What If?

What if the two “men” on the Emmaus Road weren’t men at all? What if it was two women walking that journey? Of if it was a man and his wife?

Such was the question that I was faced with this morning as I stumbled around the kitchen trying to make my coffee.

A few years ago, I had the privilege of being ordained by the church where I served as youth minister for three years. During that time, the church was going through a transition period, so my ordaining pastor was the interim pastor. It just so happens that the interim pastor is a good friend of my dad’s and someone that we both respect. He holds women in high regard and believes in our capacity to minister in ways just as effective as men. This same pastor will be preaching for my dad this weekend…and the Emmaus Road will be his sermon topic…and his thoughts are the ones that left my dad wondering if we, as a whole, have been picturing the Emmaus Road wrong for two thousand years.

I just reread the account of the Emmaus Road (Luke 24:13-35). While one of the disciples is named, which leads us to believe that he was a man, the other disciple is not. We assume that his companion is a male because, well, that’s what we do when we read scripture—we’ve been programmed to read scripture through the lens of patriarchy and not to see all that women inevitably contributed to Jesus and the faith centered on him. What’s interesting to me is this part of the story:

28 As they approached the village to which they were going, Jesus continued on as if he were going farther. 29 But they urged him strongly, “Stay with us, for it is nearly evening; the day is almost over.” So he went in to stay with them.

Why couldn’t this have been a man and wife who were going home from Jerusalem? Why couldn’t this have been a man and wife offering their home to a fellow traveler? Why couldn’t this have been a man and wife to which Jesus chose to reveal himself? It’s clear that Jesus had already chosen to announce his resurrection to the women at the tomb (even though the men didn’t believe them). Why not show his true nature again to mixed company, a man and woman, who may have already been defying social norms by walking alongside the road together and treating each other as equals in conversation?

I suppose it doesn’t really matter. I suppose that the message of the story remains the same regardless of the gender of the travelers. They were confused, uncertain, a bit lost, and trying to figure things out when Jesus came and showed them the way. Isn’t that what Jesus can do for all of us if we will open our eyes and see?

Then again…maybe it does matter. Because maybe women, in so many ways, have been overlooked and underappreciated in our call and giftedness…not because scripture condemns women anymore than men but because women, too often, were just left out of the story. We were not named. We were not spoken of and yet we, with children, were there. Yes, we’ve been in the story since the very beginning and we will continue to be in the story until the very end. Truth be known, the work of the church would come to a screeching halt if women were to stop teaching, serving, and giving.

So maybe it does matter. Because maybe we need to see, again, that Jesus came for all people…man and woman, Jew and Gentile, Catholic and Protestant, rich and poor, gay and straight, black and white, single and married, adult and child, academically gifted and academically challenged, saint and sinner. Maybe we need to reminded that God speaks to, in, and through all who listen and see…and, yes, friends, that includes women.

It's Quiet Uptown

Despite rave reviews from friends and critics alike, I did not listen to the soundtrack from Hamilton until this year. Since listening to it, though, a day hasn’t passed that I haven’t listened to one of its most powerful songs, “It’s Quiet Uptown.” Truth be known, “It’s Quiet Uptown” is one of the most powerful songs I’ve ever heard.

I won’t attempt to explain the storyline of Hamilton or the events that lead up to the song’s presence, but I will say this: a really bad decision has been made, a heart has been betrayed, and tragedy has occurred when the song emerges from a solo voice backed by the choir and accompanied by the piano.

The first time I heard the song, I wept, and I have teared up many times since that first hearing. The whole thing is just so beautifully raw and redemptive…

…which I suppose is why it’s the first song that entered my head yesterday, on Easter Sunday.

At first, I thought it strange that this song from Hamilton was the song in my head on the highest and holiest day of the Christian year. But then I thought about it and I realized that the song embodies what Easter is all about: forgiveness, redemption, humility, hope, reconciliation, faith, and resurrection—maybe not of the body (in this instance) but of lost love, relationship, reputation, and purpose.

Yesterday after church, I wrote:

Today is
Redemption
Righteousness
Resurrection
Reconciliation
Forgiveness
Hope
Peace and
Freedom
from
death,
sin,
condemnation,
and fear.
Today is the
Kingdom of God,
The Love of God,
Right here,
Right now,
Always.

The Kingdom of God is here, friends, and we can find it wherever we look, in whatever time and space we find ourselves—including in a car while listening to a musical that we’ve put off hearing for years.

How are you experiencing Kingdom of God? When and where are you finding hope, redemption, resurrection, and reconciliation?

------

There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is suffering too terrible to name
You hold your child as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable
The moments when you’re in so deep
It feels easier to just swim down

The Hamiltons move uptown
And learn to live with the unimaginable

I spend hours in the garden
I walk alone to the store
And it’s quiet uptown
I never liked the quiet before
I take the children to church on Sunday
A sign of the cross at the door
And I pray
That never used to happen before

If you see him in the street, walking by
Himself, talking to himself, have pity

Philip, you would like it uptown
It’s quiet uptown

He is working through the unimaginable

His hair has gone grey. He passes every day
They say he walks the length of the city

You knock me out, I fall apart

Can you imagine?

Look at where we are
Look at where we started
I know I don’t deserve you, Eliza
But hear me out. That would be enough

If I could spare his life
If I could trade his life for mine
He’d be standing here right now
And you would smile, and that would be enough
I don’t pretend to know
The challenges we’re facing
I know there’s no replacing what we’ve lost
And you need time
But I’m not afraid
I know who I married
Just let me stay here by your side
That would be enough

If you see him in the street, walking by her
Side, talking by her side, have pity

Eliza, do you like it uptown? It’s quiet uptown

He is trying to do the unimaginable
See them walking in the park, long after dark
Taking in the sights of the city

Look around, look around, Eliza

They are trying to do the unimaginable

There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is a grace too powerful to name
We push away what we can never understand
We push away the unimaginable
They are standing in the garden
Alexander by Eliza’s side
She takes his hand

It’s quiet uptown

Forgiveness. Can you imagine?
Forgiveness. Can you imagine?
If you see him in the street, walking by her
Side, talking by her side, have pity
They are going through the unimaginable

A Maundy Thursday Reflection

Yesterday, at the Church of the Holy Cross in Sedona...

I look up to you
Eyes of sadness, compassion
You look down at me

...and then Washington took my hand and we prayed.

Tonight, on this Maundy Thursday, we remember that Jesus did not call us servants but called us friends—that Jesus took people’s hands and prayed with them—that Jesus stuck with his people until the very end, even when he knew their character flaws, even when he knew they would deny and betray—that Jesus loved his people—Jesus loves all people...and asks us to do the same...even when we know character flaws, even when we know we will be denied and betrayed.

Oh God, grant that we might love with even a portion of your unfailing love and that we might sacrifice even a portion of all that you sacrificed, Jesus...for you can take that portion and change the world for good. And we need to see a change for good. Again. Amen.

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…