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LESS ME, MORE GOD... “Christ, I feel that I have begun a new friendship with you. As I was praying Saturday night and Sunday morning at the Vigil I was getting a strong feeling of spiritual connection with you and your sharing and reflection to me.” I sat next to an Italian priest up on the Papal stage. He shared that the most special thing he had experienced this week was confession. There were 650,000 confessions made! I asked Fr. Paolo if he would be kind enough to hear mine. He said yes. We went to the top of the seats and I confessed to him. When I finished, he responded in a way that I would have never expected. There were many experiences that I had spiritually in Rome. The three or so top ones: 1) Experiencing the pastoral presence and charism of the Holy Father. When he held the young woman and man that broke though security and stroked their heads while they wept, I wept. 2) The experience with Fr. Paolo in confession. 3) Working and ministering with other youth ministers. At St. Paul’s: Cardinal Francis Arinze, Ana Villamil, Teri Telepak; in Collefero: Bishop Kevin Britt, Michelle Miller, Colette Kennett; at the Tor Vergata before the Vigil: Tom Booth, Chris and Brad from Scarecrow. There is something special about who and what they are. I am proud to be Catholic. I discovered new
answers and confirmed old ones, about who I am PEACE Endings and beginnings ... The Deaton family has lived in Kentucky for the last 11 years. We have raised our two daughters in Wilder, overlooking the beautiful skyline of Cincinnati. We never knew we would live here that long. God works in His own time, in His own ways. As we come to the end of another school year, the family is looking forward to major changes in our lives together. We rejoice in the successful completion of basketball seasons and soccer seasons. We rejoice in the successful completion of 4th level for Josie (who now goes by Joci...) at Mercy Montessori. Mary is graduating from the 6th grade at Latonia Elementary and has decided to move to the Cincinnati Public Schools system and go to Walnut Hills High School. Walnut Hills is a 6 year program beginning in the 7th grade. All students take 3 years of Latin, followed by 3 years of a modern language. Mary has had 4 years of Spanish and 2 years of French. She went to German school for part of the 2nd grade. Mary has decided that for the time being, she would like to concentrate on languages. This will mean a home move for the family. We are in the midst of buying and selling houses, across state lines and the Ohio river. I don't know if there is a more stressful period in the life of a family. I guess birth and death would provide that stress... We would appreciate prayers during this time of transition. Control Sometimes things happen to us that are out of our control. They affect us. They cause us great emotional distress. As a living person, we are dependent on others. It is someone else who takes our money at the store. Someone else who delivers the mail. Someone else who picks our vegetables, weaves the cloth for our clothing. Someone else who gives us a grade on the report card. It is someone else who often writes the check for our income. We don't have control over other peoples thoughts or behaviors. Only our own. How we choose to respond to things that happen to us determines the path of our lives. Yes, we can get angry. Yes, we can get in touch with our feelings and not diminish them. Yes, we can find healthy ways of expressing the frustrations felt as a result of others' choices and behaviors. We choose to take responsibility of our own lives. We choose to be mature- that is to act with courage and consideration. We choose to take care of ourselves. We choose. We can't control, but we can choose. We can choose to turn to God and let get go. Understanding that ultimately there is a God who loves us passionately, we can trust and give those things, issues, and others' behaviors, over to God. We choose to take care of ourselves. Destiny Ever wonder what life has in store for you? I remember dreaming as a child..., where I would live when I grew up... what the house would look like..., if I would be married..., the children I would have... I had many dreams of how I would spend my time. As every young boy in the late 20th century, I had dreams of Rock 'n Roll stardom. Performing to throngs of anxious fans, in huge stadiums around the world, sounded great. I had dreams, early on, of being a Methodist minister. Being a Pastor. Taking care of people, the flock, their joys, and their sorrows. I remember telling my mother when I was 9 that I would be a minister. Never would I have dreamt that combining the two dreams of ministering and performing would find me in front of 2 million people in Rome before the Papal Vigil last August at the Tor Vergata. I had dreams of being a classical guitar player. Studying with Celin Romero, and surrounding myself with players who were fabulous, heightened this desire. Participating in choirs, then orchestras, and then conducting them, found a new dream in me. Standing in front of a live instrument, whether it be vocal or instrumental was IT! Sharing music in a social, spiritual, and artistic experience only grew the dream. Never would I have dreamt that conducting orchestras across America, even in the pit of the War Memorial in San Francisco with the fabulous dancers of San Francisco Ballet on stage, become a reality. My children, Mary and Joci, who are precious and loving humans, with a genuine concern for justice and fairness in the context of contemporary culture, constantly remind me of the root of dreams. Love. Each of us has our own unique destiny. Our task each day is to get in touch with the Power we turn to, God; to help us learn, develop, polish, and live that destiny. Learning to love. Learning to forgive. Learning to choose. Learning to live. Peace-Bruce Kindred Spirit For the past two weeks, the girls and I have been at Sunset Beach, in North Carolina. It is a beautiful island on the southern coast, just north of Myrtle Beach. Filled with beach homes, there are no hotels, restaurants, towns, etc. It is a haven for families to gather alone, or in groups of two or more. Mary, Joci and I would spend each day waking up alone, independently. I would rise and run. The beach is long- over 5 miles from end to end. I would gage the tide and try to find the best sand to run in. Not too soft, not too wet. Mary would rise second, read or watch TV. Joci is always the last up. A sleepy head. Every day we would walk, ride, or run down the beach to the next island south, Bird Island. On Bird Island, there is a mail box, sitting alone in the middle of a dune. We would see it, wonder who would put a mail box in the middle of nowhere. Finally, on Wednesday, we stopped and opened the mailbox. In it were 4 or 5 tablets with pens. Opening the tablets, we saw that people had written notes to "Kindred Spirit". They would talk about their lives, how their vacations were going, their joys, sorrows- about life. Each one was generally signed by only a first name. Sometimes there was a last name, or a city. The notes were very touching. A brother writes of
distributing his brother's ashes today... Page after page is filled with personal, anonymous notes to the spirit of the ocean, the beach, the birds, the spirit of us all. Mary, Joci and I wrote to Kindred Spirit. We wrote of missing our mother, wife, friend. I wrote of my eldest daughter turning into a young woman and celebrating her 12th birthday at the beach. The story of Kindred Spirit is our story. While running on my last day there, I asked a woman I saw every morning with her two Golden Retrievers, about Kindred Spirit. She said that some "kind soul" retrieves the tablets before every major storm, and replaces them when it is through. It is a wonderful testimony to humanity, that while we have a "kind soul" who places writing tablets, pens and a mail box on the beach at Bird Island; we who participate and contribute, writing, continue to grow and develop "Kindred Spirit." "Kindred Spirit" is part of our spirit after all... Peace-Bruce Patience I love the quote from St. Francis de Sales in the box on the left. Having patience with myself is not one of my strong points. From very early in my childhood, I remember the sense of not being good enough. Certainly, one of my issues was weight. I always wore "Husky" sizes in pants... At least I remember wearing them until I started wearing adult clothes. I heard comments made about my size, both at school and at home. It was a source of great embarrassment and shame. It is probably the chief reason I have no patience when I sense that my clothes get too tight. So--- I run. I run lots. I run marathons and train anywhere from 40 to 70 miles per week, all in the name of getting to eat a lot of the things I like. A strange thing has happened though in my running. I have run since the summer of 1984, when I was living in France, studying conducting. I had to run- I couldn't say no to cheese... Around 1994 I decided to run races. Marathons. 26.2 miles. I discovered that I loved training for them. I love my friends that also run. Running became social, and it became personal. I had "personal bests" and "personal records." One goal was to run the Boston Marathon. It is the dream of a lot of runners. Only the top 10% of each age group can qualify for Boston. In my quest to qualify for Boston I ran several marathons. I trained hard, ran hard, lost hard. Finally, understanding that my goal to run Boston was more important than my lack of patience with myself, I got a coach. I discovered quickly that one of the main reasons I was suffering while running was that I started the races too fast. By the time I got to the middle of the race I would begin to lose steam, and by the end, have nothing left. I trained hard with a dedicated group of runners. We all ran for various causes, one of them being the Leukemia Society. All of these runners were consumed with goals, objectives, and qualifying for Boston. At the Chicago Marathon in 1997, I had a plan to run every mile at a 7 minute 25 second pace. I started the race a little slow, around 8 minutes a mile. Around the 5th mile, one of my friends came up behind me we ran together for several miles. She kept pushing the pace, wanting to run faster. I looked at her, knowing how competitive she was, and thought "I can take you..." I let her go. I watched her slowly gain ground and leave me behind. All the time, my thoughts were to keep on MY pace. I had trained for this, this was MY race, and nothing was going to keep me from sticking my pace- especially not me, my ego, or my competitive spirit. By mile 21, I knew I had the strength to finish strong and was going to be close in qualifying. I had been consistent in my pace every mile so far. As I ran up the slight hill at the end for the finish at mile 26, I was aware of the seconds counting down on the clock toward my goal of 3 hours and 20 minutes. I passed the finish line at 3 hours, 19 minutes, and 40 seconds. I was exhilarated! I had run the first 13.1 miles in 1 hour 39 minutes and 33 seconds. I ran the second 13.1 miles in 1 hour, 40 minutes and 7 seconds. Virtually the same. Only 34 seconds difference between the first half of the marathon, and the second. My lesson was patience. I had learned that for me; I had to wait, be consistent, and measure my running, for the WHOLE race, if I was going to succeed. That meant that I had to let other things go. One of them being my friend at mile 8, who left me in her dust. At the end of the race I kept looking for her. I never found her. Finally, a few weeks later I saw the race results. I had finished 20 minutes in front of her. Peace-Bruce Peace Many prayers are being offered up to God now. Many eloquent pastors are speaking with many different passions. My passion is for peace. Mark Twain wrote a short story entitled The War Prayer. While written in another century and in different circumstances, it speaks loudly to me. I would like to share some excerpts from it... " An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed on the minister. With all eyes following him, he made his silent way, he ascended to the preacher's side and stood there, waiting. The preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued his prayer, uttering: "Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord our God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!" The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside- which the startled minister did, and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said: "I come from the Throne - bearing a message from Almighty God!" The words smote the house with a shock. If the stranger perceived it, he gave no attention. "He has heard the prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such shall be your desire after I, His messenger, explain to you it's import - that is to say, it's full import. For it is like many prayers in that it asks for more than they who utter it are aware of - unless they pause and think. Is it one prayer? No, it is two - one uttered, the other not. You have heard - the spoken part of it. I am commissioned of God to put into words the other part of it - that part which the pastor - and also you in your hearts - fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard these words 'Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!' That is sufficient. The whole of the uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory - must follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God the Father fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen! "O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle - be Thou near them! With them - in spirit - we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us - to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; Help us to cover their smiling fields with pale forms of their patriot dead; Help us To drown the thunder of the guns with shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; Help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; Help us to wring the hearts of the unoffending widows with unavailing grief; Help us To turn them out Roofless with their little children to wander Unfriended The wastes of their desolated land In rags And hunger And thirst, Sports of the sun flames of summer And the icy winds of winter, Broken in spirit Worn with travail, Imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave And denied it - For the sakes who adore Thee, Lord, Blast their hopes, Blight their lives, Protract their bitter pilgrimage Make heavy their steps Water their way with tears, Stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet. WE ask it, in the spirit of love, of him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are the sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen." "Ye have prayed this; if ye still desire it - speak! The messenger of the Most High waits." It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said. Peace-Bruce Acceptance Many of us hunger for acceptance, both acceptance of ourselves, and acceptance from others. As a young person, I did many things to try and earn acceptance from my peers. I wanted to fit in, feel a part of 'the group'. I didn't deem myself as 'worthy'. I loathed choosing teams. Inevitably, I feared that I would be the last chosen. On my street growing up, there were times I was. The gang of boys in my neighborhood would test one another with incredibly stupid acts of courage. All, of course, based in some sort of ritual of initiation. It's interesting to remember college and the rite of initiation into my fraternity. It is a professional music fraternity, yet cloaked in the same rituals of most of the social frats. Behind all of the ritual, is the intense desire to be accepted, and not be excluded. The hardest part of acceptance for me, has been my own difficulty in accepting myself. I continue to play back the tapes of all the reasons I don't fit in, don't belong, of how 'I am not worthy'. Being a parent has taught me to teach Mary and Joci how to accept themselves. That God loves them sooooo..... much! Just the way they ARE. For those who have been with me on this journey, you know that message. God loves you, EXACTLY the way you are. You don't have to be smarter, richer, taller, etc. God accepts you now. God accepts me now. God accepts us, always. Peace-Bruce Resolutions This might be the first year in many that I haven't begun it with a New Year's resolution. Okay, maybe I have. In 1999, I ran the Boston Marathon. It was a gorgeous, sunny day. Around noon it was 72 degrees. Perfect to stand in the sun and watch runners go by. It was awful. For the runners, that is. We were baked. Hot. Dehydrated. There is a series of hills that begin around mile 16. They are called 'The Judge', 'The Jury', and 'Heartbreak Hill'. Heartbreak being the final hill at mile 21. I was miserable, whiny, and thirsty. As I ran up Heartbreak Hill, I wanted desperately to stop and walk. Somewhere in the middle in the hill, I came up on a young man in a wheelchair. Not a racing chair, but a regular wheelchair. He was facing backwards to the hill, and pushing himself up with a foot. His head was slumped over and his posture revealed that he had Cerebral Palsy. I got mad at myself. I said to myself,... 'Bruce- you've got legs...-' 'Run!!!' My resolution this year: "To remember those
who can't... Peace-Bruce
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Bruce Deaton,
PO Box 12469, Covington, KY 41012-0469, USA All
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