts that I have now—even today—presented as a very real and somewhat embarrassing picture of me.)

IT’S NOT UP TO ME (This title is very true.)

I DON’T HAVE TO MAKE THEM LIKE ME (I really desire for people to like me and to tell me that they appreciate me. I don’t like not being liked.)
I DON’T HAVE TO MAKE THEM LISTEN (I really like for people to listen and look like they’re listening when I’m speaking or singing and I really want to say or sing things that make a difference)
I DON’T HAVE TO MEND THEIR BROKEN HEARTS (Thanks to my dad, I am a rescuer. When people are hurting, I want to help. When something is broken, I want to make it better. In fact, it hurts me to know that someone is hurting)
I DON’T HAVE TO KNOW ALL THE ANSWERS (And I especially don’t want to give someone mis-information)
THAT’S NOT MY CALL (Nope…it’s not)
AND I THANK GOD FOR IT ALL (Yep…I do)…

ALL I HAVE TO DO IS LOVE HIM (Love God. Love people. Love self. That’s what Jesus commanded)
THAT IS MY CALL (Yep…it is.)
ALL I HAVE TO DO IS SERVE HIM EVEN WHEN I FALL (Love God. Love people. Love self. Do the work. And when I mess up—which I will—remember that I’m not alone in this world and that I have the strength to get up and try again)
ALL I HAVE TO DO IS SAY, “LORD HERE I AM” (Be open. Be willing. Be still in God’s presence. Breathe.)
USE ME FOR YOUR GLORY, LORD USE ME FOR YOUR PLAN (Help me act upon our holistic plan of redemption and to live authentically in you)
EVEN WHEN…

I DON’T HAVE TO IMPRESS THEM (I confess: I want to appear smart, wise, gifted, etc.)
I DON’T HAVE TO MAKE THEM CRY (When I sing or speak and people cry, then it’s usually a sign that God is moving in their lives. So when no one cries, I often feel like I’ve failed)
I DON’T HAVE TO BE PERFECT (I’m a perfectionist. Sometimes I don’t do things if I don’t think I can do them well)
I DON’T HAVE TO SAVE THEIR SOULS (Though I often get the impression that I must need that power in the evangelical church)
THAT’S NOT MY CALL (Nope…it’s not)
AND I THANK GOD FOR IT ALL…(Yep…I do)

I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO SAY (Sometimes it’s okay not to say anything. Just listen)
AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO (Sometimes it’s okay not to do anything. Just be present)
AND I DON’T KNOW HOW TO ACT (Sometimes it’s okay not to pretend. Just be myself)
AND I DON’T KNOW HOW TO FEEL (Sometimes it’s okay not to have a name for my feelings. Just feel them and figure things out in time)
OH I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO SAY (God will guide me if I remain open to God’s spirit)
BUT THAT IS OKAY (It really is okay, Deanna.)
‘CAUSE IT’S NOT UP TO ME (There’s only so much you can do in this world. Other people have to make choices and decisions, too. “You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink,” right? And your relationship with God is yours—in context of Christian community—just as someone else’s relationship with God is theirs. You can change no one by yourself, so you must simply—though it’s not simple—be true to your call to love and serve and be you…and trust God and trust others with the rest. Remember: God’s thoughts are bigger than yours and God’s ways are higher than your ways)

What are the seas that you always come back to? And what is it that you thank God is not up to you—not in an apathetic way—but in a way that you realize that you have got to stop trying so hard and let what will be, be?

[Writer’s Note: You can listen to “It’s Not Up To Me” on my Reverbnation Page: www.reverbnation.com/deannadeaton]

The Church Sign Worked (And Thoughts on Worship)

For the past few years, my friend Kay and I have kept a look out for somewhat ridiculous church signs. Whenever we see a worthy sign, we send the text to one another and either shake our heads and/or laugh at the exchange. Such is the reason that I was paying attention to a church sign that read, “Taize Lent Service. Sunday at 7pm,” as I passed it on Saturday. Instead of sending Kay a ridiculous text, I filed away the information and thought to myself, “That church sign actually did what it was supposed to do. It drew me in.”

As I sat in the silence of the service last night—a service that I felt compelled to attend because of my soul’s hunger both for peace and quiet, sacred space—I felt tears forming in my eyes as they gazed upon a stained-glass window of Jesus with open arms. In those moments, I wanted nothing more than to walk toward those arms and feel them wrap around me in warm embrace. I wanted to say, “I’m sorry, Jesus. We’ve gotten it so wrong. We’ve messed it up so bad.” Not wanting to make any noise, though, I decided not to find a ladder, set it up, climb it, and attempt to embrace the stained-glass Jesus. Instead, I simply sat in the pew, hands postured to signal an opening, and whispered my words to God.

Contrary to many in my generation and generations younger, I don’t worship most fully and freely with loud rock-style music, projected words and images, and a master teacher seeking to teach me how to live. While I know that this style of worship is desired by many, I find myself desiring its opposite. I am surrounded by noise, chaos, movement, competition, information-bombardment, consumerism, experts, choices, and passing fads every day. My body and mind are saturated to overflowing with the fast-paced, “now” of modern American culture.

What my soul desires, therefore, is to slow down—to meet God in silence—to feel grounded to words and acts of worship that have carried God’s people for thousands of generations—to be challenged to encounter God in God’s mystery and fullness, though murky and mind-boggling they may be. So much of life has been stripped down to certainty and explanation. I need permission to let God be God and to let Christ’s words and actions speak for themselves as they come alive through the presence of the Holy Spirit today.

When I look at Jesus’ life, I see a man who surrounded himself with community—who upheld the faith traditions of his family and his historical people even while he transformed those traditions into life-giving reality for all of us. I see a man who, when weary from ministry, sought refuge from the crowds and went to a mountain to pray or a safe place to rest. I see a man who valued silence as much as noise, tears as much as power, and parable as much as check-lists of morality. This is the balance of worship that my soul needs. And this is the balance that I found last night after a very discouraging week of noise.

Church signs sometimes present somewhat ridiculous information. But thank you, God, for that simple church-sign invitation that drew me in.

Could Crying Be A Spiritual Gift?

As I squirmed in my bed and wept for over thirty minutes last night, I suddenly began to wonder: Could crying be a spiritual gift?

As I wrote in an e-mail to a dear friend this morning:

I had a really hard time falling asleep last night. I suppose that I finally fell asleep because I exhausted myself...although I do remember sitting up so that I could breathe and rocking myself gently back and forth.

I had a conversation about spiritual gifts yesterday. I've always taken Paul's list of spiritual gifts as the exhaustive list. Like...I really don't think that music is a spiritual gift, rather music is a talent that must be expressed through another spiritual gift if it is to be used to glorify God and build up others in the body of Christ. Think about it: how much music does NOT honor God and/or build others up?

BUT...let's say that the list isn't exhaustive--which it's likely not. COULD crying be a spiritual gift? I know it sounds silly. But when I start crying like I was crying last night, it's like it's from the very deepest part of my being. It's from this place that's way way way down deep--a place that I don't normally feel--very gutteral--very connected to my humanity--and I wonder if it's connected to all of humanity.

I know a lot of people who can't cry--or who don't cry--for whatever reason. So I wonder if maybe I'm crying out all of the angst and hurt and emotion that other people can't. I remembered Tonglen last night on one of my trips to the bathroom to blow my nose. I remembered that I wasn't the only person in the world feeling the sadness and grief and heartache that I was feeling last night. So I tried to feel it for everyone else feeling it--and those who couldn't--and then to breathe out peace...although my breathing was very ragged. And that's when I began to wonder if crying could be a spiritual gift...

Maybe it IS compassion or empathy or sympathy or something else. BUT. Other people feel those things, too, right? And they don't weep with the intensity and force with which I was weeping. You know?

So...COULD crying be a spiritual gift? I guess I'll sit with that thought and see.