Write!

 

I went to the State Young Authors Celebration on Saturday afternoon. 

Students, teachers, and families from all across NC 

Gathered together

To celebrate the importance of writing.

 

On Saturday night, 

I went to see a friend in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. 

Students, teachers, and families 

Gathered together 

To celebrate the importance of…

Chocolate, yes. 

But also of 

Imagination and 

Writing! 

 

Needless to say,

I was quite surprised when I realized the connection 

Between two seemingly opposite events. 

 

Allan Wolf, the keynote speaker at the Young Authors Event, said that 

When you have an idea, 

Write it down. 

When you have a thought,

Write it down. 

When you are anxious, 

Write it down. 

When you are joyful, 

Write it down! 

He even went so far as to write things on his walls! 

 

Charlie Bucket, the main character in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, demonstrated that

When you have an idea, write it down.

His mother gave him a new notebook,

And he immediately started filling it with his ideas for chocolates and confectionaries.

Willy Wonka also had a notebook in which he wrote down his ideas for chocolates and confectionaries

And made his strange imagination tangible.

 

In between events, 

I was talking to a friend. 

She had a lot on her mind,

Including a lot of medical questions,

And so I said,

“Why don’t you do this?

Write down every single one of your questions and then the next time you’re talking to the doctor,

You can read the list instead of relying on your stressed brain to remember them.

Use the notes feature on your phone or

Bust out the sticky notes or index cards or legal pad or whatever you feel most comfortable with.”

 

Write it down.

Get it out. 

Whatever you’re thinking. 

Whatever you’re feeling. 

It doesn’t have to make sense.

It doesn’t have to rhyme.

You don’t have to share it with anyone

Or you can share it with as many people as you please.

 

The sheer act of writing is

creative

expressive

cathartic 

transformative. 

 

Take it from Allan Wolf,

Whose anxiety was grounded by writing. 

Take it from Charlie Bucket and Willy Wonka, 

Whose imaginations came to life through writing. 

Take it from me, 

Whose phone note feature has well over 1000 notes, from lists to quotes to musings like this. 

Take it from therapists, doctors, pastors, and life coaches 

Whose work encourages progress through writing. 

 

Writing is important. 

 

So write. 

 

Right now. 

 

Write. 

 

And if you need something to write, then consider these words from  Allan Wolf: 

 

I am here. 

I exist 

This is who I am. 

Watch me shine. 

 

Amen. 

A Reflection on Writing

 

For those of you who don’t know, Young Authors is a celebration of writing sponsored by the North Carolina Reading Association.

Each year, the association president chooses a theme that becomes the focus of student and teacher writing.

This year’s theme was “Reflections: Celebrating the Me I See.”

Each writing is first judged at the school level, then the county level, and then the state level.

Of the 500 writings that made it to the state level this year, 300 were selected as state winners.

Saturday was the state-wide celebration for those winners.

Each winner received a certificate and a printed book that contained all the winning writings.

 

On our way home from the celebration, Heidi the Librarian and I read many of the entries.

Some were funny.

Some moved us to tears.

Some were simple.

Others made us think.

 

Love poured onto many of the pages.

Family, friends, school, and sports.

It was sweet to hear of moms playing Legos with daughters,

And dads being the best coaches ever.

 

But pain bled onto many of the pages, too.

Divorce, death, rejection, unrequited love.

It was sad how much hurt the writers had experienced in their short lives,

And how quickly they felt they needed to grow up.

 

One of the most profound statements we read came from a 9^th grade student.  

She wrote:

“If I had a song written by those who hurt me, I’d be its main composer.”

 

I understand her statement.

I feel it in my core.

I am my own worst enemy.

Do you understand, too?

 

Upon reading the book, one of the moms of a GW student commented:

“You never really know what is lying on a kid’s heart.”

And she’s right.

We don’t know what’s on someone’s heart—

Maybe even our own—

Until we give them the space to write it out.

 

Good, bad, choppy, smooth, handwritten or typed, complete or incomplete, proper or poor grammar…

Maybe we all need to write more,

So that we can understand more,

And become more,

Than the reflection we currently see.

 

Amen.

The Journey of Writing

 When I was in the 8^th grade,

My Sunday School Teacher gave me a journal for graduation.

On the inside cover,

It said, “Congradulations.”

I used that journal to record middle and high school songs and poems,

And I’ve added many other journals to the collection since.

I used to write a lot of songs and poems.

I still have many of the rough drafts—

Scribbled on yellow legal paper, or napkins, or envelopes, or anything I could find to write upon.

These days, I write less by hand and more on the computer.

I also write less poetry and more prose.

I’ve never been a diary keeper or a fiction writer,

But I enjoy reflecting upon “life, work, and spirituality.”

I think my love for writing began during my junior year of high school,

When my English teacher, Mrs. Royal, encouraged me to write.

My senior English teacher, Mrs. Smith, continued the encouragement,

But then I got to college where my freshman English professor, Dr. Colby, dealt me a major blow:

My only B in my undergraduate studies.

I could not write a thesis statement to save me!

I spent many hours in Dr. Colby’s office,

Talking, crying, working, trying to become a better writer.

For a year after that class, I remember being hesitant to write.

I was afraid my writing wasn’t good enough.

I was afraid that I was going to fail.

Thankfully, life brought me out of that depression and I wrote more freely again.

When Live Journal was a thing, I posted dramatic posts of my life and work at the time.

When I was in Divinity School, one of my favorite classes was the Ministry of Writing, taught by Dr. Cartledge.

When Facebook became a thing, and I finally joined,

I wrote to give glimpses into the life of a full-time vocational minister (although I wasn’t called a minister at the time).

That was almost fourteen years ago.

I have written two notes per week almost every year since,

And I have watched my writing style change over time.

At Johnsonville, I held a weekly writing competition to get students writing.

I didn’t care about the quality of their writing as much as I cared they were writing!

At GW, I have taken it upon myself to become the point person for the Young Authors Writing Competition.

I have a vague memory of writing for the competition when I was with Mrs. Royal,

So when I became connected with it again,

I knew that I wanted to encourage my students write.

This year, GW had 16 State Writing Competition Winners!

Thanks to a handful of classroom teachers,

We had writers from every grade level, and almost every grade level was represented on the state level.

This is huge!

And I am so proud.

And I am so thankful that that middle school girl who dramatically wrote in her “Congradulations” journal didn’t stop writing…

And I hope that she never will.

 

Amen.  

The Magical Power of Words

If someone were to ask you to respond to the topic, “The Magical Power of Words,” then how would you respond?

For me, I immediately thought of words as creation. When we speak, we create. We put ideas into tangible expression. We introduce positive or negative energy with just one movement of the tongue, stroke of the pen, or touch of the keys. We ignite a fire with just one strike of a linguistic match.

I wrote:

The creation of the
Heavens and
Earth came through the
Magic of words.
And words are still creating:
Growing goodness,
Inspiring peace,
Challenging status-quo,
Overcoming ignorance that
For too long has destroyed.
Words:
Occupying time and space,
Rolling from tongue and pen,
Declaring old things new,
Saving the world with power…

A friend’s daughter responded differently, though. For her, words are indeed powerful, yet their power lies less in creation than it does destruction.

She wrote:

…So when wanting to do harm with words
Think about what you say
For someday after now
You will regret the harm you caused
Because your words will never return
They will stay above your head
No matter what you do
And no one will be friends with you…

What about you, friend? What do you say about “the magical power of words?”

And So I Keep Writing

8.12.19—And So I Keep Writing

I have the privilege of being friends with quite a few of my former students. I love seeing how they’ve grown and what they’re doing with their lives. I have students in the military, students who are teachers, students who are parents, students who are artists. One of the latter posted a picture last week that really spoke to me. It said: “Artists are people driven by the tension between the desire to communicate and the desire to hide.”

I get that. There are times when I feel like I have so much to say—and I want to say it. But there are other times when I feel as if I’ve got nothing to say (or maybe I’ve got too much to say)—and I want to hide. Lately, I’ve been in a place of hiding, and writing has been hard.

Evenso, I know that I need to write. I know that I need to keep up this discipline even though it is hard.

Romans 5 says: Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we boast in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.

And so I keep writing…hoping that somehow I will find and offer hope…because hope does not put us to shame…even when the world seems dark and there don’t seem to be enough words to say.

It Is For Freedom

I confess. It’s easier not to write. I got off schedule during the last week of school because after working on an end-of-year computer requirement that involved writing for at least 8 hours each day I was, quite frankly, tired of looking at the computer. In fact, if I remember correctly, when I got home that Thursday night, I was so tired of everything that I plopped onto the couch and didn’t move for over three hours. Then I went to Florida to surprise non-internet using G-mama, to kid-sit Griffin the Nephew and Amelia the Niece, and on family vacation where internet connection was hit or miss. I could have written each of those nights. It was possible. But, like I said, it’s easier not to write. It’s easier not to do things that take time, discipline, vulnerability, and sacrifice.

Honestly, I’ve given serious thought to discontinuing these Monday and Thursday posts. I started writing them six years ago as a means of letting people know that those of us in full-time vocational ministry were not super-humans but regular-humans that experience life just like everyone else, and while I ended my work in full-time vocational ministry 2012, I’ve kept writing. I’ve kept writing because I knew it was a discipline that was good—a simple spiritual discipline of sorts—not a spiritual discipline listed in Foster’s Celebration of Discipline—but a discipline nonetheless. Yet many times my non-super-human self finds itself wondering, “What’s the point of posting each week? I don’t have anything profound to say. I write about Bullet and my family and school most of the time. And when I do write something spiritually or emotionally significant, most people don’t read it, so why put the words out there? Why not just stop?”

Before Mister Pastor Patrick announced that he and his family were returning home to live in Texas, he had scheduled yesterday and next Sunday as vacation time and asked my dad to fill the pulpit on those two Sundays. So my dad spoke yesterday and preached about freedom—about a people’s challenge to use their freedom not to take care of themselves and build up their own riches but to honor God and take care of one another.

In setting up the sermon for the children, Rebecca the Children’s Minister asked the children to recite the last line of The Star Spangled Banner: “O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.” She told the kids that even though we are each free to do pretty much anything we want to do—as long as we don’t break the law—we, as Christ-followers, are challenged to do things that are good and right and of God—and those things often take bravery.

As I write tonight, fireworks are going off around me. Bullet is petrified but hundreds of thousands of people around the country are celebrating freedom. I am grateful. And I am challenged to uphold and share a message of freedom to the people of every tribe, nation, and tongue, for the freedom that dominates my heart and mind tonight is a freedom that transcends tribe, nation, and tongue.

You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love. For the entire law is fulfilled in keeping this one command: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” If you bite and devour each other, watch out or you will be destroyed by each other…[And] the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things there is no law. Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires. Since we live by the Spirit, let us keep in step with the Spirit (--excerpts from Galatians 5).

Freedom. Love. Patience. Self-control. Discipline. Bravery.

I could stop writing. It would be so easy to stop writing. Life would go on and the world would keep turning. Yet on this Independence Day as I recognize that I am fortunate to have the freedom to pretty much do as I please, I also recognize that freedom is not free and that it comes with a call to be greater than myself. It comes with a call to be brave and to live by the Spirit that once called and continues to call me to walk this journey of faith with those around me…together…sacrificially…with discipline…and Love.

Bubbling Home

Last week, with the help of a couple of friends, and over the course of two afternoons, I sorted through the prizes that I had compiled for my school’s school-wide art/writing challenge of the week.

Each Monday morning, we announce a new challenge of the week. On Friday, we announce the week’s winners.

In the process of prize-sorting, I found a bunch of small containers of bubble-stuff.

Naturally, this week’s challenge of the week was: Imagine that a bubble came down from the sky, picked you up, and took you anywhere in the world that you wanted to go, to do anything in the world that you wanted to do. Draw a picture of this adventure and write a little bit about it.

After a night of marathon baking for tomorrow’s First Friday Treats (we have teacher treats at my school on the first Friday of every month), I just sat down to read this week’s challenge answers. I’ve been smiling a lot since sitting down…and I’m currently wishing that a bubble really could come down and take my students where they want to go: the desert, New York City, on a taxi ride, Paris, to see a parent, Hollywood, the zoo, Disneyworld, the beach, home.

And here is the line that I love the most: “And if I was to do all that I would be excited, happy, and in a good mood. I just love when you can do all those things by a bubble.”

*I smile*

Folks. Bubbles may not really come down from the sky, pick us up, and take us away. But in our minds, we can dream. And in our dreams we can smile. And in our smiles, we can glimpse a bit of the beauty that life can be.

And another: “In conclusion, sometimes, wherever you go, sometimes you get excited, but, you miss home, too.”

*I smile again.*

Folks. Sometimes we will go places—though not by bubble of course—and we will be excited. But when it’s all said and done, in our dreams and in our smiles, it’s the beauty of home that holds our hearts. The homes we are given. The homes we make. The homes where we rest. The homes where we simply fit.

I just love when we can do all those things by a bubble.
And I love when that bubble feels like coming home.

And This Is My Kindness

Each week, B gives an art challenge of the week. On Friday mornings, we announce the winners and they come to the office to get a small prize. She’s been doing this since last year.

Sometime earlier this school-year, I decided that I’d present students with a character education challenge of the week. (Yes, I chose character education rather than music. What does that say about my passion as a teacher?) On Friday mornings, I announce the winners and they, too, come to the office to get a small prize.

Friday morning announcements have actually become one of the favorite times of the week—students crammed into the office, full of excitement from their wins, pushing through nerves to say their names on the intercom, joining voices in both the pledge of allegiance and the Johnsonville song. It’s really a neat experience. (It’s also a neat experience to learn that classroom teachers have turned the character education challenge into a classroom writing activity.)

The character education trait of both December and January has been kindness. I’ve had students define kindness, describe how they have recently shown kindness, draw and explain a holiday kindness scene, and write a poem about kindness.

This week’s assignment is similar to the latter yet somewhat specific: write a kindness acrostic. I explained what an acrostic was this morning and I’ll remind everyone again in the next few days. We’ll see if I get any kindness acrostics by Friday morning or if the character education box will be full of trash and overflow art challenge answers (which is the sometimes the case). Either way, I’m going to do my own character education challenge this week. So here it is—a kindness acrostic—in very typical Deanna style:

And This Is My…

Keep going, my friend.
It may seem that all is lost, but things are
Never beyond redemption.
Don’t give up. You can do it. And you
Never need do it alone.
Every moment, every minute, every
Second. You have my love and
Support. I believe in you.

What’s your kindness acrostic?

Or, if you want to participate in this week’s art challenge, here’s what you need to do: Draw the silhouette of an animal. Drawings or writings can be posted here or sent my way via county mail :-).

Love's Peace

It’s my junior English teacher’s fault, this writing that I do. At the height of my angst driven teenage years, she encouraged me to write. I had written before, but I’d never really shared with anyone. She encouraged me to share. So I did. And she read. And gave me feedback. And put up with my emotions riding the roller coaster that is a seventeen year old’s emotional life…

Fast forward eleven years. Standing in my classroom before my first class arrives, I look outside and see a beautiful autumn tree framed against a gorgeous blue sky. I write…

Fast forward nine more years. Sitting on my couch after a good day’s work, I think of my daily commute and smile as I think of the scenery that paints the way…

And though I know I’ve posted this poem before, I’m posting it again tonight, and blaming it on my junior English teacher, and on the God who created a fascinatingly complicated and lovely world.

Love’s Peace
10.5.04

Green transitions to orange and red
A gentle breeze caressing skin
As eyes close to rest in the moment.

It’s unspoken understanding that transcends the what’s,
What’s filling the silence only as nervous energy drawn by
Connection too deep for words.
Beauty lives where senses are heightened and
Awareness of creation is so red that it dances a waltz for the very first time.
What’s fade into the background as
Sweet fragrance takes center stage and
Presence becomes undeniable.

Capture the moment in picture—
Oils or pastels or watercolors feverishly transforming canvas
From barren white to radiant color.
Capture the moment in song—
Harps or keys or drums bursting forth from soft rustle
Creating vibrations so simple and powerful and they invoke passionate tears.

Green transitions to orange and red
A gentle breeze caressing skin
As eyes close to rest in the moment.

Humility envelopes any thought of pride:
There is Love much bigger than life and
Love’s Peace decorates the world today.

Ninety One Years Later: The Card Underline

June 13, 1922.
The old house in the country of Hollister, NC.
Ethel Shearin delivers her first baby girl: Nina Louise Shearin.
Nina’s mom, dad, and doctor are present.

June 13, 2013.
The house in the Holiday Hill area of Jacksonville, FL.
Nina Louise Shearin Kidd celebrates her 91st birthday.
Nina’s three daughters, two son-in-laws, two of her grandchildren, and her great-grand-monkey are present.

Nina Kidd has lived a good life, seen a lot of changes—not the least of which was desegregation—and become affectionately known as G-mama to her four grandchildren and five great-children.

This grandchild is one of the ones present with her today.

In many ways, not having a job has been very challenging and recent weeks have been no exception. But in other ways, not having a job has been a blessing because I’ve gotten to spend extra time with the people I love—G-mama being no exception.

As G-mama opened her cards and presents today, I giggled when I saw that one of her friends had done the “card underline” on G-mama’s card. She had also filled the card with handwritten news, not caring that the cursive was shaky and lines of writing crooked.

You see, that’s what G-mama always does when she sends cards. She does the “card underline”—the single, double, or triple underlining of certain words as a means of highlighting them—and then includes a handwritten message of news and/or good wishes. She also usually sends a dollar inside the card.

Many years ago, when I was sending 7-10 cards per week—I actually had a spreadsheet to keep myself organized!—G-mama and I sent each other a lot of dollars and cards full of the card underline. G-mama collected her dollars until she had enough to pay for a pedicure. I left my dollars in their cards so that I could go back and find them later.

In recent years, I’ve been terrible at sending cards. I have a whole bunch purchased. I have forever stamps. I like sharing the card underline with friends and family. Yet. Birthdays and holidays and random days come and go while cards don’t get sent. From me. But from G-mama?

With 91 years of life behind her and a very shaky left hand, G-mama still sends cards. She doesn’t send as many as she used to because so many of her friends have died. But she still sends cards, complete with the card underline, to friends and family whenever the occasion arises.

I admire that about G-mama. I always have.

I probably won’t have 3 children and 4 grandchildren and 5 great-children and sending cards through the mail may be obsolete by the time I’m ninety-one, but still…I hope that after 91 years of living, I am still thinking about those whom I love and doing whatever I can to brighten their days.

Thank you, G-mama for your example and for introducing us to the “card underline.”
You are loved.
And we are blessed.
Happy birthday!
And amen.

Because I Forgot Yesterday Was Thursday...

...I didn’t write my Thursday note.

It was an honest oversight.

Really.

I completed my final 24-hour on-call Wednesday. I was awake at 6:30am that morning and began steady work at 9am. I didn’t stop until 4:15am yesterday. The time in between those hours was beautifully wonderfully terribly tragically amazing.

Needless to say, I left the hospital a little tired. I took a short nap yesterday morning, but I still sort of felt like a zombie the rest of the day.

I also went to the skilled nursing facility at which I volunteer on a day that I normally do not go. I had the privilege of introducing a new volunteer to “my people” and got to celebrate a dear woman’s 94th birthday. But it felt like Tuesday.

And so.

In my zombie-like state, I forgot it was Thursday.

And I didn’t write my Thursday note.

Naturally, I was surprised when my mom looked at me this morning and said, “You didn’t ever post your Thursday note?”

Blankly, I said, “Oh. No. I never wrote it.”

So I’m writing it now.

And I’m not saying much in the process.

Because I’m still sort of zombie-ized.

And I’m itching because my leftover beach sunburn is peeling and I’m sitting beside Bullet to whom I’m allergic.

But I’m writing.

And discipline is important in writing.
And in keeping the kitchen clean.
And the rugs that get covered with dog hair.
And the refrigerator that fills with leftovers.
And the car that fills with travel mugs.
And the belly button that fills with lint.

The end.

Don't Let Anyone Tell You Who You Aren't

I’m not very good with the DVR. Sometime last week, in the middle of my fight with flu, I accidently told the DVR to record the whole series of The Mentalist instead of just the one episode I was trying to watch. I watch The Mentalist because of my dad. He was watching it one night and I got hooked. This tends to happen to me when watching TV.

At the beginning of this week, during my dad’s fight with a sinus infection, my mom told us that we needed to clean off some of our episodes of The Mentalist because they were was filling up recording space. Being the good daughter that I am, I have since spent every possible moment watching The Mentalist in an effort to clean off the DVR, even if it’s meant sitting beside a coughing, hacking dad.

Last night, as I was fitting in one final episode of The Mentalist before going to bed, a minor character said some really mean things to Jane, the mentalist. I like Jane. He’s highly intelligent and quirky and he always drinks hot tea. So when that man said something mean to him, it made me mad. In my anger toward a minor character on a fictional TV show, I posted the statement:

“Don’t let anyone tell you who you aren’t.”

I was talking to Jane, on a recording of a TV show from 2009, but I knew the non-fictional, real-life truth in the statement as I was writing it. I also know the truth of its opposite when the teller is speaking from fear or ignorance: “Don’t let anyone tell you who you are.”

When I woke up this morning, I found a short conversation between two very unlikely people on my wall. They had both responded to my statement to Jane, and then Dr. Colby, my college English professor, told Christina, one of my dearest friends from divinity school, that she looked fully alive in her profile picture. Christina simply said thanks.

What Dr. Colby doesn’t know is that Christina is fully alive—that her current profile picture, while demonstrating happiness and life, isn’t the happiest I’ve ever seen her. Christina is full of deep joy and a giving, hospitable spirit that has reminded me many times to breathe and to remember that I am exactly who God created me to be.

What Christina doesn’t know is that Dr. Colby made a huge impact on my life in college. While it’s true that I made my only B in Dr. Colby’s English class and that I couldn’t, for the life of me, write a thesis statement to her liking :-), it’s also true that the many hours we spent together because of my writing difficulties built a mutual respect that has stood the course of time. I suppose that in an ideal world I would have sailed through that English class, made an A, and graduated with a 4.0. But, in the real world, struggling through Dr. Colby’s class, having a crisis of belief in myself and my ability to write (a crisis lasted for well over a year), having a mentor to walk the course with me and teach me, and emerging from the crisis with my own voice, means way more than a perfect GPA. It's not like anyone walks around asking about my college GPA anyway! Through the ears of my perfectionist, people pleasing, self critical, self damning college self, I heard Dr. Colby telling me that I couldn’t write—that I was not a writer. But she wasn’t telling me that. She was trying help me be the best writer and self that I could be.

I am blessed to have parents with whom to watch TV and share these days of life. I am blessed with their DVR and sofa and electricity that allow me to see the world through different characters’ eyes. I am blessed to have friends like Christina and Dr. Colby—friends who believe in and support me not for who I’m not or should be but for who I am. And if you are reading this then I am blessed to have you, too. I am blessed that you care to read words from a girl with a blemished writing past and that you have given your time to my thoughts.

Don’t let anyone tell you who you’re not, friends. And don’t let anyone tell you who you are unless they are affirming what you know to be true in your spirit…that you are a loved and cherished person of worth and value, created in God’s image, redeemed by God’s grace, gifted by God’s spirit, freed by Christ’s forgiveness, and held in God’s love even when you do not know it is there. God’s love is there, my friends. It is there. Actually, it is here. It's what Christmas is all about. And it can never, ever be erased.