Dr. Smith starts every class with a metaphor.
If I were following her lead and starting class tonight, then tonight’s metaphor would be my shoes.
I would place my shoes in front of the class and ask everyone to come up with the metaphor.
After a few moments of silence, everyone would start sharing their thoughts. I would be grateful for the thoughts and celebrate each insight, but the insight that I would most want to hear would be something like this:
If you don’t regularly care for your shoes, then they will dry out, crack, and end up looking and feeling rough and being difficult to restore. The same goes for your body and spirit.
Something I don’t talk about a lot is the fact that I pray for my shoes when I buy them. I pray that God will use them to help me bless the places I go and the people I see while wearing them. I also pray that God will honor the money I’ve spent because I hate spending money on myself—yet I believe in wearing quality shoes because I’m on my feet so much.
I bought these particular shoes over a decade ago. I’ve worn them a lot—though I only have one specific memory of wearing them before today: Spray painting rhythm sticks silver for Harnett Off Broadway while working at Erwin Elementary. I don’t remember which year’s performance needed those sticks, but I remember having on these shoes because they got showered with spray paint residue and subsequently sparkled for a long time afterward. I was not impressed.
What I will remember about wearing these shoes today is this: One of my coworkers looked at my feet at the end of the day and said, “Deaton! Those shoes look rough! They must have been through a lot.”
Since it’s Thursday, I could have easily answered yes. I have often left school on Thursdays feeling like I would quit if given the opportunity. My patience and energy have been sucked out of me and I have been left feeling rough. But today, contrary to the appearance of my shoes, I didn’t feel that way. I was tired, yes. My weeks are long. But I felt okay.
Tonight, when I got home, somewhat embarrassed by the declaration about my shoes but moreso glad to have a few hours at home before bedtime, I polished my shoes. I decided to change their reality.
A couple of weeks ago, after a particularly rough Thursday, I decided to change my reality. I decided that I had to shift my spirit lest I constantly be in a state of cracked ugliness—especially on Thursday afternoons.
Shoe polish helped my shoes. Prayer, deep breathing, picking my battles, accepting my boundaries, and calling on the name of Jesus helped my spirit.
Are my shoes now back in perfect condition? No. Are my Thursdays now wonderful? No. But both are better because both have been tended to.
I think I’ll try to tend more often and more intentionally. And I think I’ll keep my eyes open for more metaphors. I think it will make Dr. Smith proud.
Thursday, February 16, 2017
Monday, February 13, 2017
Blind Inspiration
“Welcome to Stacey B. and Deanna!”
I chucked when I read that statement on the white board last Thursday night. Stacey and I had gone to speak to this semester’s Special Needs class at Campbell and the professor had welcomed us with those words. I felt a bit like a rock-star with the one word name, but I made sure to let the class know that, despite my rock-star looks, I wasn’t actually a rock-star. I was, instead, just an elementary music teacher serving as chauffer to the guest of honor for the night: a vision impaired teaching hero.
I wrote about my adventures with Stacey after she helped me with a presentation last semester. That night, we went to the Walmart and Stacey amazed me with her knowledge of the store. She has the aisles memorized. This past Thursday night, however, we simply went out to eat. I took her to the local Mexican restaurant and we had a delicious meal together. Like last semester, we had a great time, and I went to bed that night with a deeper respect for someone for whom I already had great respect.
For Stacey, not being able to see is normal. Born prematurely, she received too much oxygen in the incubator that saved her life but left her blind. When her twin sister began reaching for things and tracking objects with her eyes, Stacey did not. It was then that her parents realized that something was wrong and that her parents decided that they would be her biggest advocate. When schools told them that they could not teach Stacey because she was blind, Stacey’s parents said, “Yes you will.” Stacey went to “regular” public schools her entire life, then proceeded to a “regular” college, and then earned her master’s degree from a “regular” university. When others were out partying, Stacey was scanning pages of textbooks so that her computer could read them to her. When others were skimming hundreds of pages of reading, Stacey was listening to them all—unable to skim without the ability to see—listening as fast as she could but still being limited by the speed of the computer.
Stacey has a “regular” teaching degree. She did her student teaching in “regular” elementary school classroom, but she has chosen to teach vision impaired students the technological and life skills that they need to succeed in the world. No doubt, current technology makes things a bit less complicated for students today, yet things are still not nearly as easy as they are for those of us who can see.
Take, for instance, eating. While preparing for last Thursday night’s class, Stacey and I decided that it would be fun to ask the students to eat cake off of a small place. Stacey confessed that this is always difficult—especially in places where you are often expected to stand—like wedding receptions and other celebratory events. Stacey made the cake and provided the forks. The professor provided the plates and napkins. The students in class all struggled to get the cake on their forks and get the forks to their mouths without making a mess. They said they felt helpless, frustrated, and overwhelmed. I caught myself wanting to cheat—and I caught myself thinking, “I’ll just wait to finish my piece of cake when I can see again—because then it won’t be so hard and messy.”
For Stacey, eating without seeing has been her life’s reality. So is it more difficult for a seeing person to suddenly take away her sense of sight and expect her to be successful at a task? Maybe so. But the lesson was real nonetheless: There are so many things we take for granted.
Driving. Walking freely. Reading the directions on the side of the cake box. Reading a menu. Seeing in color. Seeing the face of a loved one. Seeing the crinkly little feet of a newborn baby. Dreaming in color. Watching a movie. Watching a game. Being able to avoid running over your dad who is working on the lawnmower in the yard while you are riding your bike (this is one of my favorite stories from Stacey’s childhood—she forgot that he was working in the yard and rode her bike right over him!)
Again, for Stacey, not being able to see is what she has always known. She has learned to live her life in such a way that she sees everything she needs to see. She would never want anyone to feel sorry for her or treat her any differently than we would treat a non-vision-impaired person. And yet…I must admit that Stacey inspires me…and she challenges me not to take the simplest things in life for granted…not even the knowledge of knowing that there is food on my fork when I place it in my mouth.
Who is someone who inspires you and challenges you to life to the fullest? Make sure you tell him/her thank you today.
I chucked when I read that statement on the white board last Thursday night. Stacey and I had gone to speak to this semester’s Special Needs class at Campbell and the professor had welcomed us with those words. I felt a bit like a rock-star with the one word name, but I made sure to let the class know that, despite my rock-star looks, I wasn’t actually a rock-star. I was, instead, just an elementary music teacher serving as chauffer to the guest of honor for the night: a vision impaired teaching hero.
I wrote about my adventures with Stacey after she helped me with a presentation last semester. That night, we went to the Walmart and Stacey amazed me with her knowledge of the store. She has the aisles memorized. This past Thursday night, however, we simply went out to eat. I took her to the local Mexican restaurant and we had a delicious meal together. Like last semester, we had a great time, and I went to bed that night with a deeper respect for someone for whom I already had great respect.
For Stacey, not being able to see is normal. Born prematurely, she received too much oxygen in the incubator that saved her life but left her blind. When her twin sister began reaching for things and tracking objects with her eyes, Stacey did not. It was then that her parents realized that something was wrong and that her parents decided that they would be her biggest advocate. When schools told them that they could not teach Stacey because she was blind, Stacey’s parents said, “Yes you will.” Stacey went to “regular” public schools her entire life, then proceeded to a “regular” college, and then earned her master’s degree from a “regular” university. When others were out partying, Stacey was scanning pages of textbooks so that her computer could read them to her. When others were skimming hundreds of pages of reading, Stacey was listening to them all—unable to skim without the ability to see—listening as fast as she could but still being limited by the speed of the computer.
Stacey has a “regular” teaching degree. She did her student teaching in “regular” elementary school classroom, but she has chosen to teach vision impaired students the technological and life skills that they need to succeed in the world. No doubt, current technology makes things a bit less complicated for students today, yet things are still not nearly as easy as they are for those of us who can see.
Take, for instance, eating. While preparing for last Thursday night’s class, Stacey and I decided that it would be fun to ask the students to eat cake off of a small place. Stacey confessed that this is always difficult—especially in places where you are often expected to stand—like wedding receptions and other celebratory events. Stacey made the cake and provided the forks. The professor provided the plates and napkins. The students in class all struggled to get the cake on their forks and get the forks to their mouths without making a mess. They said they felt helpless, frustrated, and overwhelmed. I caught myself wanting to cheat—and I caught myself thinking, “I’ll just wait to finish my piece of cake when I can see again—because then it won’t be so hard and messy.”
For Stacey, eating without seeing has been her life’s reality. So is it more difficult for a seeing person to suddenly take away her sense of sight and expect her to be successful at a task? Maybe so. But the lesson was real nonetheless: There are so many things we take for granted.
Driving. Walking freely. Reading the directions on the side of the cake box. Reading a menu. Seeing in color. Seeing the face of a loved one. Seeing the crinkly little feet of a newborn baby. Dreaming in color. Watching a movie. Watching a game. Being able to avoid running over your dad who is working on the lawnmower in the yard while you are riding your bike (this is one of my favorite stories from Stacey’s childhood—she forgot that he was working in the yard and rode her bike right over him!)
Again, for Stacey, not being able to see is what she has always known. She has learned to live her life in such a way that she sees everything she needs to see. She would never want anyone to feel sorry for her or treat her any differently than we would treat a non-vision-impaired person. And yet…I must admit that Stacey inspires me…and she challenges me not to take the simplest things in life for granted…not even the knowledge of knowing that there is food on my fork when I place it in my mouth.
Who is someone who inspires you and challenges you to life to the fullest? Make sure you tell him/her thank you today.
Thursday, February 9, 2017
Spelling Bee Cooperation
Today was the annual school spelling-bee and my fourth year serving as pronouncer for the event. I really enjoy this job, but it’s surprisingly difficult.
Each year, the national spell bee people produce an official list of spelling bee words, complete with word origin, pronunciation, part of speech, definition, and sentence. If the word is a homonym or one that sounds like another word, then the pronouncer must share that information. All other information is up to pronouncer discretion or shared upon participant request.
While the words are in a formal list, each school has freedom to select which words it will use. Additionally, each participant is given a number and referred to as that number for the entire bee. Since one never knows if a participant will get his/her word correct, one cannot pre-number the words.
Therefore, the pronouncer must keep track of which word she is on, who the word belongs to (by number), if the participant gets the word right or wrong, how the information will influence other rounds, what round she is in, etc. I was reading, calling, marking, and making notes all at the same time.
Again, I enjoyed it, but it was surprisingly difficult. I’m glad I am fairly organized.
Each year’s bee is different. Sometimes the kids are nervous. Sometimes they are not. Sometimes the kids are dressed up. Sometimes they are not. Sometimes lots of kids get out quickly. Sometimes they do not. Sometimes the final battle lasts for a long time. Sometimes it does not. Sometimes a champion is immediately declared. Sometimes it is not. Sometimes the championship word is missed and a winner cannot be declared until another final battle has been fought and another championship word has been announced.
What made this year’s bee unique, though, was the camaraderie that the participants shared. Once it got down to just a few participants, they were openly cheering for one another—giving each other high fives and fist bumps. They wanted their competitors to spell their words correctly. They wanted to see each other succeed.
Yes. The spelling bee is a competition. Yes. Each kid wanted to win. But the view from the pronouncers chair today was one of little animosity and lots of good cheer and, well, it made this pronouncer smile…and have to look up how to spell camaraderie just to complete this note .
Each year, the national spell bee people produce an official list of spelling bee words, complete with word origin, pronunciation, part of speech, definition, and sentence. If the word is a homonym or one that sounds like another word, then the pronouncer must share that information. All other information is up to pronouncer discretion or shared upon participant request.
While the words are in a formal list, each school has freedom to select which words it will use. Additionally, each participant is given a number and referred to as that number for the entire bee. Since one never knows if a participant will get his/her word correct, one cannot pre-number the words.
Therefore, the pronouncer must keep track of which word she is on, who the word belongs to (by number), if the participant gets the word right or wrong, how the information will influence other rounds, what round she is in, etc. I was reading, calling, marking, and making notes all at the same time.
Again, I enjoyed it, but it was surprisingly difficult. I’m glad I am fairly organized.
Each year’s bee is different. Sometimes the kids are nervous. Sometimes they are not. Sometimes the kids are dressed up. Sometimes they are not. Sometimes lots of kids get out quickly. Sometimes they do not. Sometimes the final battle lasts for a long time. Sometimes it does not. Sometimes a champion is immediately declared. Sometimes it is not. Sometimes the championship word is missed and a winner cannot be declared until another final battle has been fought and another championship word has been announced.
What made this year’s bee unique, though, was the camaraderie that the participants shared. Once it got down to just a few participants, they were openly cheering for one another—giving each other high fives and fist bumps. They wanted their competitors to spell their words correctly. They wanted to see each other succeed.
Yes. The spelling bee is a competition. Yes. Each kid wanted to win. But the view from the pronouncers chair today was one of little animosity and lots of good cheer and, well, it made this pronouncer smile…and have to look up how to spell camaraderie just to complete this note .
Monday, February 6, 2017
Worship Despite Ourselves
Sometimes I have no direction. I have a theme. I have a scripture passage. I have a sermon title. And yet I have no direction. Songs play in my head, but they don’t feel right. Songs fall under the right category in the hymnbook index, but they don’t feel right. The words aren’t what we need. The melody isn’t familiar. The message, tune, and/or tempo don’t fit with the mood or flow of the service. And so I find myself at a loss.
Sometimes I ask my mom for help. Sometimes my dad. The truth is that my mom knows more about the hymnal than I’ll ever know and that my dad knows exactly what he is hoping a worship service will convey. Sometimes their suggestions directly pull me out of my rut. Sometimes they give me a directional tug. But sometimes even they don’t feel right. So sometimes I ask my praise team members for help. And the same thing will happen. Sometimes their suggestions pull me directly out of my rut while other times they give me a directional tug.
Yesterday’s worship service was a combination of all of the above: My mom directly chose what ended up being the Call to Worship and the second and third hymns while Rebecca the Children’s Minister chose what ended up being the special music. The thing that I wrestled with was where to place the songs that we had selected…and knowing that the praise team hadn’t practiced either song that we were supposed to play.
Truth be told, I hadn’t made a final decision about the order of yesterday’s music when I arrived at church. I knew my options, and I had a pretty good idea of what we would be doing when, but nothing was solid. As the praise team’s pre-service warm-up began and the members began to rag-taggedly arrive, I quickly determined that we would do the special music and settled into practice.
Here’s what happened, though: The first time we practiced the song that Rebecca the Children’s Minister had suggested, it was me, Rebecca, and Ethan the Bass Player and Vocalist. We figured out the vocal arrangement, and then Rebecca had to go do something else. Then David the Keyboard Player arrived. So Ethan and I practiced with David. I tried to figure out which guitar style sounded best with the song—strum or pick. Then Leslie the Vocalist and Guitar player arrived. So I handed her my guitar, showed her the strum part, shared with her what we had decided for the vocalists, got out my other guitar, and began playing the pick part. The combination of everything together sounded good, but Leslie’s guitar wasn’t coming through the sound system. Then Jeff the Vocalist and Sound Guy showed up. So I shared with him what we had decided for the vocalists, practiced one verse, and then asked him to see if he could figure out what was wrong with Leslie’s guitar pick up.
By this point, quite a few people had gathered in the sanctuary for worship. The rag-tag nature of how everyone had arrived was evident in how we were set up; Jeff and I were having to yell at each other to figure out the problem with Leslie’s guitar (the sound booth is at the back of the sanctuary in a room above the sanctuary); and the choir was waiting on me in the choir room. As soon as we got the guitar amplified and our equipment set up in such a way that it did not reflect chaos, I went to the choir room to get the choir ready for the service. After a quick warm-up and a prayer, we entered the sanctuary for worship.
The choir sang the Call To Worship. It was literally a musical version of the scripture reading of the day and led perfectly into the first hymn. The praise team sang the special music. One more member of the praise team showed up to sing. Just before we began, Rebecca quietly shared with her the vocal arrangement and then we sang…
There are times when the choir and/or praise team will work on a song for weeks. We will practice long and hard and wait for just the right time to offer our song in worship. And then no one will say anything in response…or if they do then it will be a complaint—the most common of which is that the praise team is too loud and the instruments unbalanced.
Then there are times like yesterday when the choir pulls out an old song and the praise team does the same…and things are a bit scattered and crazy like the episode chronicled above…and then numerous people tell me that the music was absolutely beautiful—the harmonies, the balance, the volume, and the message. When this happened yesterday, all I could say was, “It was God.” Because surely it was. You read about the morning and the uncertainty that led to it all. What else could it have been?
Thank you, God, for using us despite of ourselves. And help us to become the prayer that we sang. Amen.
-----
Lord, Make us instruments of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let your love increase
Lord, make us instruments of your peace,
Walls of pride and prejudice shall cease
When we are your instruments of peace.
Where there is hatred, we will show his love
Where there is injury, we will never judge
Where there is striving, we will speak his peace
To the millions crying for release,
We will be his instruments of peace
Lord, Make us instruments of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let your love increase
Lord, make us instruments of your peace,
Walls of pride and prejudice shall cease
When we are your instruments of peace.
Where there is blindness, we will pray for sight
where there is darkness, we will shine his light
Where there is sadness, we will bear their grief
To the millions crying for relief,
We will be your instruments of peace.
Lord, Make us instruments of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let your love increase
Lord, make us instruments of your peace,
Walls of pride and prejudice shall cease
When we are your instruments of peace.
Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be
Whispered words of wisdom, let it be
Sometimes I ask my mom for help. Sometimes my dad. The truth is that my mom knows more about the hymnal than I’ll ever know and that my dad knows exactly what he is hoping a worship service will convey. Sometimes their suggestions directly pull me out of my rut. Sometimes they give me a directional tug. But sometimes even they don’t feel right. So sometimes I ask my praise team members for help. And the same thing will happen. Sometimes their suggestions pull me directly out of my rut while other times they give me a directional tug.
Yesterday’s worship service was a combination of all of the above: My mom directly chose what ended up being the Call to Worship and the second and third hymns while Rebecca the Children’s Minister chose what ended up being the special music. The thing that I wrestled with was where to place the songs that we had selected…and knowing that the praise team hadn’t practiced either song that we were supposed to play.
Truth be told, I hadn’t made a final decision about the order of yesterday’s music when I arrived at church. I knew my options, and I had a pretty good idea of what we would be doing when, but nothing was solid. As the praise team’s pre-service warm-up began and the members began to rag-taggedly arrive, I quickly determined that we would do the special music and settled into practice.
Here’s what happened, though: The first time we practiced the song that Rebecca the Children’s Minister had suggested, it was me, Rebecca, and Ethan the Bass Player and Vocalist. We figured out the vocal arrangement, and then Rebecca had to go do something else. Then David the Keyboard Player arrived. So Ethan and I practiced with David. I tried to figure out which guitar style sounded best with the song—strum or pick. Then Leslie the Vocalist and Guitar player arrived. So I handed her my guitar, showed her the strum part, shared with her what we had decided for the vocalists, got out my other guitar, and began playing the pick part. The combination of everything together sounded good, but Leslie’s guitar wasn’t coming through the sound system. Then Jeff the Vocalist and Sound Guy showed up. So I shared with him what we had decided for the vocalists, practiced one verse, and then asked him to see if he could figure out what was wrong with Leslie’s guitar pick up.
By this point, quite a few people had gathered in the sanctuary for worship. The rag-tag nature of how everyone had arrived was evident in how we were set up; Jeff and I were having to yell at each other to figure out the problem with Leslie’s guitar (the sound booth is at the back of the sanctuary in a room above the sanctuary); and the choir was waiting on me in the choir room. As soon as we got the guitar amplified and our equipment set up in such a way that it did not reflect chaos, I went to the choir room to get the choir ready for the service. After a quick warm-up and a prayer, we entered the sanctuary for worship.
The choir sang the Call To Worship. It was literally a musical version of the scripture reading of the day and led perfectly into the first hymn. The praise team sang the special music. One more member of the praise team showed up to sing. Just before we began, Rebecca quietly shared with her the vocal arrangement and then we sang…
There are times when the choir and/or praise team will work on a song for weeks. We will practice long and hard and wait for just the right time to offer our song in worship. And then no one will say anything in response…or if they do then it will be a complaint—the most common of which is that the praise team is too loud and the instruments unbalanced.
Then there are times like yesterday when the choir pulls out an old song and the praise team does the same…and things are a bit scattered and crazy like the episode chronicled above…and then numerous people tell me that the music was absolutely beautiful—the harmonies, the balance, the volume, and the message. When this happened yesterday, all I could say was, “It was God.” Because surely it was. You read about the morning and the uncertainty that led to it all. What else could it have been?
Thank you, God, for using us despite of ourselves. And help us to become the prayer that we sang. Amen.
-----
Lord, Make us instruments of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let your love increase
Lord, make us instruments of your peace,
Walls of pride and prejudice shall cease
When we are your instruments of peace.
Where there is hatred, we will show his love
Where there is injury, we will never judge
Where there is striving, we will speak his peace
To the millions crying for release,
We will be his instruments of peace
Lord, Make us instruments of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let your love increase
Lord, make us instruments of your peace,
Walls of pride and prejudice shall cease
When we are your instruments of peace.
Where there is blindness, we will pray for sight
where there is darkness, we will shine his light
Where there is sadness, we will bear their grief
To the millions crying for relief,
We will be your instruments of peace.
Lord, Make us instruments of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let your love increase
Lord, make us instruments of your peace,
Walls of pride and prejudice shall cease
When we are your instruments of peace.
Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be
Whispered words of wisdom, let it be
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
Courageous Truth
Once upon a time, there was a girl. The girl had a loving family who took very good care of her.
When the girl began Kindergarten, she was nervous like most Kindergarteners. She cried when she had to leave her mother, uncertain of being separated from her mom’s love. Other kids cried, too—no big deal—until one day of crying led to a week led to a month led to many more months of deep struggle in school.
There were many opinions as to what to do about the little girl’s anxiety. Most opinions centered around the notion that the girl’s loving family was being too protective. Cut the strings. Walk away. She’ll stop crying eventually. She has to grow up sometime.
One night as the little girl was taking a bath and her mom was talking to her about places where it is and is not appropriate for people to touch, the little girl casually mentioned, “No one has touched me there this year.”
This year.
But someone had touched her the previous year. A peer. A young boy. Not in her family. But someone nonetheless. And it had scared her. It had made her feel vulnerable and insecure. And it made her not certain who outside her family she could trust. It had made her feel unsafe. And it made her not want to go to school.
Thankfully, this story has a happy ending. Once the little girl told the story of what had happened to her, and once her family got her into counseling to help her work through the issues tied to the incident, she stopped crying every day when it came time to go to school. She stopped clinging to her mom’s hand and began to have the courage to walk to class alone. She began to smile more and she began to talk.
She had told the truth. And the truth had set her free.
I recently had a deep theological conversation with a friend. As we moved from one hot topic to the next, we landed on the topic of coming out. For most, the phrase “coming out” is almost exclusively tied to the process of identifying as gay/lesbian/transgendered; but for others, the phrase “coming out” has come to be associated with a process that occurs many times over the course of one’s life. The friend that I was talking to in this conversation—a woman who had been called into ministry—had had to come out of the women in ministry closet. Another friend has had to come out of the atheist closet. Another friend has had to come out of the not-called-to-be-what-her-parents-wanted-her-to-be closet. Another friend has had to come out of a political closet. Other friends have come out of other closets. And in every instance, the process has been similar: recognition of thought or feeling, exploration, questioning, doubt, struggle, fear of rejection, declaration, and acceptance (though not always in this particular order and not at all linear in sequence). [Do you know what’s interesting about this? These are also the stages of faith development.]
If I may be so bold, then I am going to suggest, dear friends, that each of us has a closet from which we need to escape. Some of us may have a whole house of them. Like the girl who began this post, your closet could be a closet of abuse and that abuse is big and real and scary and paralyzing. Or maybe your closet is financial ruin or medical insecurity or theological doubt or political anger or helpless sadness or wanting to be seen or admission of imperfection or maybe even sexual orientation. Maybe you’ve just gone into your closet or maybe you’ve been hiding your whole life. I don’t know. But what I do know is this:
When we have the courage to speak our truth in love, and when we have the courage to hear others’ truth in love, then the truth will set us free.
I’m not talking about spewing moral absolutes and fighting ‘sin’ with right and wrong. I’m talking about courageously, honestly, openly, and vulnerably risking to share parts our story—our truths—with one another in common humanity. I’m talking about fighting fear, separation, and otherness with words and dialogue—however difficult and humbling they may be. I’m talking about discussing which zones are safe and doing something proactive when we realize that safety has been breached. I’m talking about bunkering down, getting into trust-fall position, and holding one another’s pain. Because this world shouldn’t be a closet. And kids shouldn’t fear going to school. And humanity should never be us against them...
When the girl began Kindergarten, she was nervous like most Kindergarteners. She cried when she had to leave her mother, uncertain of being separated from her mom’s love. Other kids cried, too—no big deal—until one day of crying led to a week led to a month led to many more months of deep struggle in school.
There were many opinions as to what to do about the little girl’s anxiety. Most opinions centered around the notion that the girl’s loving family was being too protective. Cut the strings. Walk away. She’ll stop crying eventually. She has to grow up sometime.
One night as the little girl was taking a bath and her mom was talking to her about places where it is and is not appropriate for people to touch, the little girl casually mentioned, “No one has touched me there this year.”
This year.
But someone had touched her the previous year. A peer. A young boy. Not in her family. But someone nonetheless. And it had scared her. It had made her feel vulnerable and insecure. And it made her not certain who outside her family she could trust. It had made her feel unsafe. And it made her not want to go to school.
Thankfully, this story has a happy ending. Once the little girl told the story of what had happened to her, and once her family got her into counseling to help her work through the issues tied to the incident, she stopped crying every day when it came time to go to school. She stopped clinging to her mom’s hand and began to have the courage to walk to class alone. She began to smile more and she began to talk.
She had told the truth. And the truth had set her free.
I recently had a deep theological conversation with a friend. As we moved from one hot topic to the next, we landed on the topic of coming out. For most, the phrase “coming out” is almost exclusively tied to the process of identifying as gay/lesbian/transgendered; but for others, the phrase “coming out” has come to be associated with a process that occurs many times over the course of one’s life. The friend that I was talking to in this conversation—a woman who had been called into ministry—had had to come out of the women in ministry closet. Another friend has had to come out of the atheist closet. Another friend has had to come out of the not-called-to-be-what-her-parents-wanted-her-to-be closet. Another friend has had to come out of a political closet. Other friends have come out of other closets. And in every instance, the process has been similar: recognition of thought or feeling, exploration, questioning, doubt, struggle, fear of rejection, declaration, and acceptance (though not always in this particular order and not at all linear in sequence). [Do you know what’s interesting about this? These are also the stages of faith development.]
If I may be so bold, then I am going to suggest, dear friends, that each of us has a closet from which we need to escape. Some of us may have a whole house of them. Like the girl who began this post, your closet could be a closet of abuse and that abuse is big and real and scary and paralyzing. Or maybe your closet is financial ruin or medical insecurity or theological doubt or political anger or helpless sadness or wanting to be seen or admission of imperfection or maybe even sexual orientation. Maybe you’ve just gone into your closet or maybe you’ve been hiding your whole life. I don’t know. But what I do know is this:
When we have the courage to speak our truth in love, and when we have the courage to hear others’ truth in love, then the truth will set us free.
I’m not talking about spewing moral absolutes and fighting ‘sin’ with right and wrong. I’m talking about courageously, honestly, openly, and vulnerably risking to share parts our story—our truths—with one another in common humanity. I’m talking about fighting fear, separation, and otherness with words and dialogue—however difficult and humbling they may be. I’m talking about discussing which zones are safe and doing something proactive when we realize that safety has been breached. I’m talking about bunkering down, getting into trust-fall position, and holding one another’s pain. Because this world shouldn’t be a closet. And kids shouldn’t fear going to school. And humanity should never be us against them...
Monday, January 23, 2017
Beach Angel
Sunday morning, on a rare morning off from church, I went to the beach to take in the sights, sounds, and smells of the ocean.
As I crossed the sand dunes and stepped foot onto the beach, I said aloud, “I would like to find a piece of sea glass. I am speaking these words into creation.”
I walked for awhile—very slowly—listening to the waves crash and the seagulls sing—looking carefully for that piece of class.
I marveled at how beautiful the shells were—how different they were from the shells in Jacksonville—how each shell was unique—how some shells were quite ordinary on their tops but how they displayed intricate, extra-ordinary designs on their backs.
I sang the lyrics to a love song over and over in my head. “You matter to me,” I sang. And I looked out over the water and directed all of that love to the Creator of it all.
I thought of the previous Sunday’s worship service—of the children adorning the altar with flowers and birds and of their innocent voices reading:
Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet our heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?
“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.
If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you?
“Therefore, do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ Or ‘What shall we drink?’
Or ‘What shall we wear?’ For your heavenly Father knows that you need them all.
“But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things shall be yours as well.”
And while pondering this scripture and stopping to look at a particularly lovely shell and being truly wrapped up in the worship of it all, the strangest thing happened:
Without missing a stride, a young man walking with his girlfriend approached where I was standing from the opposite direction, bent down and picked something up, handed it to me, said, “This is in your jurisdiction,” and kept right on walking.
I stood with my mouth open in awe, staring at the piece of sea glass in my hand, completely at a loss for words, thinking only one thought: “Did that really just happen?”
Yes, friends. Yes it did. A beach angel in an orange jacket placed into my hands the very thing that I had desired.
After picking up my jaw up off the sand, I had the frame of mind to take a picture of my beach angel. Part of me thought he might be gone when I turned around, but he was still there, walking with his girlfriend, completely oblivious to what he had just done.
Then I continued my walk, amazed and overwhelmed with gratitude—embracing those words of scripture—singing that love song—marveling at nature’s beauty—directing my love and thanksgiving to the Creator of it all.
As I crossed the sand dunes and stepped foot onto the beach, I said aloud, “I would like to find a piece of sea glass. I am speaking these words into creation.”
I walked for awhile—very slowly—listening to the waves crash and the seagulls sing—looking carefully for that piece of class.
I marveled at how beautiful the shells were—how different they were from the shells in Jacksonville—how each shell was unique—how some shells were quite ordinary on their tops but how they displayed intricate, extra-ordinary designs on their backs.
I sang the lyrics to a love song over and over in my head. “You matter to me,” I sang. And I looked out over the water and directed all of that love to the Creator of it all.
I thought of the previous Sunday’s worship service—of the children adorning the altar with flowers and birds and of their innocent voices reading:
Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet our heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?
“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.
If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you?
“Therefore, do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ Or ‘What shall we drink?’
Or ‘What shall we wear?’ For your heavenly Father knows that you need them all.
“But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things shall be yours as well.”
And while pondering this scripture and stopping to look at a particularly lovely shell and being truly wrapped up in the worship of it all, the strangest thing happened:
Without missing a stride, a young man walking with his girlfriend approached where I was standing from the opposite direction, bent down and picked something up, handed it to me, said, “This is in your jurisdiction,” and kept right on walking.
I stood with my mouth open in awe, staring at the piece of sea glass in my hand, completely at a loss for words, thinking only one thought: “Did that really just happen?”
Yes, friends. Yes it did. A beach angel in an orange jacket placed into my hands the very thing that I had desired.
After picking up my jaw up off the sand, I had the frame of mind to take a picture of my beach angel. Part of me thought he might be gone when I turned around, but he was still there, walking with his girlfriend, completely oblivious to what he had just done.
Then I continued my walk, amazed and overwhelmed with gratitude—embracing those words of scripture—singing that love song—marveling at nature’s beauty—directing my love and thanksgiving to the Creator of it all.
Thursday, January 19, 2017
Neither Either Nor Or
I got so excited when I realized that I’d earned $30 in cash-back rewards by paying my tuition bill with my credit card that I decided to see how much I was earning from my other purchases. When I realized that I earned a few dollars and/or cents with literally every purchase I made with my credit card, I decided that it would be stupid NOT to use my credit card for ALL of my purchases. I haven’t had cash in my wallet since.
My plan worked fine until today.
Today I noticed that my back driver’s side tire was low. In an attempt to get air for said tire, I stopped at six different gas stations. I was denied every time. I kept hoping that I’d find a machine that took nickels and dimes…because I had no quarters or dollars…because I haven’t been using cash. [It didn’t occur to me until this very moment that I could have quartered my nickels and dimes inside the gas stations.]
So as I drove my hobbly car to class tonight, I was reminded of something very important:
It’s not either-or, it’s both-and.
It’s not cash or credit (that’s paid off every month, by the way).
It’s not black or white.
It’s not male or female.
It’s not rich or poor.
It’s not gay or straight.
It’s not band or sports.
It’s not smart or dumb.
It’s not right or wrong.
It’s not good or bad.
It’s not Christian or atheist.
It’s not hate or love.
It’s not math or science.
It’s not social studies or English.
It’s not Democrat or Republican.
It’s not jazz or classical.
It’s not State or Carolina.
It’s not hot or cold.
It’s not saint or sinner.
It’s both and.
It’s all of this and everything in between.
In a society full of opposites and extremes, I think we’d all do well to remember that life and humanity are both and.
Life and humanity—and most of us—are all of this and everything in between.
My plan worked fine until today.
Today I noticed that my back driver’s side tire was low. In an attempt to get air for said tire, I stopped at six different gas stations. I was denied every time. I kept hoping that I’d find a machine that took nickels and dimes…because I had no quarters or dollars…because I haven’t been using cash. [It didn’t occur to me until this very moment that I could have quartered my nickels and dimes inside the gas stations.]
So as I drove my hobbly car to class tonight, I was reminded of something very important:
It’s not either-or, it’s both-and.
It’s not cash or credit (that’s paid off every month, by the way).
It’s not black or white.
It’s not male or female.
It’s not rich or poor.
It’s not gay or straight.
It’s not band or sports.
It’s not smart or dumb.
It’s not right or wrong.
It’s not good or bad.
It’s not Christian or atheist.
It’s not hate or love.
It’s not math or science.
It’s not social studies or English.
It’s not Democrat or Republican.
It’s not jazz or classical.
It’s not State or Carolina.
It’s not hot or cold.
It’s not saint or sinner.
It’s both and.
It’s all of this and everything in between.
In a society full of opposites and extremes, I think we’d all do well to remember that life and humanity are both and.
Life and humanity—and most of us—are all of this and everything in between.
Monday, January 9, 2017
Kindness
I have visited my grandmother’s house almost every Christmas of my life. On many of those Christmas trips, I’ve attempted to read one of the old books adorning G-mama’s shelves. More often than not, I have failed at this attempt. I’m a terrible reader with my eyes. So this past Christmas, I didn’t even bother to look at the bookshelves. In addition to my family who permanently live in town, my niece and nephews and families were in town, so I focused on them instead of literary scholarship…until the last night we were there.
For some reason, as I walked to my room that night, a tiny little book caught my attention. I imagine that the book had been sitting there for most of my life, yet for some reason it jumped out to me that night. So I pulled it off the shelf and went to the world’s most comfortable bed, fully expecting to be asleep a few pages into the text. Instead, I found myself closing the book’s back cover well over an hour later, having just read a tiny little book that spoke to me so powerfully that I wiped away tears more than once and packed the book in my book bag so that I could read it again. And probably again. And again.
“The Greatest Thing In the World” is a meditation on 1 Corinthians 13 that Henry Drummond wrote in 1874. Henry Drummond, born in Scotland in 1851, was an ordained minister and theologian best remembered as a gifted evangelist who assisted Dwight L. Moody during his revival campaigns. He was also a lecturer in natural science and wrote several books. Before that night at G-mama’s, I have no memory of ever hearing Henry Drummond’s name or of being introduced to “The Greatest Thing In The World.” I’m not sure why this is so, and I’m not sure why more people in my circles haven’t read and/or discussed this book/meditation/address. Maybe I wasn’t ready to hear Henry’s thoughts. Or maybe we haven’t needed to be reminded of his words so desperately until now.
Since stealing Drummond’s tiny little book from its place on a bookshelf in Jacksonville, Florida, I have been keeping it on my nightstand, reading its pages slowly each night, and letting its words, thoughts, and images seep into my being. I could probably spend weeks hashing out my thoughts on love, as influenced by Drummond’s ideas, but for now I simply want to share the passage that I read last night. Written so long ago, Drummond’s words and semantics are sometimes difficult to decipher, so I’m going to paraphrase a bit to make the thoughts more readable. I hope these words present as much relevant challenge to you as they do me. If not, come back to them. You never know when the word of God, active and alive, will speak to your soul. As I learned this Christmas break, it’s oftentimes when you least expect it.
-----
Kindness. Love active. Have you ever noticed how much of Christ’s life was spent in doing kind things—in merely doing kind things? Run over it with that in view, and you will find that He spent a great proportion of His time simple in making people happy, in doing good turns to people.
There is only one thing greater than happiness in the world, and that is holiness; and holiness is not in our keeping. But what God has put in our power is the happiness of those about us, and that is largely to be secured by our being kind to them.
“The greatest thing,” says someone, “a man can do for [God] is to be kind to some of [God’s] other children.” I wonder why it is that we are not all kinder than we are? How much the world needs it! How easily it is done. How instantaneously it acts. How infallibly it is remembered. How superabundantly it pays itself back—for there is no debtor in the world so honorable, so superbly honorable, as Love. “Love never fails.” Love is success, Love is happiness, Love is life. Love, I say with Browning, “is energy of Life.”
For life, with all it yields of joy or woe
And hope and fear,
Is just our chance o’ the prize of learning love,--
How might love be, hath been indeed, and is.
Where Love is, God is. Those that dwells in love dwell in God. God is love. Therefore, love! Without distinction, without calculation, without procrastination, love. Lavish it upon the poor, where it is very easy; especially upon the rich, who often need it most; most of all upon our equals, where it is very difficult, and for whom, perhaps, we do least of all.
There is a difference between trying to please and giving pleasure. Give pleasure. Lose no chance of giving pleasure. For that is the ceaseless and anonymous triumph of a truly loving spirit.
“I shall pass through this world but once. Any good thing therefore that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any human being, let me do it now. Let me not defer it or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.”
-----
Loving God who is Love. Help us to love through kindness today, tomorrow, and in all the days to come. Amen. And amen.
For some reason, as I walked to my room that night, a tiny little book caught my attention. I imagine that the book had been sitting there for most of my life, yet for some reason it jumped out to me that night. So I pulled it off the shelf and went to the world’s most comfortable bed, fully expecting to be asleep a few pages into the text. Instead, I found myself closing the book’s back cover well over an hour later, having just read a tiny little book that spoke to me so powerfully that I wiped away tears more than once and packed the book in my book bag so that I could read it again. And probably again. And again.
“The Greatest Thing In the World” is a meditation on 1 Corinthians 13 that Henry Drummond wrote in 1874. Henry Drummond, born in Scotland in 1851, was an ordained minister and theologian best remembered as a gifted evangelist who assisted Dwight L. Moody during his revival campaigns. He was also a lecturer in natural science and wrote several books. Before that night at G-mama’s, I have no memory of ever hearing Henry Drummond’s name or of being introduced to “The Greatest Thing In The World.” I’m not sure why this is so, and I’m not sure why more people in my circles haven’t read and/or discussed this book/meditation/address. Maybe I wasn’t ready to hear Henry’s thoughts. Or maybe we haven’t needed to be reminded of his words so desperately until now.
Since stealing Drummond’s tiny little book from its place on a bookshelf in Jacksonville, Florida, I have been keeping it on my nightstand, reading its pages slowly each night, and letting its words, thoughts, and images seep into my being. I could probably spend weeks hashing out my thoughts on love, as influenced by Drummond’s ideas, but for now I simply want to share the passage that I read last night. Written so long ago, Drummond’s words and semantics are sometimes difficult to decipher, so I’m going to paraphrase a bit to make the thoughts more readable. I hope these words present as much relevant challenge to you as they do me. If not, come back to them. You never know when the word of God, active and alive, will speak to your soul. As I learned this Christmas break, it’s oftentimes when you least expect it.
-----
Kindness. Love active. Have you ever noticed how much of Christ’s life was spent in doing kind things—in merely doing kind things? Run over it with that in view, and you will find that He spent a great proportion of His time simple in making people happy, in doing good turns to people.
There is only one thing greater than happiness in the world, and that is holiness; and holiness is not in our keeping. But what God has put in our power is the happiness of those about us, and that is largely to be secured by our being kind to them.
“The greatest thing,” says someone, “a man can do for [God] is to be kind to some of [God’s] other children.” I wonder why it is that we are not all kinder than we are? How much the world needs it! How easily it is done. How instantaneously it acts. How infallibly it is remembered. How superabundantly it pays itself back—for there is no debtor in the world so honorable, so superbly honorable, as Love. “Love never fails.” Love is success, Love is happiness, Love is life. Love, I say with Browning, “is energy of Life.”
For life, with all it yields of joy or woe
And hope and fear,
Is just our chance o’ the prize of learning love,--
How might love be, hath been indeed, and is.
Where Love is, God is. Those that dwells in love dwell in God. God is love. Therefore, love! Without distinction, without calculation, without procrastination, love. Lavish it upon the poor, where it is very easy; especially upon the rich, who often need it most; most of all upon our equals, where it is very difficult, and for whom, perhaps, we do least of all.
There is a difference between trying to please and giving pleasure. Give pleasure. Lose no chance of giving pleasure. For that is the ceaseless and anonymous triumph of a truly loving spirit.
“I shall pass through this world but once. Any good thing therefore that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any human being, let me do it now. Let me not defer it or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.”
-----
Loving God who is Love. Help us to love through kindness today, tomorrow, and in all the days to come. Amen. And amen.
Thursday, January 5, 2017
Possibilities Bigger Than Self
I think my aunt might have thought it a bit odd that when given a choice to see composer Edvard Grieg’s music studio or gravesite, I immediately chose the gravesite. Yes, I would have liked to have seen the small cabin where Grieg sat on a manuscript of Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony so that he would be tall enough to reach the piano keys, but I knew that I had hundreds of students who wouldn’t care where Grieg sat to compose—they would care about how Grieg died and where he was buried. It never fails. My students always want to know how someone died and where he/she is buried. And so I went to Grieg’s gravesite (which incidentally is carved into the side of a mountain) and took an absurd amount of pictures. Sure enough, my students loved them!
You may not be surprised to know, then, that when doing our music textbook lessons that focus on Martin Luther King, Jr., my students always want to know if Martin Luther King, Jr. is dead, how he died, who killed him, and/or where he is buried. The questions have become so predictable that I work their answers into my lessons and am fully prepared to project an image of MLK, Jr.’s and Coretta Scott King’s gravestone when asked. What I didn’t expect this year, though, was a question about how Martin Luther King, Sr. died.
[“Why were you talking about Martin Luther King, Sr.?” you might ask. “Because in another unexpected question twist, a student asked why we always say junior when talking about MLK, Jr.” Therein started a discussion on names that captivated the class so much that no attempt at redirecting to music worked. I finally gave up and spent the rest of the class period answering questions about naming protocol and listening to name stories.]
It turns out that Martin Luther King, Sr. died from a heart attack. He actually lived longer than both of his sons and his wife. While it is common knowledge that MLK, Jr. was assassinated, it is less common knowledge that Alfred Daniel Williams King (King Sr.’s youngest son) tragically drowned, and that King Sr.’s wife, Alberta W. King, was even more tragically murdered. Just after playing a song on the organ during a morning worship service, Alberta King was shot by a gunman who had dropped out of college and declared all Christians the enemy. He walked into Ebenezer Church that day to kill King, Sr., but instead he killed King’s wife and a church deacon. I didn’t tell my students these details. I was a bit too sad after reading their truths. I simply told them that MLK, Jr.’s dad had a heart attack. If he hadn’t lived at least ten years after his wife’s murder, then I would have made an argument that he died solely of a broken heart.
After dinner tonight, I spent over an hour reading more about MLK, Sr. (who indeed changed his name from Michael Luther to Martin Luther to be connected to theologian Martin Luther), Alfred King, and Alberta King. I eventually stumbled upon the King Institute of Stanford University’s website (https://kinginstitute.stanford.edu/) and read letters that MLK, Jr. had written to his parents, letters of recommendation for MLK, Jr. to attend seminary, and some of MLK, Jr.’s lesser known writings. I had to make myself stop reading so that I’d have time to write this post.
Friends, I know that MLK, Jr. was not a perfect man. I know that he was not the only voice or face of the Civil Rights Movement and I know that he himself believed this much. But learning more about him and his family tonight has allowed me to paint a more complete picture of a man and a movement whose voice still speak prophetic and challenging words today.
Sometimes I feel like the writer of Ecclesiastes and find myself in hopeless despair that nothing under the sun has changed. Reading the news articles of Alberta King’s brutal murder was like reading the news articles of today. The man who killed her even told a friend that his name would be all over the newspapers in a couple of weeks. And the senseless beatings of innocent men and women are still taking place. I watched the news in horror tonight as a reporter told of an 18-year-old special needs student who had been kidnapped and terrorized by four of his peers and was now having trouble communicating. The mocking and physical abuse had been streamed on Facebook.
And yet I smiled as I watched my Kindergarten students happily sing and dance together today. They couldn’t care less that their skin colors were different and they had no trouble welcoming everyone into their impromptu circle of happiness. And I inwardly said a prayer of thanks as I hugged my little multi-cultural band of students who come to say good morning each day. And I felt so grateful to be part of one of MLK, Jr.’s greatest wishes…
At the end of his famous “I Have A Dream” speech, MLK boldly declares, “…until one day, when all of God’s children, black men and white, will join hands in singing the old African American Spiritual ‘Free at last, Free at last, Thank God almighty I’m free at last.’”
“Free At Last” is one of my students’ favorite songs. Not only are they fascinated by the fact that Martin Luther King, Jr. had its words put on his gravestone, but they also really like the song and loudly sing it whenever it is played. Younger, older, richer, poorer, black, white, brown, yellow, or red (as a student actually called himself yesterday)—my students beautifully live MLK, Jr.’s dream every time they sing together.
And you know what? It wasn’t just MLK, Jr.’s dream. It was his father’s, and his mother’s, and his brother’s, and his sister’s. Because MLK, Jr. wasn’t an isolated man. He was part of a family. He was part of a church. He was part of a community. He was part of possibilities so much bigger than himself. And you are, too, friend. You are, too.
You may not be surprised to know, then, that when doing our music textbook lessons that focus on Martin Luther King, Jr., my students always want to know if Martin Luther King, Jr. is dead, how he died, who killed him, and/or where he is buried. The questions have become so predictable that I work their answers into my lessons and am fully prepared to project an image of MLK, Jr.’s and Coretta Scott King’s gravestone when asked. What I didn’t expect this year, though, was a question about how Martin Luther King, Sr. died.
[“Why were you talking about Martin Luther King, Sr.?” you might ask. “Because in another unexpected question twist, a student asked why we always say junior when talking about MLK, Jr.” Therein started a discussion on names that captivated the class so much that no attempt at redirecting to music worked. I finally gave up and spent the rest of the class period answering questions about naming protocol and listening to name stories.]
It turns out that Martin Luther King, Sr. died from a heart attack. He actually lived longer than both of his sons and his wife. While it is common knowledge that MLK, Jr. was assassinated, it is less common knowledge that Alfred Daniel Williams King (King Sr.’s youngest son) tragically drowned, and that King Sr.’s wife, Alberta W. King, was even more tragically murdered. Just after playing a song on the organ during a morning worship service, Alberta King was shot by a gunman who had dropped out of college and declared all Christians the enemy. He walked into Ebenezer Church that day to kill King, Sr., but instead he killed King’s wife and a church deacon. I didn’t tell my students these details. I was a bit too sad after reading their truths. I simply told them that MLK, Jr.’s dad had a heart attack. If he hadn’t lived at least ten years after his wife’s murder, then I would have made an argument that he died solely of a broken heart.
After dinner tonight, I spent over an hour reading more about MLK, Sr. (who indeed changed his name from Michael Luther to Martin Luther to be connected to theologian Martin Luther), Alfred King, and Alberta King. I eventually stumbled upon the King Institute of Stanford University’s website (https://kinginstitute.stanford.edu/) and read letters that MLK, Jr. had written to his parents, letters of recommendation for MLK, Jr. to attend seminary, and some of MLK, Jr.’s lesser known writings. I had to make myself stop reading so that I’d have time to write this post.
Friends, I know that MLK, Jr. was not a perfect man. I know that he was not the only voice or face of the Civil Rights Movement and I know that he himself believed this much. But learning more about him and his family tonight has allowed me to paint a more complete picture of a man and a movement whose voice still speak prophetic and challenging words today.
Sometimes I feel like the writer of Ecclesiastes and find myself in hopeless despair that nothing under the sun has changed. Reading the news articles of Alberta King’s brutal murder was like reading the news articles of today. The man who killed her even told a friend that his name would be all over the newspapers in a couple of weeks. And the senseless beatings of innocent men and women are still taking place. I watched the news in horror tonight as a reporter told of an 18-year-old special needs student who had been kidnapped and terrorized by four of his peers and was now having trouble communicating. The mocking and physical abuse had been streamed on Facebook.
And yet I smiled as I watched my Kindergarten students happily sing and dance together today. They couldn’t care less that their skin colors were different and they had no trouble welcoming everyone into their impromptu circle of happiness. And I inwardly said a prayer of thanks as I hugged my little multi-cultural band of students who come to say good morning each day. And I felt so grateful to be part of one of MLK, Jr.’s greatest wishes…
At the end of his famous “I Have A Dream” speech, MLK boldly declares, “…until one day, when all of God’s children, black men and white, will join hands in singing the old African American Spiritual ‘Free at last, Free at last, Thank God almighty I’m free at last.’”
“Free At Last” is one of my students’ favorite songs. Not only are they fascinated by the fact that Martin Luther King, Jr. had its words put on his gravestone, but they also really like the song and loudly sing it whenever it is played. Younger, older, richer, poorer, black, white, brown, yellow, or red (as a student actually called himself yesterday)—my students beautifully live MLK, Jr.’s dream every time they sing together.
And you know what? It wasn’t just MLK, Jr.’s dream. It was his father’s, and his mother’s, and his brother’s, and his sister’s. Because MLK, Jr. wasn’t an isolated man. He was part of a family. He was part of a church. He was part of a community. He was part of possibilities so much bigger than himself. And you are, too, friend. You are, too.
Monday, January 2, 2017
One Right Step At A Time
A few months ago, when we lost power during Hurricane Matthew and I had no way to refrigerate food, spent a considerable amount of time making sure we had enough candles to provide night-time light, and spent even more time trying to find ways to keep computers and phones alive, I had the distinct thought, “I understand why scripture says not to worry about tomorrow. Today really does have enough trouble of its own.” Granted, the troubles of my hurricane days were very much 21st century problems and really weren’t troubles at all, but I am thankful for that moment of profound truth because I keep going back to it: Do not worry about tomorrow, Deaton. Focus on today. Just make it through today.
December was a whirlwind. I imagine it was the same for you. For me, in addition to regular teaching and church planning and duties, December included a progressive dinner, a K-2 program, a children’s Advent musical, an adult cantata, a carols and candlelight service, a final project in my special needs class, a group presentation in my special needs class, a final project of sorts in my other class, and a take-home exam in my other class. Only after Christmas day worship was over and New Year’s Day worship had been planned was I able to take a few days off. I am so thankful for those days.
As those days have moved to an end much more quickly than they began, I have found myself increasingly more agitated. My thoughts have been crowded, my dreams have been full of anxiety, my shoulders have been slouched, and my stomach has been unsettled. When I think about the upcoming semester, I imagine a semester of December but with no end in sight. And that feels really bad. I don’t want to live like this—feeling the weight of projected tomorrows on today—and then that truth comes back to me, “Don’t worry about tomorrow, Deaton. Focus on today. Just make it through today.”
Yesterday during her children’s sermon, Rebecca The Children’s Minister challenged the children to live the new year with righteousness—to make one right decision at a time.
One right decision at a time. One lesson at a time. One assignment at a time. One book at a time. One rehearsal at a time. One memory at a time. One fear at a time. One heartache at a time. One moment of grief at a time. One tear at a time. One laugh at a time. One song at a time. One appointment at a time. One breath at a time. Do not worry about tomorrow. Focus on today. Just make it through today.
This evening, as I sat down to attempt to settle my accounts from 2016, Dumbledore challenged Harry to consider, “Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.” Words are powerful. With words, I have the power to both build up and tear down. With words, I have the opportunity both to encourage and discourage both myself and others.
One right decision at a time. One word at a time. One mantra at a time: Do not worry about tomorrow, friend. Focus on today. Just make it through today. Do your best today. Live fully in this moment. Make the most of this reality. Love today. Create words of love today. Because today is the day that we have been given.
December was a whirlwind. I imagine it was the same for you. For me, in addition to regular teaching and church planning and duties, December included a progressive dinner, a K-2 program, a children’s Advent musical, an adult cantata, a carols and candlelight service, a final project in my special needs class, a group presentation in my special needs class, a final project of sorts in my other class, and a take-home exam in my other class. Only after Christmas day worship was over and New Year’s Day worship had been planned was I able to take a few days off. I am so thankful for those days.
As those days have moved to an end much more quickly than they began, I have found myself increasingly more agitated. My thoughts have been crowded, my dreams have been full of anxiety, my shoulders have been slouched, and my stomach has been unsettled. When I think about the upcoming semester, I imagine a semester of December but with no end in sight. And that feels really bad. I don’t want to live like this—feeling the weight of projected tomorrows on today—and then that truth comes back to me, “Don’t worry about tomorrow, Deaton. Focus on today. Just make it through today.”
Yesterday during her children’s sermon, Rebecca The Children’s Minister challenged the children to live the new year with righteousness—to make one right decision at a time.
One right decision at a time. One lesson at a time. One assignment at a time. One book at a time. One rehearsal at a time. One memory at a time. One fear at a time. One heartache at a time. One moment of grief at a time. One tear at a time. One laugh at a time. One song at a time. One appointment at a time. One breath at a time. Do not worry about tomorrow. Focus on today. Just make it through today.
This evening, as I sat down to attempt to settle my accounts from 2016, Dumbledore challenged Harry to consider, “Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.” Words are powerful. With words, I have the power to both build up and tear down. With words, I have the opportunity both to encourage and discourage both myself and others.
One right decision at a time. One word at a time. One mantra at a time: Do not worry about tomorrow, friend. Focus on today. Just make it through today. Do your best today. Live fully in this moment. Make the most of this reality. Love today. Create words of love today. Because today is the day that we have been given.
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