Toward the beginning of the year, my dad read to me a statement that made a profound impact on my life: “I love you regardless of how well you’re performing.” That one statement worked its way into my consciousness as a statement from God to me, from me to God, from me to myself, from me to those I love, and from me to those I struggle even to like. It became a prayer that I prayed over the people in my life—a mantra that I repeated until negative thoughts began to turn positive—until I was remembered that we’re all human and walking this journey together.
In May, after preaching a sermon based on the statement, I accidentally allowed it to slip to the back of my mind…Until last week when I was telling a coworker a story and suddenly, “I love you regardless of how you’re performing,” popped right back to the forefront of my thinking.
For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been praying that God would allow me to see people for who they really are instead of who I want or think them to be. Sometimes I want people to be more vulnerable than they are. Sometimes I think them to be more outgoing or friendly than they are. Sometimes I want people to be more capable than they are. Sometimes I think them to be less capable than they are. I don’t mean to do it. But sometimes I want people to be who they are not. Which is not fair to either me or them.
“I love you, (peoples), regardless of how well you’re performing, (I perceive you to be performing, or I want you to perform.)”…
On Wednesday night, I went to preschool choir rehearsal to practice the narration part that I’d been assigned. It was a bit chaotic. I left the rehearsal feeling a bit overwhelmed, wondering how Sunday’s worship service was going to flow with the preschoolers playing a huge role in worship leadership.
Interjection: I have no idea how people successfully work with more than one or two preschool children at a time! I admire preschool workers and know that I could not be an effective preschool leader for more than a few minutes. Preschoolers scare me!
Because I was feeling a bit overwhelmed, I couldn’t muster the words to tell the children’s minister, Rebecca, that everything was going to be okay. I honestly didn’t know if everything was going to be okay, and I didn’t want to lie—although part of me knew that the look of exhaustion and concern on her face might be reason enough to lie—so I said nothing.
Fast forward to yesterday morning. As Rebecca was doing her final preparations for yesterday’s children-led worship service, she looked at me and said, “I told my mom the other night that I didn’t even get an ‘I believe in you’ from you on Wednesday night. And I really could have used that I believe in you.”
My response was, “Wait a minute. I didn’t say I didn’t believe in you. I always believe in you. I just wasn’t sure that I could believe in the preschooler’s program.”
“I love you, (friend), regardless of how well you (or your preschoolers) are performing.”
[Which, by the way, they performed—or worshipped—very well. It’s amazing what morning-time, a large congregation, a lot of prayer, age-appropriate content, and duct-taped picture place-cards will do for the kiddos.]…
God,
help me to see people for who they really are
instead of who I want them to be.
And help me daily to
remember, say, and believe,
in all its many forms,
I love you
Regardless of how well you’re performing,
until I truly believe it and live it
in all that I say and do.
Amen.
Monday, December 15, 2014
Thursday, December 11, 2014
That's Alright
I went to my nephew’s first home basketball game today. He’s one of the few seventh graders on the team. I’m not proud or anything.
The bleachers were crowded. My family and I sat in the only seats we could find, uncertain as to whether we were on the home or visitor’s side. We were on the visitor’s side.
As the man beside me became increasingly angry at the referees for what he deemed unfair calling, I became increasingly uncomfortable in my seat. I wanted the game to be over. Or else I wanted to be surrounded by like-minded fans.
Like-minded fans make tense situations feel a bit less intense.
But I stayed on enemy turf and listened to the man’s yelling—which I suppose wasn’t even that bad in the scheme of things—and I thought to myself, “Competitive sporting events give people permission to yell out their anger in a socially acceptable way. Maybe that’s what they’re good for. Because they’re certainly not good for nerves.”
And then I looked at the cheerleaders and chuckled. The head cheerleader would give a command and all the rest of the cheerleaders would chime in. Loud. In rhythm. Extremely positive.
My favorite of the cheers was the free throw cheer. After some positive words that I never quite understood, the cheerleaders would hold their hands up—one over their heads, one in line with their wastes—and do jazz hands until the free throw was released. If the ball went in the hoop, they’d chant a celebration. If the ball missed—which it did more often than not—they’d respond, “That’s alright.” Loud. In rhythm. Extremely positive.
I thought to myself, “Maybe we each need a group of cheerleaders to follow us around and affirm, ‘That’s alright,’ when we mess up.” Spilled coffee? That’s alright. Misplaced keys? That’s alright. Exploding moment of frustration? That’s alright. Really bad lesson? That’s alright.
Or if it’s not alright now,
Then it will be…
Even in enemy territory.
The bleachers were crowded. My family and I sat in the only seats we could find, uncertain as to whether we were on the home or visitor’s side. We were on the visitor’s side.
As the man beside me became increasingly angry at the referees for what he deemed unfair calling, I became increasingly uncomfortable in my seat. I wanted the game to be over. Or else I wanted to be surrounded by like-minded fans.
Like-minded fans make tense situations feel a bit less intense.
But I stayed on enemy turf and listened to the man’s yelling—which I suppose wasn’t even that bad in the scheme of things—and I thought to myself, “Competitive sporting events give people permission to yell out their anger in a socially acceptable way. Maybe that’s what they’re good for. Because they’re certainly not good for nerves.”
And then I looked at the cheerleaders and chuckled. The head cheerleader would give a command and all the rest of the cheerleaders would chime in. Loud. In rhythm. Extremely positive.
My favorite of the cheers was the free throw cheer. After some positive words that I never quite understood, the cheerleaders would hold their hands up—one over their heads, one in line with their wastes—and do jazz hands until the free throw was released. If the ball went in the hoop, they’d chant a celebration. If the ball missed—which it did more often than not—they’d respond, “That’s alright.” Loud. In rhythm. Extremely positive.
I thought to myself, “Maybe we each need a group of cheerleaders to follow us around and affirm, ‘That’s alright,’ when we mess up.” Spilled coffee? That’s alright. Misplaced keys? That’s alright. Exploding moment of frustration? That’s alright. Really bad lesson? That’s alright.
Or if it’s not alright now,
Then it will be…
Even in enemy territory.
Monday, December 8, 2014
Yes, I Have Faith In You
Yesterday was our annual Christmas cantata at church. The choir and I had been preparing for the morning’s service for the past couple of months and we’d been praying that the hour would be a meaningful worship experience for everyone involved.
Some songs were more difficult than others. Some motifs were quite challenging. Some beginnings were sloppy. Some endings were rough. The cantata was far from perfect. The choir was a bit worried about their ability to pull it off. And yet…I was never concerned.
As I held the door for my choir to enter the sanctuary yesterday—yes, I called them my choir because I love them—I smiled at them and offered words of encouragement. As one of my men walked by, he said something about hoping that they did okay.
I said, “You will. I have no doubt.”
He said, “You sure do have a lot more faith in us than we do in ourselves.”
“Yes, I do,” I thought. “Yes, yes I do.”
One of my friends once told me that even I knew there wasn’t a God, then I’d believe in God anyway.
Another friend once told me that I wear my heart on my sleeve and everything I own.
Both of those statements are very true.
And my choir member just added another one: I sure do have a lot more faith in people than they do in themselves.
On my tombstone or whatever else is put in place to remember my life, I want some variation of the phrase, “I believe in you,” written near my name—because if nothing else in this life, I believe in the good in people. I don’t live life with blinders. I know that there is a lot of evil in this world and that each of us battles our own demons. And I know that sometimes I struggle to believe in the good of some people. But the deeper the humanity that is seeking to grow, the more beautiful I find the person as he/she is being redeemed…and I am daily being redeemed as well.
So, yes, dear choir, I do probably have more faith in you than you have in yourselves…and the same goes for you, too, dear readers.
And for the record: Just as I predicted, the cantata was great.
Some songs were more difficult than others. Some motifs were quite challenging. Some beginnings were sloppy. Some endings were rough. The cantata was far from perfect. The choir was a bit worried about their ability to pull it off. And yet…I was never concerned.
As I held the door for my choir to enter the sanctuary yesterday—yes, I called them my choir because I love them—I smiled at them and offered words of encouragement. As one of my men walked by, he said something about hoping that they did okay.
I said, “You will. I have no doubt.”
He said, “You sure do have a lot more faith in us than we do in ourselves.”
“Yes, I do,” I thought. “Yes, yes I do.”
One of my friends once told me that even I knew there wasn’t a God, then I’d believe in God anyway.
Another friend once told me that I wear my heart on my sleeve and everything I own.
Both of those statements are very true.
And my choir member just added another one: I sure do have a lot more faith in people than they do in themselves.
On my tombstone or whatever else is put in place to remember my life, I want some variation of the phrase, “I believe in you,” written near my name—because if nothing else in this life, I believe in the good in people. I don’t live life with blinders. I know that there is a lot of evil in this world and that each of us battles our own demons. And I know that sometimes I struggle to believe in the good of some people. But the deeper the humanity that is seeking to grow, the more beautiful I find the person as he/she is being redeemed…and I am daily being redeemed as well.
So, yes, dear choir, I do probably have more faith in you than you have in yourselves…and the same goes for you, too, dear readers.
And for the record: Just as I predicted, the cantata was great.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Defining Moments: That Which We Cannot Control
I knew I was in trouble when I caught myself thinking, “I want to go to church tomorrow. I don’t want to miss the pastor’s sermon.”
Confession: Sometimes minister’s kids and/or ministers themselves—or at least this one—find themselves at church more out of obligation, expectation, or guilt than true desire. After working in full-time ministry in SC for a couple of years, I found myself somewhat burned out on church—or at least the Baptist church—and I was quietly determined to spend my Sundays elsewhere.
Then Patrick showed up. And more than once his words moved me to tears. And more than once I came home from church feeling as if God had spoken directly to me. And more than once I was curious to know what he would say next…until, all of a sudden, though I guess it wasn’t so sudden at all, I caught myself wanting to go to church—looking forward to it even—and I realized that my plan to jump Baptist ship had been sunk.
During Sunday’s sermon, Patrick presented the idea that fear comes from that which we cannot control. As such, the older we get and the more we realize just how much we are not in control, the more fear seems to paralyze us.
I’ve been thinking about that idea all week.
And I wanted to write it down tonight.
And I needed to further confess that while there is much that I fear in life,
I am learning to say,
Just as Mary once said,
“Here am I, the servant of the Lord;
let it be with me according to your word...”
Even if it means that I’m not in control.
Confession: Sometimes minister’s kids and/or ministers themselves—or at least this one—find themselves at church more out of obligation, expectation, or guilt than true desire. After working in full-time ministry in SC for a couple of years, I found myself somewhat burned out on church—or at least the Baptist church—and I was quietly determined to spend my Sundays elsewhere.
Then Patrick showed up. And more than once his words moved me to tears. And more than once I came home from church feeling as if God had spoken directly to me. And more than once I was curious to know what he would say next…until, all of a sudden, though I guess it wasn’t so sudden at all, I caught myself wanting to go to church—looking forward to it even—and I realized that my plan to jump Baptist ship had been sunk.
During Sunday’s sermon, Patrick presented the idea that fear comes from that which we cannot control. As such, the older we get and the more we realize just how much we are not in control, the more fear seems to paralyze us.
I’ve been thinking about that idea all week.
And I wanted to write it down tonight.
And I needed to further confess that while there is much that I fear in life,
I am learning to say,
Just as Mary once said,
“Here am I, the servant of the Lord;
let it be with me according to your word...”
Even if it means that I’m not in control.
Monday, December 1, 2014
Defining Moments: Maybe I'm Wrong
The weeks leading up to spring break of my junior year were not very pleasant. The fact that I remember those weeks seventeen and a half years later goes to show just how miserable they were.
I was blessed to be a NC Teaching Fellow and I was blessed to be in the Meredith Chorale, but I was not blessed that both organizations demanded my attention over spring break. I needed both to observe in a school system for a week and to go on tour with chorale for part of the week. The next-to-last stop on tour was in the county where I wanted to do my observations, so it seemed to me that I should be able to miss the final night of tour to complete my scholarship’s requirement. I was wrong.
“When you joined chorale,” my chorale director said, “you made an obligation to be a full and active part of the group. The group depends on you for every performance, so you need to be there for every performance.” And no matter how much I reasoned with her. No matter what my Teaching Fellows Director said. No matter how frustrated I became or how many tears I cried, my chorale director would not budge in her stance: I had to be at all performances on tour or else my grade would suffer. And she knew that I wouldn’t let my grade suffer.
I was not a happy chorale member on that tour. I felt disrespected, unappreciated, and uncared for by someone whom I deeply respected and those feelings colored my attitude about the whole trip. I guess maybe that’s why I don’t remember a lot of the trip—just the night that I’d wanted to leave and the beautiful church in which we were singing in Asheville—and the night that I had one of the biggest realizations of my life…
Fast forward to just before my senior year. When thinking about going to my student teaching placement, I felt sick. I’d worked with a middle school band director the year before, and I was scheduled to work with her for my student teaching placement, but I hated it. I hated it to the point that I thought maybe I’d chosen the wrong career. As I hoped that maybe it was the band director and her teaching style that I didn’t like and as I tried to figure out a way to switch schools without hurting the director’s feelings, my mom said, “Have you ever considered teaching elementary music, Dee?” Then that realization of a few months before came right back…
Sometimes I am just plain wrong.
Not just an I’ve made an error in my checkbook wrong. Or an I’ve misspoken a fact or mispronounced a name wrong. But a way-deep-down-in-the-core-of-my-being-albeit-with-really-good-intentions wrong.
It’s a wrong that comes from realizing that I’ve been so focused on what I think is right that I can’t step back and see the bigger picture of what is best.
I was so totally focused on doing my Teaching Fellows observation during spring break that I couldn’t see another way. I was so totally focused on being a band director in the public schools that I couldn’t see another way.
Yet my professor forced me to step back and see another way. And my mom’s simple question gently nudged me to do the same.
So because I didn’t do my Teaching Fellows observation during spring break, I got to spend a week with my sister before going to the mountains to do summer missions that summer. And because I didn’t stick with band, I got to do my student teaching with a woman who helped me realize that everything in my life had been pointing not to band but to general elementary music.
Sometimes, dear friends, when everything seems frustratingly hopeless, maybe we are wrong. Not deliberately or intentionally or even stubbornly. But narrowly and exhaustingly. So sometimes, dear friends, maybe we need to step back and reexamine things with a fresh set of eyes and ears.
Will it always be that easy? Of course not. But may it sometimes be? Maybe. Because sometimes, maybe we are wrong. And sometimes maybe just admitting that fact is the first step toward making things right.
So many thoughts inside my mind
So many doubts inside my heart
I want to believe
But I don't understand your plan
I ask but it's not given to me
I seek but I do not find
The answer that I'm looking for
Must be behind the closed door
With my heart's desire
But maybe I'm wrong
Maybe I'm looking at the wrong door
Maybe I'm wrong
Maybe your will is not mine
So not my will but yours be done
I'm laying my life down on the line
The weight of the world has paralyzed me
So Lord I give it to you
There's nothing more I can do
Lord take my life from me
I'm down on bended knee
Oh Lord
I was blessed to be a NC Teaching Fellow and I was blessed to be in the Meredith Chorale, but I was not blessed that both organizations demanded my attention over spring break. I needed both to observe in a school system for a week and to go on tour with chorale for part of the week. The next-to-last stop on tour was in the county where I wanted to do my observations, so it seemed to me that I should be able to miss the final night of tour to complete my scholarship’s requirement. I was wrong.
“When you joined chorale,” my chorale director said, “you made an obligation to be a full and active part of the group. The group depends on you for every performance, so you need to be there for every performance.” And no matter how much I reasoned with her. No matter what my Teaching Fellows Director said. No matter how frustrated I became or how many tears I cried, my chorale director would not budge in her stance: I had to be at all performances on tour or else my grade would suffer. And she knew that I wouldn’t let my grade suffer.
I was not a happy chorale member on that tour. I felt disrespected, unappreciated, and uncared for by someone whom I deeply respected and those feelings colored my attitude about the whole trip. I guess maybe that’s why I don’t remember a lot of the trip—just the night that I’d wanted to leave and the beautiful church in which we were singing in Asheville—and the night that I had one of the biggest realizations of my life…
Fast forward to just before my senior year. When thinking about going to my student teaching placement, I felt sick. I’d worked with a middle school band director the year before, and I was scheduled to work with her for my student teaching placement, but I hated it. I hated it to the point that I thought maybe I’d chosen the wrong career. As I hoped that maybe it was the band director and her teaching style that I didn’t like and as I tried to figure out a way to switch schools without hurting the director’s feelings, my mom said, “Have you ever considered teaching elementary music, Dee?” Then that realization of a few months before came right back…
Sometimes I am just plain wrong.
Not just an I’ve made an error in my checkbook wrong. Or an I’ve misspoken a fact or mispronounced a name wrong. But a way-deep-down-in-the-core-of-my-being-albeit-with-really-good-intentions wrong.
It’s a wrong that comes from realizing that I’ve been so focused on what I think is right that I can’t step back and see the bigger picture of what is best.
I was so totally focused on doing my Teaching Fellows observation during spring break that I couldn’t see another way. I was so totally focused on being a band director in the public schools that I couldn’t see another way.
Yet my professor forced me to step back and see another way. And my mom’s simple question gently nudged me to do the same.
So because I didn’t do my Teaching Fellows observation during spring break, I got to spend a week with my sister before going to the mountains to do summer missions that summer. And because I didn’t stick with band, I got to do my student teaching with a woman who helped me realize that everything in my life had been pointing not to band but to general elementary music.
Sometimes, dear friends, when everything seems frustratingly hopeless, maybe we are wrong. Not deliberately or intentionally or even stubbornly. But narrowly and exhaustingly. So sometimes, dear friends, maybe we need to step back and reexamine things with a fresh set of eyes and ears.
Will it always be that easy? Of course not. But may it sometimes be? Maybe. Because sometimes, maybe we are wrong. And sometimes maybe just admitting that fact is the first step toward making things right.
So many thoughts inside my mind
So many doubts inside my heart
I want to believe
But I don't understand your plan
I ask but it's not given to me
I seek but I do not find
The answer that I'm looking for
Must be behind the closed door
With my heart's desire
But maybe I'm wrong
Maybe I'm looking at the wrong door
Maybe I'm wrong
Maybe your will is not mine
So not my will but yours be done
I'm laying my life down on the line
The weight of the world has paralyzed me
So Lord I give it to you
There's nothing more I can do
Lord take my life from me
I'm down on bended knee
Oh Lord
Friday, November 28, 2014
Touching Moment: Thirty Cent Plastic Baggy
In the hecticity of the front office last Monday morning (*yes, I just made up a word*), two students quietly entered the office with lost looks on their faces. This happens quite frequently.
I looked at the students and said, “What do you need, guys?” This happens quite frequently happens, too.
The girl of the pair said, “He has change for the Penny Pageant.” (The Parent/Teacher Organization held a Penny Pageant as one of its fundraisers this year.)
The boy of the pair humbly yet hopefully held out his hand and presented me with his coin collection: a tiny plastic baggy holding 30 pennies.
I said, “Got it. I’ll get this where it needs to go.” Then I turned to go back to my morning announcement spot in the office and cried.
Many of our students don’t have much to give, and yet this student or someone in the student’s family collected thirty pennies for him to donate to the pageant. How beautiful is that, friends? How extremely beautiful is that?
Thousands of years ago, a struggling widow gave all that she had to the church. It wasn’t much. It didn’t even equal a tiny baggy of 30 cents. Yet this widow’s small gift meant more in the course of history than large riches ever could because her gift was a sacrifice of the heart.
As I consider my blessings this Thanksgiving season, I pray that everything I say, do, and give will be done in the spirit of the widow and my student (and his family) and that my life will be one lived out of beautiful sacrifices of the heart.
Always.
I looked at the students and said, “What do you need, guys?” This happens quite frequently happens, too.
The girl of the pair said, “He has change for the Penny Pageant.” (The Parent/Teacher Organization held a Penny Pageant as one of its fundraisers this year.)
The boy of the pair humbly yet hopefully held out his hand and presented me with his coin collection: a tiny plastic baggy holding 30 pennies.
I said, “Got it. I’ll get this where it needs to go.” Then I turned to go back to my morning announcement spot in the office and cried.
Many of our students don’t have much to give, and yet this student or someone in the student’s family collected thirty pennies for him to donate to the pageant. How beautiful is that, friends? How extremely beautiful is that?
Thousands of years ago, a struggling widow gave all that she had to the church. It wasn’t much. It didn’t even equal a tiny baggy of 30 cents. Yet this widow’s small gift meant more in the course of history than large riches ever could because her gift was a sacrifice of the heart.
As I consider my blessings this Thanksgiving season, I pray that everything I say, do, and give will be done in the spirit of the widow and my student (and his family) and that my life will be one lived out of beautiful sacrifices of the heart.
Always.
Monday, November 24, 2014
Sweet Moment: That Dog
Last Tuesday, I took Bullet to the knee-replacement rehab facility to see Dad. He quivered on the way there because he didn’t know where he was going, but once he got there and saw my dad he was overjoyed. He jumped onto my dad’s leg and practically danced around the room singing, and my dad was so happy to see Bullet that he endured the pain of claws digging into his still-healing wound.
Mistakingly thinking that Bullet needed to pee, I put him on the grass on the way to the car. As soon as I put him down, though, he bulleted straight back to the institutional door. He longingly looked in the window while he scratched on the door, seeing a long empty hallway keeping him from his favorite person in the world…
Fast forward to Saturday:
My brother and two of my nephews surprised my mom and me by driving down to help get my dad home. After going to the Chinese buffet per Dad’s request, we met at the house in our separate vehicles. My plan was to go into the house and roll up any carpets that might be a hazard and to help my dad get safely settled in the house before getting Bullet.
As I headed toward the front door, however, my dad, slowly turning himself to get out of my brother’s van, looked at me and said, “Are you going to go get Bullet?”
I said, “Well yes. But I was going to go into the house first and make sure everything was safe.”
“You should go get Bullet…I want to see him…like—now.”
And so I went to get Bullet from his porch. In between barks, he was speaking so loudly that I could hear him in our yard. He was also scratching at the door, wagging his tail excitedly, and jumping up and down in anticipation of his emancipation all at the same time.
And Bullet bulleted over to my dad.
And they talked to one another as if it had been weeks since they were together.
And Bullet kept trying to kiss my dad.
And the two have pretty much been inseparable since.
Sweet story, huh? And it portrays Bullet as a sweet little loving dog, right? A dog you might like to meet?
Here’s the truth: To everyone other than my immediate family, Bullet is a mean little sausage dog that has been portrayed as a grumpy old man. In his protectiveness of my dad and his neuroses of being abandoned and abused as a pup, he comes across as a ferocious fat ball of fur. He will hesitantly let you feed him with one hand while he growls at the other, and he will allow you pet him if either my dad or I am around. But…if you wanted to visit him today, you’d be out of luck. He’d bark at you. Non-stop. Today. Tomorrow. And many days to come. After all, it took him a solid year to learn to trust me.
Sometimes he’s embarrassing. Sometimes we just want him to hush. Sometimes we wish he were a more welcoming dog. And yet…still…we—especially my dad—love him…just as he is.
I suppose that this is how it is with people from time to time. We get hurt. We find ourselves abandoned. We become defensive. We act out of the need to protect. We grumble and act hypocritical. We take a long time to let down our defenses. We act ridiculous. We make too much noise. We pretend to be stronger than we really are. And yet we need to be loved and we find that love is the single greatest change agent in the world.
Thanks, Bullet, for teaching us about love once again…even if you did just pee on my mail.
Mistakingly thinking that Bullet needed to pee, I put him on the grass on the way to the car. As soon as I put him down, though, he bulleted straight back to the institutional door. He longingly looked in the window while he scratched on the door, seeing a long empty hallway keeping him from his favorite person in the world…
Fast forward to Saturday:
My brother and two of my nephews surprised my mom and me by driving down to help get my dad home. After going to the Chinese buffet per Dad’s request, we met at the house in our separate vehicles. My plan was to go into the house and roll up any carpets that might be a hazard and to help my dad get safely settled in the house before getting Bullet.
As I headed toward the front door, however, my dad, slowly turning himself to get out of my brother’s van, looked at me and said, “Are you going to go get Bullet?”
I said, “Well yes. But I was going to go into the house first and make sure everything was safe.”
“You should go get Bullet…I want to see him…like—now.”
And so I went to get Bullet from his porch. In between barks, he was speaking so loudly that I could hear him in our yard. He was also scratching at the door, wagging his tail excitedly, and jumping up and down in anticipation of his emancipation all at the same time.
And Bullet bulleted over to my dad.
And they talked to one another as if it had been weeks since they were together.
And Bullet kept trying to kiss my dad.
And the two have pretty much been inseparable since.
Sweet story, huh? And it portrays Bullet as a sweet little loving dog, right? A dog you might like to meet?
Here’s the truth: To everyone other than my immediate family, Bullet is a mean little sausage dog that has been portrayed as a grumpy old man. In his protectiveness of my dad and his neuroses of being abandoned and abused as a pup, he comes across as a ferocious fat ball of fur. He will hesitantly let you feed him with one hand while he growls at the other, and he will allow you pet him if either my dad or I am around. But…if you wanted to visit him today, you’d be out of luck. He’d bark at you. Non-stop. Today. Tomorrow. And many days to come. After all, it took him a solid year to learn to trust me.
Sometimes he’s embarrassing. Sometimes we just want him to hush. Sometimes we wish he were a more welcoming dog. And yet…still…we—especially my dad—love him…just as he is.
I suppose that this is how it is with people from time to time. We get hurt. We find ourselves abandoned. We become defensive. We act out of the need to protect. We grumble and act hypocritical. We take a long time to let down our defenses. We act ridiculous. We make too much noise. We pretend to be stronger than we really are. And yet we need to be loved and we find that love is the single greatest change agent in the world.
Thanks, Bullet, for teaching us about love once again…even if you did just pee on my mail.
Thursday, November 20, 2014
**No defining moments tonight. Just a few poems that I’ve written during the past few months. My prayer is that you will connect with at least of these tonight/today.**
-----
Always, Love, and Amen
8.14
In coming and in going,
In standing up and in lying down,
In successes and in failures,
In plans and in spontaneity,
In courage and in fear;
In all that we say and do--
God--
Guide us and protect us,
Use us and bless us,
Now and forevermore,
Always,
Love, and
Amen.
-----
Fact: I Love You, Friend
9.14
When things fall apart.
Always, I am here. Or there.
I care about you.
-----
Please Don’t Let Me Fall Apart
11.14
Every day
I’ve been dealing with this
mess
and I’m tired.
I am over this
crap.
I need a break.
I need a day to do nothing
before I lose my mind.
I’m usually good
at keeping myself together but
I don’t know
how much longer I can keep it up.
Because all these years I’ve been doing this alone:
Walking on egg-shells,
Trying to stay safe,
Showing up for everyone but myself…
Meanwhile the TV blares
And falls upon broken hearts and blind eyes.
The kids are asleep now.
I think I’ll sit in the quiet.
I need peace.
Because every day
I’ve been dealing with this
mess
and I’m tired.
------
Feel Better
11.14
Feeling bad is bad.
Everything in the world is slow.
Everything in your body hurts.
Life is a little bit harder, and yet still you push through.
Being present is important.
Elevating students above yourself is what you do. But
Try to get some rest. And
Try to take good care of yourself. For
Eliminating germs is
Really, really good. Just like you.
-----
Always, Love, and Amen
8.14
In coming and in going,
In standing up and in lying down,
In successes and in failures,
In plans and in spontaneity,
In courage and in fear;
In all that we say and do--
God--
Guide us and protect us,
Use us and bless us,
Now and forevermore,
Always,
Love, and
Amen.
-----
Fact: I Love You, Friend
9.14
When things fall apart.
Always, I am here. Or there.
I care about you.
-----
Please Don’t Let Me Fall Apart
11.14
Every day
I’ve been dealing with this
mess
and I’m tired.
I am over this
crap.
I need a break.
I need a day to do nothing
before I lose my mind.
I’m usually good
at keeping myself together but
I don’t know
how much longer I can keep it up.
Because all these years I’ve been doing this alone:
Walking on egg-shells,
Trying to stay safe,
Showing up for everyone but myself…
Meanwhile the TV blares
And falls upon broken hearts and blind eyes.
The kids are asleep now.
I think I’ll sit in the quiet.
I need peace.
Because every day
I’ve been dealing with this
mess
and I’m tired.
------
Feel Better
11.14
Feeling bad is bad.
Everything in the world is slow.
Everything in your body hurts.
Life is a little bit harder, and yet still you push through.
Being present is important.
Elevating students above yourself is what you do. But
Try to get some rest. And
Try to take good care of yourself. For
Eliminating germs is
Really, really good. Just like you.
Monday, November 17, 2014
Defining Moments: Music, Music, Music
I knew I wanted to be in band; my brother was in band. But I didn’t know what I wanted to play until my dad came home with a trumpet one day. He’d been at a furniture store when a shipment of used furniture had arrived, and for some reason a trumpet had come with it. The furniture store owner didn’t want the trumpet. My dad did. One thing led to another, my dad paid $10 for the instrument, and a little while later he got the $10 back because the furniture store owner hadn’t really wanted the money in the first place—he just figured he should charge something for the trumpet since other customers were in the store.
And so…Deanna started 6th grade band as a trumpet player playing a free antique trumpet.
I grew up in a small town. In small towns, the band director sometimes works at both the middle and high schools. When the band director works at both the middle and high schools, middle school students sometimes get to march in the high school marching band.
Deanna started marching in the high school marching band as a second/third trumpet player in 7th grade.
In 8th grade, though, my band director decided that he needed depth in his brass section, so he asked me to switch to mellophone. The mellophone, he said, was the marching French horn.
Deanna marched her 8th grade year with the mellophone…and her 9th, 11th, 12th, and 14th. She skipped marching with the mellophone her 10th grade year because she was the drum major that year. She only played one year in college since Meredith did not have a marching band and going to NC State was somewhat of a hassle.
When concert season began my 8th grade year, my band director told me that playing the French horn was just like playing the trumpet. He said that just as he’d needed depth during marching band season, he needed depth during concert season.
Deanna began playing the French horn incorrectly her 8th grade year. She continued playing French horn through college and continues playing for special occasions today.
I auditioned for Governor’s School during my 10th grade year. I auditioned using my school’s broken and dented French horn. The woman who auditioned me immediately realized that I was playing the horn incorrectly. I was using trumpet fingerings and had no idea what the thumb valve even was—because it was broken. Yet she saw and heard potential in me and accepted me for Governor’s School that summer.
Deanna’s family was going to be moving the summer Deanna was slated to go to Governor’s School. Remember: Deanna played her school’s broken and dented horn; therefore, Deanna could not move with the horn. Deanna had a problem. To make matters worse, Deanna’s new band director—the one who had chosen her as drum major her sophomore year—was considering getting a new horn for the school. Deanna’s band director wanted her to try it out.
It was shiny and silver and the thumb valve worked. It lived in a beautiful case. It was perfect. It was perfect when I took it home to practice while my parents cooked supper in the kitchen and it was perfect when I played it in the Christmas concert at school. I was very sad when my band director had to send it back to the company. I couldn’t believe that some other horn player would get to play that beauty the next year.
Deanna was perfectly content with her presents on Christmas morning of her sophomore year when her brother pointed out that there was a large bag under the tree. He suggested that Deanna see what the package was. Deanna confusedly walked to the tree, wondering what in the world was waiting there. She first saw it was for her. She then realized it was in the shape of a French horn case. She then decided that her parents had gotten her a used horn to take to Governor’s School. She finally opened the bag, saw the beautiful case, realized what was inside, hugged the shiny new horn in disbelief, and cried. Her entire family cried, too. Deanna’s family had tricked her and created one of the most beautiful moments in Deaton Family history.
I began learning to play the horn properly while at Governor’s School. My teacher there—the woman who had auditioned and seen potential in me—patiently worked with me and offered to teach me private lessons for the next two years until I went to study with her for four more years at Meredith. Somehow, I became decent enough that I earned a scholarship for playing the horn.
Deanna tells her students all the time that one never knows where music will take him/her. From a free, antique store trumpet to a total surprise of a new French Horn; from a band director who challenged her to a professor who believed in her when maybe she shouldn’t…Deanna’s life has been profoundly impacted by music and by the musicians who have made it.
What about your life? What and who has impacted you? Be grateful today. For you—we—truly are blessed.
And so…Deanna started 6th grade band as a trumpet player playing a free antique trumpet.
I grew up in a small town. In small towns, the band director sometimes works at both the middle and high schools. When the band director works at both the middle and high schools, middle school students sometimes get to march in the high school marching band.
Deanna started marching in the high school marching band as a second/third trumpet player in 7th grade.
In 8th grade, though, my band director decided that he needed depth in his brass section, so he asked me to switch to mellophone. The mellophone, he said, was the marching French horn.
Deanna marched her 8th grade year with the mellophone…and her 9th, 11th, 12th, and 14th. She skipped marching with the mellophone her 10th grade year because she was the drum major that year. She only played one year in college since Meredith did not have a marching band and going to NC State was somewhat of a hassle.
When concert season began my 8th grade year, my band director told me that playing the French horn was just like playing the trumpet. He said that just as he’d needed depth during marching band season, he needed depth during concert season.
Deanna began playing the French horn incorrectly her 8th grade year. She continued playing French horn through college and continues playing for special occasions today.
I auditioned for Governor’s School during my 10th grade year. I auditioned using my school’s broken and dented French horn. The woman who auditioned me immediately realized that I was playing the horn incorrectly. I was using trumpet fingerings and had no idea what the thumb valve even was—because it was broken. Yet she saw and heard potential in me and accepted me for Governor’s School that summer.
Deanna’s family was going to be moving the summer Deanna was slated to go to Governor’s School. Remember: Deanna played her school’s broken and dented horn; therefore, Deanna could not move with the horn. Deanna had a problem. To make matters worse, Deanna’s new band director—the one who had chosen her as drum major her sophomore year—was considering getting a new horn for the school. Deanna’s band director wanted her to try it out.
It was shiny and silver and the thumb valve worked. It lived in a beautiful case. It was perfect. It was perfect when I took it home to practice while my parents cooked supper in the kitchen and it was perfect when I played it in the Christmas concert at school. I was very sad when my band director had to send it back to the company. I couldn’t believe that some other horn player would get to play that beauty the next year.
Deanna was perfectly content with her presents on Christmas morning of her sophomore year when her brother pointed out that there was a large bag under the tree. He suggested that Deanna see what the package was. Deanna confusedly walked to the tree, wondering what in the world was waiting there. She first saw it was for her. She then realized it was in the shape of a French horn case. She then decided that her parents had gotten her a used horn to take to Governor’s School. She finally opened the bag, saw the beautiful case, realized what was inside, hugged the shiny new horn in disbelief, and cried. Her entire family cried, too. Deanna’s family had tricked her and created one of the most beautiful moments in Deaton Family history.
I began learning to play the horn properly while at Governor’s School. My teacher there—the woman who had auditioned and seen potential in me—patiently worked with me and offered to teach me private lessons for the next two years until I went to study with her for four more years at Meredith. Somehow, I became decent enough that I earned a scholarship for playing the horn.
Deanna tells her students all the time that one never knows where music will take him/her. From a free, antique store trumpet to a total surprise of a new French Horn; from a band director who challenged her to a professor who believed in her when maybe she shouldn’t…Deanna’s life has been profoundly impacted by music and by the musicians who have made it.
What about your life? What and who has impacted you? Be grateful today. For you—we—truly are blessed.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Defining Moments: Using Music To Teach
It never fails. I go to the music educator’s conference and leave feeling like a horrible music teacher. Actually, I feel like a horrible music teacher the entire time I’m there.
The conference leaders are always so good. They have such great energy and ideas and they speak about music education like it is the highest calling of humanity. They speak of Orff, Kodaly, and Dalcroze and adhere to their chosen theories of music education like there is no other way. I understand what they’re saying. I think that music education is very important and I know that each of the major theories of music education have their strengths. And yet…
I am not a true music educator.
During one of my workshops at this year’s conference, the workshop leader said, “If a moment of integration pops up, then great. I point it out and keep going. But I never set out to intentionally teach math or reading or social studies. That’s not my job.”
Inwardly, I cringed a bit and I thought, "Yes it is."
A little while later, he said, “There’s a difference between teaching music and using music to teach, folks. And I teach music.”
“And I use music to teach,” I thought. "And I finally have language for what it is that makes me feel out of place here."
Don’t get me wrong. My students and I sing and dance together. We play instruments and learn to read music. We experience rhythm, melody, beat, tempo, dynamics, and form, and I follow the NC Standard Course of Study for Music.
But music itself is not my goal.
Using music to teach the whole child is my goal.
Helping a student connect his isolated and segregated learning is what drives me.
Music is math, science, social studies, reading, write, and linguistics.
Music is cultural reality that is with us throughout our lives.
Music bridges gaps in learning and provides opportunity to express what otherwise cannot be expressed.
So why not cover both music and math on purpose? Why not cover music and history and social studies by design? Why not emphasize music and reading? Maybe it’s old-fashioned, but my students absolutely love following along in the music textbook and finding places on the map. So why not use my time with my students to try to help their brains connect everything they are learning?
The thing is? That’s not what I hear when I’m at convention. And so I leave feeling like a terrible music educator. Which maybe I am. And yet…
I use music to teach holistic learning in an increasingly fragmented world.
So I guess when receive a note from a student that says, “Thank you for helping me learn music, Ms. Deaton,” I have to trust that, true music educator or not, I’m doing something right.
And I’m doing it in my own way.
The conference leaders are always so good. They have such great energy and ideas and they speak about music education like it is the highest calling of humanity. They speak of Orff, Kodaly, and Dalcroze and adhere to their chosen theories of music education like there is no other way. I understand what they’re saying. I think that music education is very important and I know that each of the major theories of music education have their strengths. And yet…
I am not a true music educator.
During one of my workshops at this year’s conference, the workshop leader said, “If a moment of integration pops up, then great. I point it out and keep going. But I never set out to intentionally teach math or reading or social studies. That’s not my job.”
Inwardly, I cringed a bit and I thought, "Yes it is."
A little while later, he said, “There’s a difference between teaching music and using music to teach, folks. And I teach music.”
“And I use music to teach,” I thought. "And I finally have language for what it is that makes me feel out of place here."
Don’t get me wrong. My students and I sing and dance together. We play instruments and learn to read music. We experience rhythm, melody, beat, tempo, dynamics, and form, and I follow the NC Standard Course of Study for Music.
But music itself is not my goal.
Using music to teach the whole child is my goal.
Helping a student connect his isolated and segregated learning is what drives me.
Music is math, science, social studies, reading, write, and linguistics.
Music is cultural reality that is with us throughout our lives.
Music bridges gaps in learning and provides opportunity to express what otherwise cannot be expressed.
So why not cover both music and math on purpose? Why not cover music and history and social studies by design? Why not emphasize music and reading? Maybe it’s old-fashioned, but my students absolutely love following along in the music textbook and finding places on the map. So why not use my time with my students to try to help their brains connect everything they are learning?
The thing is? That’s not what I hear when I’m at convention. And so I leave feeling like a terrible music educator. Which maybe I am. And yet…
I use music to teach holistic learning in an increasingly fragmented world.
So I guess when receive a note from a student that says, “Thank you for helping me learn music, Ms. Deaton,” I have to trust that, true music educator or not, I’m doing something right.
And I’m doing it in my own way.
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