We Are All Broken

We are all broken,
Searching for the divine.
Some find God,
Others do not.
And so we keep looking,
Hoping to find meaning,
Needing to feel whole,
Longing to belong to something more,
Reaching for a future of purpose and peace,
All the while broken,
Seeking the divine.

May we always be thankful for friends and family, old and new, who walk with us, stick by us, inspire us, and cheer us on as we face life’s broken road. May we never take love and friendship for granted...for they are two of God’s greatest gifts.
Amen and amen.

About Worth and Value

I don’t remember when or why I started watching Antiques Roadshow. I just know that watching it has become something that I look forward to and that my desire to go to the show has led me to make Spring Break plans that are slightly different than my norm. I will fly to Phoenix late Sunday night, spend Monday being a tourist guided by a local; go to Roadshow on Tuesday; spend Wednesday being a tourist guided by a local; then fly home Thursday morning. I know that we’re going to the Phoenix Zoo and to Sedona National Park, and I know that the Roadshow is at the Botanical Gardens, but other than that, I am at the mercy of my hosts—two friends of my friend Washington—a wild, strong, resilient, Yoga-loving teacher friend whom I had the privilege of teaching with at Johnsonville for five years.

I’ve been dreaming of this trip for over a year. (Well, not this specific trip, but a trip to Roadshow in general.) In case you don’t know the format of the show, here it is: Thousands of people go to an appraisal event hoping to find that they have a hidden treasure. Most people do not. A handful of people do. The latter are selected for filming and their heirloom is then aired as an educational piece on PBS. Some heirlooms are “worth” a lot of money. Others are worth a lot historically or sentimentally. Some people are ready to sell their treasures (not at the Roadshow because that’s strictly forbidden) while others swear they will never get rid of them. My favorites are when people have something that’s just been laying around the house or that they’ve used/worn/displayed for their whole lives and it turns out that it’s “valued” at some crazy amount of money. Last week, a couple took a mobile that they’d inherited from the wife’s grandmother and hung in the yard as decoration. The mobile, by some famous artist, ended up being valued between $600,000 to $1,000,000!!!!

But I digress…

I’ve been dreaming of this trip for over a year…because, well, I’ve been dreaming of being one of the persons with a hidden treasure chosen for educational filming. I know. It’s dumb. The chances of being chosen for filming are about the same as winning the lottery. And yet. I dream of being on the show…and of the appraisers telling me that my item is worth some ridiculous amount of money…and me then being awestruck by the reality…

Yet. What reality is it really? Who, truly, determines something’s worth or value? I find myself asking that question a lot. I find myself wondering who would pay $600,000 to $1,000,000 for a mobile that looks like it is made of coat hangers. But then I remember that there are collectors for everything—after all, I collect orange fish. And I suppose something’s worth and value lies in what someone is willing to pay for it.

Our worth and value as humans must be pretty high because Jesus paid his life for us.

But I digress again…

What I did not factor in to my dream was traveling to the Roadshow. It’s hard to travel with artwork and fragile family heirlooms when traveling by plane. Arizona is a bit to far to get to by car. And so…I don’t know what I’m going to take with me when I leave on Sunday. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. My family has been thinking about it for weeks. I am still uncertain about what is going to make it into my bag…except for this: My Grandfather’s WWII Scrapbook. It’s a beautifully complete record of his time in the army, and I am hoping that the appraisers can help my family learn a little about a map that we know nothing about.

Did you hear that? I’m hoping the appraisers can help me learn.

You see, I’m slowly giving up on my hope of being on camera with a precious heirloom worth thousands of dollars. Instead, I’m quietly adopting the hope that I will learn something that I did not know before the trip. Yes. I would like to hear that I have an object “valued” at a high dollar amount. Wouldn’t everyone? But, in the end, I think that maybe experience and knowledge are where worth most heavily lies. And I have a feeling that this unlikely experience of going to Phoenix, Arizona, for Antiques Roadshow with Washington is going to be “worth” more than money could ever buy.

Doubt x Resistance = Suffering

I made a stupid teaching mistake the other day: I got into a power struggle with a student…and lost.

Due to her repeated misbehavior, I had had to move a student to a new seat the week before this particular day. When she came into class on this day, the student intentionally sat in the wrong seat. I asked her to move to her correct seat. She said she didn’t want to. I reminded her that we all go to our seats when we first come into music class, so she needed to go to her seat, too. She didn’t move. I realized she may not have remembered where her new seat was, so I reminded her that her seat was #14. She looked at me. I told her to move to seat #14. She told me no.

By that point, I realized that the entire class was listening to us and that they were watching me back myself into a corner where I wouldn’t be able to do anything but witness the student remain in her seat. We were all watching a student disrespect an adult and get her way, and I knew that students didn’t need to think this acceptable. So, I told the student that she would either move to her seat or I would have to write her up. She crossed her arms, set her mouth, looked right at me, and did not move. I, then, had to write her up. While I was writing her up, she quietly moved to seat #14 and gave me no trouble for the rest of the class…

Later that night, I had a friend write and tell me that she was having a bad night. She said that she felt like sadness was creeping in and sucking joy into a black hole. Two trains of thought went through my brain at this confession: 1) The characters Sadness and Joy from the movie Inside Out and 2) Something Joe said to me in counseling over two years ago:

“Don’t forget to greet your feelings when they come. ‘Oh, hi, doubt. Hi, inadequacy. Hi, disappointment. I see you’ve come back to visit. Would you like to sit with me for awhile?’ Remember: Doubt times resistance equals suffering.”

Before I knew what I was writing to my friend, I wrote, “What does your sadness look like? Does it have a name?” Remember: I was imagining Sadness from Inside Out. She responded, “Jim. His name is Jim. Jim the Black Hole who sucks away everything good.” For some reason, I laughed when I read this description. I probably shouldn’t have laughed. It’s really a vividly sad description. But instead of it looking menacing in my mind, I imagined this Jim as a mopey, angst driven cartoon teenager, exaggerated features, big chin, open mouth, dressed in black, hands in pockets, not smelling too great like the character from Charlie Brown, just lingering in the background with no energy, not hurting or harming anything, wanting to be recognized so he could complain, but not really wanting to be seen. With this in mind, Jim seemed less like a monster trying to fight my friend and a kid who desperately needed compassion and/or permission to just wander away and be by himself again.

So I asked my friend if she’d greeted Jim. “Oh, hi, Jim. I see you’ve come back to visit. Are you going to sit with me for awhile tonight? Come on. Come on and sit down. And then you can leave again.” I’m pretty sure that my friend thought I was a little crazy. But I could see the whole thing in my mind. And, suddenly Jim’s power seemed much less menacing than when he was a vortex of a black hole, sucking in everything in his path.

Friends: If you’ve ever struggled with anxiety or depression, then you know that being in the middle of an attack feels like that vortex of a black hole. Its power is great and it is difficult to step outside of it, much less to greet it in a calm, rational fashion. More often than not, we battle against it, just as I battled against my student, and try to force it into submission. And then we lose. We judge ourselves for how we’re feeling, we resist the feelings, we battle against them, we don’t let them go, and then we end up suffering, in a power struggle against ourselves and our demons.

But maybe somehow, and I don’t know how, just having an image of something that isn’t as menacing as a monster, of something personified like Sadness or Joy from Inside Out or Jim the pitiful cartoon character, takes away some of darkness’s power and lets us know that we’re going to be okay…because just as my student eventually went to her seat and gave me no more trouble for the day, Jim and Sadness and Anxiety will eventually wander away and let us be.

Don’t forget to greet your feelings when they come, friends. And try to be nice to them. For, as Joe also says, “Kindness and compassion go a long way.”

The Power of Naming

4.4.19—The Power of Naming

Kindergarten Student One: “Ms. Deaton. We had you for music today.”
Me: “Yep. You sure did.”
Kindergarten Student Two: “Ms. Deaton! My grandma always looks for you in the car rider line and she misses you when you aren’t here. She says that when you’re here, the line moves faster than it does for everyone else.”
Me: “Well that was nice of her to say.”
And then I walked to my place smiling.

I wasn’t very gracious with myself at the beginning of the year, friends. The transition from Johnsonville to Greenwood was, first, not expected, and, second, much harder than I think it should have been. With all my years of counseling—with all my knowledge of being present, not judging myself too harshly, allowing life to happen as it comes—with all my understanding of transition and grief, letting go and moving on, time and patience—I found myself being incredibly hard on myself and not granting myself patience or grace for not immediately knowing every students’ name or every cars’ driver…which I knew was ridiculous because I know that it takes time to learn the names of 700 students and their cars’ drivers!

Here’s what I’ve realized recently, though: I was doing the best that I could. What I didn’t want to admit was that my brain chemicals were falling out of whack and I needed to adjust my anxiety medication. Some of you may judge me or look down upon me for this next statement, but I have been on anxiety medicine for the past 12 years. I have been diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), and its effects are mentally and emotionally crippling. Everyone has anxiety. Everyone deals with ups and downs in moods and emotions. Anxiety and depression are normal parts of life. But those of us diagnosed with GAD struggle with anxiety to the point that, untreated, it interferes with our ability to properly function in our every day lives. I didn’t want to admit that my body had become used to the dosage of medicine that it had been taking. I didn’t want to admit that I needed something different. And so I struggled my way through months of transition, beating myself up for things I knew weren’t worthy of the time and effort that I was pouring into them…yet I couldn’t stop…

Today, for the first time this year, I did roll call without having to depend on my class list to know the students’ names. Friends: This was huge to me! Finally, after nine months at Greenwood, I have learned an entire class of names! I’ve learned a lot of names. I know more names now than not. But sometimes I still get confused as to who is who, so to have that certainty for even one class is a really good feeling!

What’s more, I’ve almost got the car line memorized! There are just a few cars that trip me up—and then the daily guests. I’ve had a few parents and teachers comment on how efficiently the line is running this year and how impressed they are that I have learned so many names. I must admit—the compliments feel nice—especially knowing how hard I was on myself for not having names memorized at the end of week one!

Needless to say, I’ve come a long way since the beginning of the year, friends. And it’s not just with names. It’s with heart, soul, and mind as well. I have recently adjusted my medication. The crippling, relentless anxiety is subsiding and I am starting to see, feel, and think more clearly again. I am starting to think about hopes and dreams again and renewing my desire to see beyond fear and what if’s and to remember that life truly is a series of todays that God is creating into tomorrows with us, for us, and oftentimes despite us…

Kindergarten Student Three: “I love you, Ms. Deaton.”
Me: “I love you, too.”
“And I know your name,” I thought, “Just as God knows my name.”
And I smiled.

God knows your name, too, friend, and cares for you and your struggles…even those, like mental illness, you think you must hide.

Prodigal Poems

4.1.19—Prodigal Poems

When I was in high school, my youth minister gave me a Rich Mullins tape. (Yes. A tape. :-o) I listened to said tape every morning on the way to school, and its songs became foundational to my faith. My favorite song on the album was called “Growing Young.” It is the story of the prodigal son. To this day, the story of the prodigal son is one of my favorites…and I think that it might be so because of the imagery planted by “Growing Young.”

I’ve gone so far from my home ~ Seen the world and I have known ~ So many secrets I wish now I did not know ~ They have crept into my heart ~ They have left it cold and dark and bleeding ~ Bleeding and falling apart ~ And everybody used to tell me big boys don’t cry ~ But I’ve been around enough to know that that was a lie ~ That held back the tears of a thousand prodigal songs ~ We are children no more, we have sinned and grown old ~ And our father still waits and he watches down the road ~ To see the crying boys come running back to His arms ~ And be growing young ~ Growing young…

Confession: I didn’t want to go to church yesterday. I wanted to stay home and rest. Yet a friend really wanted me to attend church with her so I went. And I’m so glad that I did. Yesterday’s sermon was on prodigal son, the father, and the “other” son. The whole service was beautiful. We even prayed that poets and musicians would find the words to express the divine.

As I listened to the pastor speak, I took notes on what she was saying. Sometimes, I think, we can hear the stories of scripture so much that we forget really to hear them. I heard the story yesterday. And it spoke to me. The pastor’s words and interpretation spoke to me, too. So after church, after going to my car and crying the tears that I’d been fighting back during the service, I turned those notes into simple poems. I want to share those poems here. I pray that something in their words will bless you as they blessed me. I pray that something here will express the divine.

(i)
It’s not repent or hell will swallow you up
It’s repent for the Kingdom of God is waiting,
The life changing, life giving embrace of the father is waiting,
Compassion is waiting.

(ii)
As Christians,
Are we free to love and give or
Are we slaves serving in misery?

(iii)
May we take
deep, refreshing breaths
of the cool, crisp
air of eternity.

(iv)
Resentment
causes us
to miss the
divine love surrounding us.

(v)
I want to be a
Pastor. I’m tired of pretense
and fear. Show me how.

“When he came to himself…he got up and went to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him…(and) they began to celebrate. Meanwhile, the older son…became angry and refused to (celebrate). So his father went out and pleaded with him…‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’” Excerpts from Luke 14:11-32

Our of Haiku Land

Does anyone but me use the “Notes” app on his/her phone? I use mine all the time! In fact, as I write these words tonight, I have 459 notes sitting on my phone…and they go back to June 2016 when I first upgraded my phone from a dumb phone to a smart phone. I have a few lists, some sermon notes, a couple of vacation logs, some documents, a couple of rough drafts of speeches, some regular poems, and a lot of haiku. A. LOT. OF. HAIKU.

I wandered into Haiku Land in 2016 when the pastor of my church rather abruptly resigned. I understood the resignation but it was still very hard and the only thing I knew to do was to write through it…only…all that came out was haiku. For the most part, it stayed that way for three years. I’d try to write. It’d come out 5-7-5. I’d put it in a note on my phone. I’d move on.

For almost thirty years, I’ve written my songs and poems into blank books that friends have given me along the way. Before computer/phone-writing became the norm, I jotted down poems on yellow pads of paper, scratch paper, napkins, offering envelopes, or anything that was available when inspiration struck. I then gathered and compiled all of the poems so I’d have a chronological record of my life through poetry. I’m about three years behind on updating my books. Can you guess why? Because all of the poems, the haiku really, are sitting happily dated in the Notes app on my phone.

Yesterday, I started retrieving the poems from the last three years of my life so that I can edit them and write them into my books. While I realize that the handwritten compilation isn’t as important as it once was, I still want to complete the process. I want to have evidence of how my handwriting has changed—and boy has it changed over the years! I want to remember the times and events that brought forth the words. I want to see how I’ve grown and how I’ve stayed the same. I want to remember and be grateful. I want to remember and mourn. I want to slow down and go back to the basics of pen and paper. Everything is so fast these days—so instant. Sometimes, I think, it’s good to go back and do things the old way. Sometimes, I think, it’s good to slow down.

I’m happy to report that I have recently walked out of Haiku Land and that I’ve been able to write a few things that aren’t haiku. I thought I’d share some of those writings here tonight…and a couple of haiku, as well. I thank the note feature on my phone for capturing these words. And I ask you: What is something you need to slow down to do? Maybe you need to write a poem, too.

------

Sometimes, my mind spins
Out of control until I
Speak aloud Just stop

------

We carry invisible monsters every day.
Mine is in my gut, a deep down shame.
Yours may be in your head, a whirlwind of damning thought.
When we’re fortunate, our monsters sleep.
They lie dormant, in repose,
Content with the spoils of their last feed.
When we’re not so fortunate, our monsters rage.
They rise up with vengeance,
Determined to wreak havoc and stop at nothing less than blood.
But we don’t have to give it to them--
Not anymore.
Our monsters don’t like compassion.
Brave welcome and forgiveness are their kryptonite.
Hand over hand, strengths over weaknesses,
Open acceptance stops fingers from clawing and blades from slicing.
Our monsters have met their match:
Monsters cannot thrive in the light of Love.

------

Help me focus, God,
On the things that must be done
Calm everything else

------

Lay your head on my shoulder, friend,
And I will silently pray
For the screaming to be quieted,
the racing thoughts to slow their pace,
God’s still small voice to be louder than any other,
structure and order to click into place.
Lay your head on my shoulder, friend,
And I will silently pray
Peace unto you.
Peace fill your mind,
Peace fill your heart,
Peace wash over your people.
Peace...
Peace...
Peace...

It's Time To Start Writing Again

For the past few weeks, I’ve had the privilege of worshipping with someone whom I’ve considered a mentor for many years. Mrs. Kathy is not only an elementary music teacher but also the minister of music at a local church, and she is the music teacher and minister that I strive to be. I admire her talent, her spirit, her humility, her shoes, and her heart for God…so to have the opportunity to make music with and learn from her has been an absolute privilege.

Yesterday, on a very rare Sunday, Mrs. Kathy was out of town. She trusted me to lead worship for her, and I’m so glad that she did. Yesterday’s sermon really spoke to me. Yesterday’s sermon is why I’m writing this note today.

The pastor said, “There are some of you here today who need to stop something. There are others of you who need to start something. Whatever it is that you need to stop or start, you need to do it right now.”

Well, friends. I was the “some of you” that fit into both categories. I needed to stop making excuses and start writing again—not for fame or fortune—but for me—for you—for anyone who might read whatever it is that pours from the fingers of my heart.

For years, I wrote every Monday and Thursday. No matter where I was. No matter what I was doing. No matter if I had internet access or not. I wrote. It was a discipline. And it left me with page upon page of stories, memories, struggles, and joys that I otherwise would have forgotten. But then I started graduate school and my writing fell out of rhythm. And that was two years ago.

There is no good reason that I didn’t start writing again after I finished my degree. I’ve thought about it many times—more times than I care to admit. I’ve convinced myself of the merits of the discipline and supported others who have desired to write. I just haven’t made myself sit down and write…because…well…I haven’t felt like I’ve had anything to say.

About a year ago, I first heard a song called “Fear Is A Liar.” I cried. Fear is liar and it had—has—been lying to me for a long time. I’ve overcome some of fear’s lies, but other lies still hold me in their clutch—like the lie that I have nothing to say. Everyone has something to say. Everyone has a story. And everyone’s story connects to everyone else’s story in some way because we are all on this human journey together. And yet…fear lies.

It’s time for me to stop believing fear’s lies—at least about my writing…and about one more thing:

I love to lead worship. I am so grateful that Mrs. Kathy has seen this truth in me and given me an opportunity to play alongside her. I love to lead retreats. I love to help with camps. I love being “Deanna Deaton, Retreat and Worship Leader,” and I want to be that person again. She has been hiding for years. The fears of not being good enough—of being seen but misunderstood—of being rejected—of being told that I am inferior because I am a woman—have kept me from pursuing that which I love the most: Writing. Leading. Music. Personality type. Love languages. Worship. Spiritual Formation.

I don’t know what God is nudging you to stop or start, friends—although I imagine that there is something--but as for me, God is nudging me to release my grip on these damning fears once and for all. It’s time to stop believing the lies, friends. It’s time to start writing again—not for fame or fortune—but for me—for God—for you—for anyone who might read whatever pours from the fingers of our hearts.

-----

Fear Is a Liar by Zach Williams

When he told you you're not good enough
When he told you you're not right
When he told you you're not strong enough
To put up a good fight

When he told you you're not worthy
When he told you you're not loved
When he told you you're not beautiful
That you'll never be enough

When he told you were troubled
You'll forever be alone
When he told you you should run away
You'll never find a home
When he told you you were dirty
And you should be ashamed
When he told you you could be the one
That grace could never change

Fear, he is a liar
He will take your breath
Stop you in your steps
Fear he is a liar
He will rob your rest
Steal your happiness
Cast your fear in the fire
'Cause fear he is a liar

Let Your fire fall and cast out all my fears
Let Your fire fall Your love is all I feel…

No Fear Worm

This is what I see every morning when I come down the stairs: Marcenivo holding a sign that says “No Fear” and a yellow worm shining bright in colorful, abstract forest.

The titles of these words, respectively, are “No Place For You Here” and “Worm Shining Bright In The Forest In The Night.”

The artists are, respectively, Fabio Napoleoni and Dr. Suess.

The print mediums are, respectively, paper and wooden puzzle.

The purchase places are Fascination St. Fine Art in Denver, Colorado, and Gallery of Fine Art in Wilmington, NC.

The pieces were framed, respectively, by Nick and Steve at Hobby Lobby in Sanford, NC, and by Deanna and Sandra at home with a frame ordered directly from the puzzle company, Liberty Puzzles.

Not much is the same about these pieces. And yet they both set the tone of my day:

Live with no fear, Deanna. There is no fear in love. And be a worm shining bright in the dark in the night. Even in the middle of the day.

May they set the tone of your day, too, friends. Let’s be fearless, glowing worms together!

Thursday Night Thoughts From A Recovering People Pleaser

Before Texas Flip and Move, it was Rehab Addict. I still like Rehab Addict, but our DVR got reset and stopped recording it, so I haven’t been watching it recently. I actually didn’t know if they were still recording, but a quick Internet search revealed that they are…and that Nicole Curtis has had another baby…and some other really damning things about her.

As my mom and I scrolled through “The Truth About Nicole Curtis,” I read a bunch of really horrible things about this woman that I have come to admire via her TV show and Facebook page. Truth be told, Nicole’s philosophy of restoring old homes to their original glory has really influenced my thinking and changed the way that I think about restoration and redemption. So to read terrible things about her—her actions, decisions, personality, and life—was very disheartening…until I realized that if someone doesn’t like someone else—for whatever reason—then he/she can spin a tale to say whatever he/she wants it to say against whoever he/she wants to attack.

…

I am a recovering people-pleaser. Pin it on my personality type—or on being a preacher’s kid—but I am one of those people who cares a bit too much about what other people think. Years of therapy and a lot of prayer have nudged me out of the paralyzing fear that I used to live in, but quiet fear still lingers in my core—fear of disappointing, fear of not being liked, fear of making the wrong decision, fear of being questioned. Though logically I know that fear is not of God—I use the transitive property of fear here: If God is love, and there is no fear in love, then in God there is no fear—and though I know that living life worried about other peoples’ perceptions of me is no way to truly live—I, in all of my very human imperfection, still do it.

I think that this is part of the reason why major decisions are so difficult for me. I not only think about how a decision will affect me, but I think about how it will affect everyone else involved and how everyone else involved (and even people not involved) will perceive the decision. I know. This is somewhat egocentric. I know that I can’t control how someone else will react. I experience this all the time when my students love the songs I think that they will hate and hate the songs I think they will love. And it is crazy-making. But such is the reality of my life more often than I care to admit.

Friends: This is not good for someone going to graduate school for school administration!

Confession: I’m not sure why I’m going to graduate school. I know that God nudged me in this direction at 3am on a cruise ship in the Baltic Sea, but I don’t know what I’m going to do with the degree. School administration was never really on my radar screen. School music? Yes. Church administration? Yes. School administration? No. And yet...

…

I saw a sign on the way to work this morning that said, “God just wants your ‘yes.’” I prayed aloud, “God, I’m saying ‘yes.’ I just don’t know what I’m saying yes to.” Then I silently continued, “Will you show me what I’m saying yes to—and how it is that I need to get there? My yes is and always has been to you, your call, and your desire for my life. My yes is to your love, peace, and justice, and I want to live in those—with integrity—but I need you to clearly show me how to make decisions that are fair, just, right, ethical, positive, and life-giving and I need you to give me the courage to make those decisions—for myself and for that which I have been called to lead—because I cannot do it alone. I’m really bad at it. Because I’m afraid of making the wrong decisions and I’m afraid that someone will get mad at me. Ugh. I don’t even like the words ‘right’ and ‘wrong.’ But you know what I mean.”

…

This afternoon, I had the unique experience of sitting with a student who needed to be separated from his class during Field Day. He is an extremely high functioning autistic student who can tell you more than you ever need to know about dinosaurs and sea animals, and the super-sensory experience of Field Day had finally gotten to be too much. After a brief lesson on dolphins vs. porpoises, my student asked if he could draw with the sidewalk chalk. The teacher who owned the sidewalk chalk said that that would be fine, so off went my kid. He drew gigantic animals over the entirety of the sidewalk, so avoiding the drawings was difficult for a seeing person—much less someone who is blind! But my kid didn’t care about that.

When Stacey-My-Blind-Friend-and-Teacher stopped to talk to a colleague and landed right in the middle of an animal, my kid politely interrupted her conversation with an excuse me, waited to be acknowledged, and then proceeded to stutteringly, matter-of-factly- but without eye-contact ask Stacey to move off of his drawing. He was not trying to be mean, rude, or inconsiderate. He didn’t worry how Stacey would respond. If she would have gotten mad, then he would have gotten mad, too. Plain and simple. That’s how things work. My student simply stated his truth and desires and trusted the receiver to respond. As it was, Stacey gladly moved and immediately began talking to the student about his drawings, so he immediately began to share information about his drawings—that she could not see and that he could not know she could never fully understand. The whole situation made me chuckle. But then I realized just what an example my student had been.

…

Despite my best efforts to stay in people’s good graces—I’m a recovering people-pleaser, remember—I have realized all too painfully that if someone decides that she does not like me, then she can easily piece together stories slamming my merits, no matter how hard I have tried to please her or how determinedly I have tried to do the best thing. I know this. I have experienced it. I just hope that when it happens again—because it will happen again—I can look up with the certainty of how I need to react and then act with that certainty, just as my student acted today. I hope that I can look up with the humility to say yes and then follow where that yes leads. And I hope that when my character is attacked and my decisions are questioned—as teacher, minister, family member, friend, customer, or yes, even, administrator—that I will be able to keep moving forward, offering hope, restoration, and redemption, one house—no—one person—and decision—at a time.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

Well over a decade ago, I had a monthly mail-sending schedule. I wrote and sent out approximately 7 letters or cards per week, offering words of encouragement to various friends and family members each week—but contacting my grandmothers each week.

Because I was writing so much, my brother and sister-in-law decided to give me my own font for Christmas. They gave me the paperwork. I completed a hand-writing sample and sent it all in. To Sweden. A few weeks later, I received an e-mail with my very own font! It’s called Deanna’s Hand. I was thrilled. I’m still thrilled!

A few years ago, as I was window shopping in Blowing Rock, I suddenly stopped in my tracks. My handwriting was in the window!!! Toms, the shoe company, had chosen Deanna’s Hand for its handwriting font in one, small window cling campaign!!! Seeing my handwriting in the window for all of Blowing Rock to see prompted me figure out how Toms had gotten my font. Well. It’s a free download. Anyone can get it. Just do a search. You can get it, too…along with tons of other free fonts that people have created.

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago. I have a small classroom library that my students can access during class. I had the idea to create the library during one of our Book Fairs and started my collection with a 2-book donation from a parent. In the annual post-Christmas book sale at Books-A-Million, I grew the collection with a bunch of animal, dinosaur, and interesting fact books that kids love. Then, during a classroom library workshop at school, I grew the library even more with donations from the school.

A handful of students expectedly wandered to the library and happily read its books during class. My philosophy is that if the kids are reading, staying out of trouble, and not distracting other students, all the while subconsciously hearing the music lesson, then it’s a win-win for everyone. What I didn’t expect, however, was that that same handful of kids would want to take the books home. At first that was fine. But then classmates started to realize what was happening and they wanted to take books home, too.

So one Thursday afternoon while being bombarded with students wanting to take home books, I just said yes, yes, yes, so that they would stop asking! While one of those students stood with me to wait for the teacher, he first grossed me out by turning to a page on how a tribe in one part of Africa drinks cow’s blood during the drought season. I literally gagged and almost threw up, but then he turned the page and I gasped! MY FONT! My font was in the book! An entire two page spread was written in Deanna’s Hand!

I started babbling and trying to find the words to explain to the kids that it was a font that I had created but they didn’t quite understand and thought I meant that I had literally written out the pages but I was so excited that they were so excited so by the time the teacher got there we were all just in an excited state of font-appearance amazement!

I stayed that way for a few days. And clearly I am still excited. Not because I get paid. Not because I will be famous. But because it’s neat to see your handwriting in print…and to think that out of the fonts in the whole wide world, someone thought my font cool enough to use in a book.

When I wrote my brother and sister-in-law to tell them my exciting news, they were excited, too! I shared with the rest of my family, too. And then we all celebrated. And shared in thanksgiving for the gift that keeps on giving.