Tuesday, May 22, 2018

"a voice..."


"Numbers and photographs
do not a person make.

I'm more than what
a page can say of me.

My identity is not
in my history..."

I was in the middle of writing another post when my friend, Scott - a brilliant musician - shared a new video of Kat Edmundson performing her hauntingly lovely  "A Voice,"and from that moment on, it was all I could write about.

Some songs, like Ellis' "Right Time," and Sara Groves' "Less Like Scars," stop me in my tracks and send fissures all along the fragile shell of what I think I know and feel at the moment.

This song was composure-shattering for me. First, it took my breath away -- literally. Once the last note sounded, I felt a shudder of air, and tears, and a tender tightness in my throat and chest. It took me by surprise. A good song will get stuck in your head. A great song will break your heart open so that all the world can fall in - and find hope.

I've been waiting for this moment for months now. I've tiptoed through my days like a once-broke teacup held together with flour paste and baling twine. "Don't bump into anyone who you know might see the cracks. Be the love -- don't let yourself be loved. Too much kindness and the tears might start falling and who knows if you will be able to make them stop."

I knew I was getting close to this moment when I hugged a friend goodbye on Sunday, and the warmth of her hug sent a new series of fine cracks through the veneer of my equanimity. I quickly excused myself, mentally touched up my mask of self-possession and hurried to the car. I knew I was postponing the inevitable, but at least it didn't have to happen with an audience.

Jeff is out of town. I've had wonderful days - and nights - in the office. Caring for others, holds the hounds at bay. But tonight, just when I thought I could take a deeper breath and not have it end in a sob -- Kat's song found me.

It wasn't just the words -- which are so poignantly beautiful. It is the sound of her voice -- the clear, raw honesty, her unflinching willingness to speak to the demon that "names us, and claims us, and shames us all," -- to quote James Taylor. And that demon is relentless.  It is the ego. The small "I" that screams we are not enough.

I don't know about any of you, but no matter how many wonderful people I am surrounded by, when that demon starts hissing its self-hate, the only voice that can truly silence its hideous sound, is the voice of The One that speaks from within. The Voice of divine Love. The Voice that speaks out from the fathomless depths of the kingdom of God - within us all.

It is the Voice of the Friend -- of the friendless. And it never fails to reach us when we think we are on our last leg, don't have a breath left to hold, and the rope is fraying at the edge of the abyss. It is the voice that says, "I love you, I've got you, you can do this hard thing..." And we realize -- we can.

In fact, we realize, we are. And we have. And we will.

I am so thankful for all the ways we are pointed to the Truth of this voice within. A song, a story, a hug, a beautiful sunrise -- it all reminds us that there is something within us that hears, listens, sees -- is aware of the presence God. This thanks is the marriage of divinity with humanity.

So. On an ordinary day, when the world might seem cold, unfeeling, dismissive, greedy, and sarcastic -- someone shares a song. And we listen. And we break. And through the cracks, the light shines through. And then we begin to feel the warmth of that light - the light of divine Love seeping into the darkness -- into places that, only moments before, felt cold and fragile.  And so, we go a little deeper.  And we discover a little more. We let the shell shards go.

We are humans. We sing to find the humanity in one another. And in ourselves.  And that thread of humanity leads us to our divinity -- what can't be shaken or taken.  The light within.

Thank you Scott.

offered with Love,




Kate








Tuesday, May 8, 2018

"i was a free man..."


"I was a free man in Paris,
I was unfettered and alive..."

Whenever I hear Joni Mitchell's  "Free Man in Paris"  I think of a story that was shared with me over a decade ago. It was related to me as a true story, that has led to more than a few healings since I first hear it.

As the story goes, there was a slave who was promoted to the position of valet. He served his confederate, industrialist master faithfully. He was quiet, elegant, and unassuming. When his master would go on business trips, he would travel with him. Because he was a slave, he didn't sleep in the hotels where his master stayed, but remained outside or in quarters provided for servants.

Soon he was traveling the world with his master. On a particularly cold Parisian night, he finished his duties and returned to the entrance of the hotel where his master was staying, expecting to wait till morning for his master's first call. Bundled up at warmly as he could be, he huddled out of the cold in the alleyway next to the hotel.

Soon the doorman wandered over to where he was and asked him what he was doing. He explained that he was a slave and that his master was a guest in the hotel. He went on to say that he would wait there until his master needed him the next day.

The doorman looked at him and said, "Sir, this is Paris. Slavery is illegal here. You are free." The slave, waking up to the reality of his freedom, walked away. He never went back. He accepted his freedom.

You see, slavery was still legal in the United States. But in France, slavery had been abolished in 1794. He was not in a place where laws of slave ownership would be enforced. He was -- quite literally -- a free man in Paris.

How often to we walk around thinking that we are in a "country" that has laws that we are enslaved to, and under the enforceable jurisdiction of? That we live in a body with laws of decay and decline. That we operate in a world where laws of socio-economic privilege and penalty prevail. That we are under the thumb of educational hierarchies and intellectual tyranny?

We stand huddled against the cold wall of a building, thinking we are slaves and that if we were to leave, we would be hunted down, shackled in chains, and imprisoned for life. When in fact, we live, move, and breathe in Him. We are not citizens of a land where "enslavement to the most relentless masters" is enforced, or enforceable.

We are citizens of the kingdom of God. We are free men, women, and children in this safe place where slavery has been abolished. We do not live under the tyranny of laws that say we must subscribe to heredity, caste, class, health-predictions, educational hierarchies, socio-economic predestination.

We are free. We can walk away without looking back. I promise.

Not long ago I was struggling with a physical challenge that seemed to make movement very difficult. I was mentally slammed with all the reasons why this was not only reasonable, but expected -- at my age.

One Saturday, as I started a cleaning project, I put a favorite Joni playlist on my iPod - and yes, I still have one of my daughters' old discarded iPods. The first song that came up was "Free Man in Paris." I immediately thought of the story shared above. At the same moment, I bent down to clean under a table, and felt an all too familiar pain.

But this time I didn't just keep moving through it. Or huddle in the cold light of acceptance next to it. I decided to walk away from it. I was not mortal. I did not live in a "country" where the laws of birth, maturity, decay, death were enforced. I was not trapped in a body that was defined by those laws - or enslaved to them. I was a free woman in the kingdom of God.

Every step, every bend, every swipe of the dust cloth was a step away from the feeling that I was waiting for a false master to tell me where I could go what I could feel, and how I could experience my life.

In Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy assures us:


"The enslavement of man is not legitimate.

It will cease when man enters into his heritage of freedom, his God-given dominion over the material senses. Mortals will some day assert their freedom in the name of Almighty God."

We answer to one Sovereign, one Law-giver, who is Love. This Love is omnipotent. There is no opposition to His supreme statutes of freedom and liberty. This is where we live. This is the country of our citizenship.

offered with Love,




Kate



 



"Your love defends me..."


"Your love
defends me..."

A friend's recent inspiration, along with Matt Maher's beautiful song,  "Your Love Defends Me,"  brought to mind an earlier post from 2008 titled,"Our Meek and Bold Defender..." I'm reposting the substance of it here as a reminder of Who it is that does the defending of our spiritual rights in the court of Spirit. I hope you will find it helpful:

I had always wanted to be an attorney. A civil liberties attorney to be specific. I wanted to argue cases in defense of human rights and social justice.  I wanted to stand with those who were facing intimidation and persecution -- before a judge, and a jury of their peers.

Don't get me wrong, teaching school, book and media publishing, practicing spiritual healing, and volunteering in my community, were all wonderful chapters in my life story, but someday - sigh.  Yes, someday I would graduate from law school, take the bar exam, and hang my shingle. I couldn't imagine anything more fulfilling than defending the innocent, and defeating injustice.

Of course, there was no question -- I would continue practicing spiritual healing part-time -- weekends and evenings. Hadn't I always held more than one job?   This chapter would be no different.

A few decades ago, everything seemed poised for finally realizing this dream. I was between secondary careers. I thought I had it all figured out.  I would shift my practice of spiritual healing to a more part-time schedule.  A schedule that would blend with the demands of law school.

Having passed the LSATs, I found a law school within a reasonable commute of our home.  I filled out the application, and was accepted.  All I needed to do was send in the enrollment deposit - which would hold my place while I sought financial aid, loans, scholarships, grants, etc.  I was ready to do whatever it took. But that's right where God jumped in and stopped me in my tracks.

It was a clear, crisp winter day. I had spent the morning studying Scripture, praying for clear direction, and listening for inspiration. It seemed as if the way was clear for taking the next step. I pulled my checkbook from the desk drawer, wrote the modest deposit check to the University for what - at the time - seemed to be so much more than we could afford.  I popped it in the pre-addressed envelope, and pulled on my jacket before heading down the stairs.  I almost out the door and on my way to the post office. It was just a baby step, but I was ready to take it.

As I headed down the long flight of stairs - from our loft to the street level entrance of our building - an inner voice suggested, "Why don't you look up the word "Comforter" in Strong's Bible Concordance before you leave?"

In my Bible study that morning there had been a citation that included a reference to the promised "Comforter." As I'd read it, it had occured to me that I had never really gotten a solid sense of the word's meaning in the original language - as it related to the context of Jesus' message.

At the time, I had been too busy thinking about law school, and whether we could afford for me to write that deposit check. Much too busy in my listening for direction, to stop and grab the concordance off the shelf. I'd do it later. And here it was, later. But now I needed to get to the post office, or I might never - again - have the confidence to even begin thinking that I deserved to live out this dream.

As I continued down the stairs, and placed my hand on the doorknob, it was as if someone had wired that doorknob with an electrical current. As I grabbed it, the voice came again. And this time, it was so forceful that it seemed almost audible, "Go look up the word Comforter!" Well, I may be headstrong, but I am not disobedient.

I sprinted up the stairs.  Now in a hurry to do what I was being strongly urged to do -- since I still needed to get to the post office before the end of the day so that the deposit would reach the University before the deadline. So, I pulled the heavy volume off the shelf, quickly finding the related Hebrew, Greek, and Aramaic definitions of the word "Comforter."

As my eyes fell on the last definition, I almost gasped. It read, "counsel for the defense". I sat back, heavily, in my chair, and folded my hands in my lap. A stillness descended over my shoulders like a soft mantle of clarity and peace.

"This is the kind of Law I really want to practice," I thought. "This is the Law I believe in and love. I can work in this Law office forever."

I could see that God, divine Love was the only Law. And that the Christ was the Comforter, -- the "counsel for the defense." I could be working for this law office from that day forward. From then on, my spiritual practice was no longer modeled after a healthcare provider/clinic, but a law firm -- no longer therapeutic, but constitutional.

It was easy to set aside my dream-practice with the American Civil Liberties Union. For me, this was the ultimate practice of defending human rights and advocating for Truth. This would be like clerking for the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. And yes, I knew there would be moments when I would be the receptionist, then the stenographer, the bookkeeper, the public relations liaison, the office janitor, the law clerk - with her head buried in the law library. But I also knew that the Christ would always be the head of the firm -- the one and only Chief Counsel.

As I looked at the books lying open on my desk that day -- the Bible and Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy -- I realized that I had a complete law library sitting right in front of me. The Bible gave me a complete and comprehensive resume of precedent setting cases to cite in the court of Spirit. And Science and Health told me how to write a brief -- a treatment, in defense of man's inalienable spiritual right to freedom from sin, sickness and death.

Years earlier, I had taken two weeks of class-instruction with an experienced and wise "law professor," a teacher of Christian Science. This "law school," had fully prepared me for hanging my shingle. I would work for the one, and only, original Public Defender.

I never sent that check to the University. And I have never regretted it. I committed my life to an unwavering career in spiritual law, from that day forward.

In the ensuing decades, I have enjoyed a rich and satisfying career in this practice of spiritual Law. Each client who has crossed the threshold of this office has had the benefit of being lovingly cared for by our Chief Counsel - divine Truth and Love. As the receptionist I hope that I have received each client warmly and with grace. As His paralegal, I have taken careful notes that I could go over with Him, in prayerful consultation within the sanctuary of His chambers. As His law clerk, I have never found the Bible wanting, as I searched for a precendent-setting cases to cite, when defending our client's divine rights in the courtroom of Spirit. As His billing clerk -- well, I am still learning much -- as this is the job that I have struggled with most.

I love this office. I have a great boss who cares for His clients' spiritual liberties with a Father-like devotion to justice, and a Mother-like perseverence in defense of Her children's divine rights. I serve a Chief Justice who never leaves anyone languishing in prison because of an unjust sentence. And even when a harsh sentence might seems reasonable, He lovingly reminds us all that justice is always "the handmaid of mercy."

So, it's back to work.

offered with Love,




Kate




 




Friday, May 4, 2018

"under His wings..."


"How can you run
when you know?"

Today on Facebook, a friend shared this video of Crosby, Stills, and Nash's  "Ohio."  It is still a chilling reminder of a day I will never forget.

It was Monday -- a beautiful, early spring day in rural New Jersey. I was in typing class when our Assistant Principal came to the door and called our teacher into the hallway. He returned ashen-faced and visibly shaken. He announced that when the bell rang we were to go to the school auditorium.

I remember looking down at the rows and rows of "the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog" that I'd just typed, as a warm up for that day's dictation. When I looked up, there were tears streaming down our teacher's sideburn-framed cheeks. I was terrified. We'd lived through the Kennedy, King, and Kennedy assassinations, what could possibly evoke a teacher's tears -- again?

I looked across the room and questioningly caught a friend's eye. She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. I returned to my typing, but all I could think about was, "what now?" The windows were open and the scent of peonies wafted in on a soft breeze. To this day, the scent of peonies is the scent of paradox.

After the bell sounded for a change of classes, we filed into the hallway and made our way like lemmings towards the auditorium. For some reason, I needed to find my sister. She was a year younger, but she was my rock. I thought if I could sit with her, whatever news we were being gathered for would be less frightening. But when I finally caught sight of her, she was on the other side of the auditorium surrounded by friends.

The room was eerily quiet. We didn't talk as we waited for the principal to take the stage. When he did, although his suit was its normal crisp perfection, he seemed disheveled. He ran his hand through his hair as he paused at the microphone. It made me feel frightened. Like when my mother cried, or my dad sat staring out the window after paying the bills.

Before he spoke, he cleared his throat, paused, and cleared his throat again. Then he explained that there had been a terrible tragedy at a university in Ohio. The National Guard had opened fire on protesting students and four of those students had died. Others had been injured. We were instructed to return to our next period classes.  I noticed that our principal's shoulders shook - I assumed he was quietly weeping - as he left the stage with his head down.

We were in shock. We'd never heard the story of Kent State - it hadn't happened yet.  It wasn't in our rolodex of possibilities.  We'd heard of recently graduated classmates being killed in Viet Nam, but this was in Ohio - only two states away.  We'd never been exposed to news of our own government killing college students.  We were so close to being college students ourselves. For me it was only two years away. For the youngest among us, four years. We didn't speak, we didn't move. I remember thinking, "this is what shock feels like."

This was 1970. There were no trauma counselors. We were dismissed from the auditorium and told to go to our next class. At the end of the day, we boarded school buses for home, changed into gym clothes for track practice or field hockey, or we made our way to the same auditorium for play rehearsals.

It felt like walking through water. We had no further information. We wouldn't have any more information unless our parents let us watch the nightly news, on one of three channels at 6 o'clock. The newspaper wouldn't arrive until morning. There was no cable news, no internet, no online resources, no Facebook posts, or breaking news updates. Just the 6 o'clock news and the morning paper.

Had there been a coup? Had war been declared in Ohio? Were children -- and yes, we still thought of our friends in college as children -- now the enemy of the state? Was the consequence for disagreeing with your government, death by firing squad?

It would be days before we saw photographs. It would be months before we'd get anything more than cursory information. It would be years before we'd know how that day in May, would change the landscape of our collective experience as students - and parents.

The massacre of student protesters on a grassy knoll at Kent State University would alter the course of history. Within a week millions of high school and college students went on strike, others marched in protest at the Capitol, and many of us wrote out our grief in poetry, songs, and essays.

As with the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy, I turned to a resource I'd come to trust -- my Sunday School teacher. I had to wait six days, but I knew she would give me a spiritual way to process what I'd been living with for almost a week.

On Sunday, she too was still shaken by the event. I loved that she wasn't stoic and matter-of-fact about it. Her response was honest. She told me that she'd been praying all week about how to talk with us about what had happened in Ohio. And then she asked us how we had been feeling. She didn't tell us how we should feel.

I don't remember all of what we discussed that morning, but I do remember leaving church with a sense of courage about standing up for what is right and good. I also left with her encouragement to memorize the 91st Psalm. And I did. It has stood the test of time. It reads:


"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most high shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and fortressL my God; in Him will I trust.

Surely He shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence.

He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: His truth shall be thy shield and buckler.

Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flight by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that casteth at noonday.

A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.

Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the wicked.

"Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation; there shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling.

For He shall give His angels charge over thee to keep thee in all thy ways."

Over the next two years I would participate in a number of protests, and this Psalm would be my marching song. In the ensuing years it has been my companion whenever I have felt threatened or afraid. I do not run when I know that something needs facing. I stand with angels -- who have charge over me, and mine, and all.

offered with Love,




Kate



This video from Dan Rather's report on the event is helpful in understanding what happened that day  "Kent State." 



Wednesday, May 2, 2018

"it's holding tight, and letting go..."


"it's holding tight,
and letting go;
it's flying high,
and laying low..."

Clint Black's 1997 hit  "Something That We Do,"  is something of an anthem for me. So much of the success stories we hear - in regard to love, are about holding on. But there was a time in my life when I really needed to hear that love was also about letting go

As a family steeped in adoption, this was a theme in our lives.  The bittersweet paradox of love. For us to be able to be a family, a birth mother -- or birthparents -- had to let go. And yet, I believed that through the path of open adoption -- the ongoing relationship between birth families and adoptive families -- letting go could also include holding on. I still do.

But when it came to marriage, for me it was all about holding on. Holding on for dear life. And this holding on was not always gentle. Sometimes it was frantic and desperate. In fact, it was often like that for me. I would not be a quitter. And I wouldn't let anyone else quit either.

But I have learned that sometimes love is letting go. After decades of refusing to "give up," one day God asked me, "do you love him enough to let him go?" It had never occurred to me that loving someone could mean not trying harder. But as I let that question sink in, I thought about how much I loved my daughters and what loving them had looked like - from the moment they came into our family.  And it was more about letting go, than holding on.

It started with letting go of my dreams of how I would become a mother.  Then it was sharing them with others: placing them in the arms of family and friends who loved them, trusting a babysitter, leaving them in the Children's Room during church services.  Before we knew it, we were dropping them off at pre-school, sports events, sleepovers, camp, international service projects, expeditions, college...

Letting go wasn't about giving up with our daughters, and it wasn't about giving up on my marriage. It was about loving enough to trust God's tender, constant, unfolding care for each of us. I can only speak for myself, but for me, it was about surrendering self-will and pride for spiritual growth and humility. It was about holding on to my highest sense of living love, while letting go of what I thought it should look like.

For those who think that this is some version of self-justification, I can assure you that it is not. I have spent countless nights rehearsing that day -- when after years of trying harder and praying more -- God broke through my self-certainty, with piercing clarity, and asked me to love enough, to let go.

It was not the first time God had spoken to me in this way -- so it wasn't a foreign language. Some years earlier, when my husband and I were in the process of adopting our first child -- a son -- his birthmother was prayerfully led to reconsider her decision to surrender. Our adoption agency had made it clear that since he was already in our home, we could contest her change of heart.

But that was the thing -- it was all about hearts. The night before she was to give us all her final decision, I was sitting alone praying about what to do.  And out-of-the-blue God asked me, "Some day that baby will be a boy of twelve. Will you be able to say to him, "your mother wanted to raise you, but we fought to keep you."

My heart surrendered in a moment. And as painfully hard as it was, I never regretted that surrender. Years later, the Voice, and the feeling, were the same -- and I knew. I felt it pierce all the disappointment and pride. All the human will and hardness. I knew it had nothing to do with not loving him -- but loving him more.

Mary Baker Eddy has this to say in her primary work, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:


"The sharp experiences of belief in the supposititious life of matter, as well as our disappointments and ceaseless woes, turn us like tired children to the arms of divine Love. Then we begin to learn life in divine Science. Without this process of weaning, "Canst thou by searching find out God?"

For me it read, "Then we begin to learn love in divine Science. Each time I have been asked to let go, my understanding of Love has expanded beyond anything I could have ever imagined.  I have learned more about love, and my relationship to God -- the Source of all love -- by the weaning, more than by the holding on.

And in truth, we never really let go of what we love - only of our sense of personal attachment and possession. We are not the arbiters of love in our lives -- of its presence in our hearts. We love, who and what we love by divine appointment. We can't control that. But we can let God define how we relate to one another, moment-by-moment.

Love is a verb. Nothing can keep us from being love. Nothing can deprive us of our right to love.  It is the one real power we have. Think of it.  No one can stop you from loving them -- from being conscious of, seeing, and calling attention to the best in them. Every relationship in our lives is the ebb and  flow of holding on to what is true about another -- and letting go of what isn't.

Whether it is in the day-to-day surrender of our children to teachers and friendships, or the letting go of what we think define us, and how we live, love, and work together. We are never separated from those we love. We hold them forever in our hearts - as tenderly remembered experiences, through co-parenting, and in our genuine hopes for their future joy in loving -- and perhaps, loving someone new. In this way, there really is no separation, only the surrender of outlines and attachments.

Letting go in love is not a failure. It is just another way of loving someone. Every moment of loving is a remarkable moment of success over self. In this, there is no failed love. Time doesn't validate love. Loving validates love.

I love these lyrics from "Something That We Do":


"We help to make each other
all that we can be.

Though we can find
our strength and inspiration
independently.

The way we work together
is what sets our love apart."

Life is eternal. There will be an infinite number of loves in our lives. May each one bring you nearer to God - the Source of all love. May you know the eternity of loving without possession or attachment. May you feel the power of love as an active, unstoppable, irresistible verb. May you know the love that is both holding tight, and letting go.


offered with Love,




Kate



[photo by Katariina Agnes Fagering - used with permission]



Wednesday, April 25, 2018

"I knew..."


"I knew
I loved you
before I met you;

I had been waiting
all my life..."

The first time I heard Savage Garden's,  "I Knew I Loved You,"  it touched me in a place that was all about motherhood, and being a girl who loved horses.

Today, our daughters turn 29, 21, and 21. April 25th is a day that takes me apart - and puts me back together in new ways - every year.

As a girl, I wanted to be a mother -- even more than I wanted to be a lawyer. And I wanted that a lot. I didn't imagine my children, I felt them. I couldn't accept that they would never find their way into my arms. Years of infertility and fore-shortened pregnancies left me confused, angry, empty. Why would God put this love in my heart from early childhood, and not give me a way to live it out in my daily experience?

There are dozens of posts on this blog about my journey from empty womb to full arms, but this post, is about knowing, really knowing the presence of something, when everything else is telling you that you are delusional.

It's about refusing to give up, even when all the cards are stacked against you and your bank account screams, "are you insane?" But I knew. I knew that the love I felt in my heart, was not something I could create -- and therefore it was not something I could destroy. And believe me, I tried. There were moments in a lonely bathroom - once a month - when I just wanted the heartbreak of not being pregnant - again, to go away. Moments when I watch another hopeful trimester end in pain and heartache.

But I knew. I knew my God, because I knew this fierce love for these girls.  They were inextricably linked.  When I wasn't sure if there was a God, I was sure that I loved my daughters -- even before I met them. When I wasn't sure there would be daughters, I knew that God was Love and that this all-powerful, ever-present, all-knowing Love would not put that love in my heart without a plan for its fulfillment.

Someone recently asked me if I didn't think that perhaps I was too in love with my daughters. Well, if you ask it that way... No. There is no "perhaps" about it. I love them completely, utterly, unflinchingly.  This love has given me a sense of God's presence that cannot be shaken. A mother loving her children too much? If it were possible to even fathom that concept, then I could conceive of God loving us too much. And if there is "too much," then there would have to be some measure considered "enough."

In her primary work, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy gives this definition of enough:


"The depth, breadth, height,
might, majesty, and glory
of infinite Love fill all space.
That is enough."

That's my only definition of enough. When I have loved them with as much devotion, clarity,  joy, and delight as I know God loves all of us, well, then -- perhaps -- it will be enough. But too much? Never.

Loving these girls has been the thing that has given me the best of myself.  Loving them has been a profound gift of purpose, reason, focus, and joy.  Oh, such joy. Unfathomable joy.

Before I actually met each of them, I held them like the feather of a small bluebird in my heart. And I held that hope tenderly and fiercely - knowing that I would someday hear them sing -- and fly. When it was suggested that I might just want to be content with being an aunt, I refused to accept that being an aunt was a compromise.  I knew that I could be a loving, devoted aunt and a good mom. Because you see, I didn't just want to be a mom, I needed to be a mom. I needed to know that the hope within me wasn't separated from its Source -- divine Life and Love.

Three passages from Mary Baker Eddy's writings were my constant companions:


"Do human hopes deceive?
is joy a trembler?
Then, weary pilgrim,
unloose the latchet of thy sandals;
for the place whereon thou standest
is holy ground."

"God grant that the trembling chords
of human hope shall again be swept
by the divine Talitha cumi,
“Damsel, I say unto thee, arise.”

"When the real is attained,
which is announced by Science,
joy is no longer a trembler,
nor is hope a cheat."

Over and over again I would arise from the bed of pain, of  another disappointment, of the death of my dreams. I would find the fragile pulse of that hope, and breathe fresh purpose into its frail presence. It was not about "getting a baby," it was about trusting God to be the only Source of my hopes, my dreams, my desire to live less selfishly.

When I look at this date on the calendar - April 25th, the day that I finally met all three of our daughters - albeit eight years apart -- I can actually feel the way hope whispers in the heart. I remember looking down into each of their little faces and having my breath taken away, my knees buckle, my inner mother-tiger roar. I could feel the pulse of divine Life. I knew them before I met them -- and I know God.



offered with Love,




Kate



Tuesday, April 24, 2018

"the privilege of probation..."


"Let my life
be the proof,
the proof of Your love..."

I'd never heard of the group For King & Country until hearing their worship song,  "Proof of Your Love,"  but now that I have, I will seek out their music.

Listening to it this morning, I couldn't help but remember an experience from decades ago. It was a turbulent time within our church. In the middle of it all, a dear friend and colleague had been put on probation for three years. I was confused. I had friends on both sides of the issue. I called someone who was familiar with the situation, and whose wisdom and judgment I trusted.

He didn't get into the weeds of it all, but asked me a question I will never forget:


"Do you love and value
the privilege of probation?"

I got it. This wasn't about the rightness or wrongness of someone else's choices or actions. It was an opportunity to examine my own relationship to the concept of "probation." The etymological root of which is "to prove."

He then went on to explain to me that, for each of us, there are times when we are given the opportunity to demonstrate our persistence, our patience, our devotion to something we love, because we have been asked to step away from it for a period of grace.

In my faith tradition, we have weekly Bible lessons. Twice a year the subject of the lesson is "Probation After Death." As a child I distanced myself from the reason for that particular theme when it came up -- it seemed morose. I would read the suggested scriptures and their correlative passages from Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy. But I didn't try to see the connection between the dark-sounding subject title, and the beautiful readings outlined.

After that conversation with my friend, I began to notice how those readings encouraged a deeper sense of humility, courage, and grace. I looked for ways that I could proven my love for God following the cessation - or death - of any negative way of thinking or acting.

But I also noticed that my relationship to the concept of probation included a bit of fear. I was terrified of doing something wrong and being "put on probation" for my mistakes. I was vigilant about always doing the right thing. I hoped that if I was alert I could avoid probation, which I still thought of as punitive.

Of course God loved me too much to let me live in fear of something that is so beautiful. And when the opportunity came, I was ready -- if not eager. I'd made what I thought was good decision. In hindsight, I realized it wasn't. No one knew the background or the details. They only knew how it looked to them. And although my decision was broadly questioned, I was not subjected to any kind of disciplinary intervention.

But I knew.  I knew that had I listened more deeply for divine guidance, I might have made a different choice. I thought a lot about probation during the ensuing days, weeks, and months. But this time it wasn't out of fear, but out of love for God. I needed to prove to myself -- and to God -- that I had the wisdom and patience to listen longer, more deeply, more humbly for His voice.

So, I put myself on probation. And it was one of the best gifts I ever gave to myself.  I "imposed" a three year probation on activities that I thought I needed to bring a deeper sense of listening to. Once a week, I checked in with my probation officer - Christ. I would set aside specific quiet time for looking - prayerfully - at the choices and decisions I'd made that week. I would examine my motives, revisit moments where I needed to exercise patience and humility, and review my actions through the lens of spiritual self-surrender.

Over the course of those years, I could actually see a difference in my subsequent responses to each demand for wisdom and grace. And I can honestly say that it was a privilege to be "on probation." Every day was a day of proving how much I loved God and was willing to set aside the ego, and put Him first.  I think I became kinder, more patient with myself -- and others, and less judgmental.

This passage from Mary Baker Eddy's Science and Health took on new life and relevance:


"As death findeth mortal man,
so shall he be after death,
until probation and growth
shall effect the needed change."

Even though I had walked away from the corpse of what I felt was a less-than-optimal decision, I still had the right to prove that I was free of its hold, its regret -- its grief. Each week I was given the opportunity to sit with Christ and review my thoughts, words and actions. To celebrate my ultimate freedom.

Probation is no longer a punitive, threatening concept for me, it is something I cherish deeply. I try to practice my love for probation, as an expression of my love for God, for good. It is not something that anyone else needs to impose upon us -- it is a gift we can give ourselves. It is an opportunity to say "I love you," to our first Love.



offered with Love,




Kate



Saturday, April 7, 2018

"what am I worth..."


"I look to You,
I look to You..."

Selah's cover of  "I Look to You"  returned to my playlist this morning.

I was talking with a dear friend recently and she asked me a question that touched a very tender nerve:


"perhaps it's a self-worth issue..."

I heard her, but I couldn't imagine how what we were talking about - my desire to be of better support to those I loved - had anything to do with self-worth. But I trusted her and I knew she loved me. So I filed her question away for "someday when."  Someday, when I have the time. Someday, when I am willing to probe more deeply. Someday, when I am unable to breathe because I feel the walls crumbling around me - again. Then I will revisit self-worth.  But for now, I'm okay -- but thanks.

Then, a few days later I received a thank you card with this message on the front:


"One day she woke up
and decided she was worthy,

and her soul cried out
with joy"

"Hmmm," I thought, "today is the day to plumb this question."  But I had to start with another question. What defines worth?

First I turned to the dictionary. It said what I already knew: "the level at which something or someone deserves to be valued, is fit for, capable of, or suitable for." It's etymology however stopped me in my tracks. From Old English roots, the word "worth," hearkens back to the word, "woerp" which refers to "an enclosed space, or a homestead."

I sat back in my chair and let that sink in. Was I at home in my own sense of worth? Do I feel at peace with the value of what I bring to humanity? Has my sense of home been directly impacted by my sense of worth? Has my sense of my own worth been been informed by my home -  or more pointedly, my housing? What correlation might there be between home, value, and worth? It took me a few moments to take the next breath.

As I thought about the concept of worth, I realized that a thing's worth is not defined by the thing itself, but is based on its perceived value. For example, gold is intrinsically worth no more than lead or silver. We have assigned a higher value to gold. The same with sports heroes over teachers. Or celebrities over mothers. Those who have advanced degrees over craftsmen, or those in the trades. It is society that assigned that value. There is no intrinsic higher value in one, over the others.

I needed to have a clear sense of what I valued in order to see my own -- or another's -- worth. So, I dug deeper. What clues could scripture give me in finding a truer sense of worth. I looked at what prophets, disciples, apostles, and Christ himself valued. Humility, meekness, self-sacrifice, patience. These resonated with me, but I still couldn't feel the deeper  shift that I know comes with a transformation of thought. Then something I found in Mary Baker Eddy's Science and Health with Key to the Scripture hit that nerve again -- and this time, it was like a tuning fork. She writes:


"let worth be judged according to wisdom..."

It rushed through me like a lightning bolt. A few weeks earlier my Sunday School class had been examining the difference between intelligence and wisdom, and one of the girls said:


"Wisdom is intelligence
used with love."

When I heard it, I knew it was true. It immediately became my go-to definition for "wisdom." And here was Eddy saying that worth should be judged according to wisdom -- the loving use of intelligence. It all shifted into place. If I was feeling less than "worthy," I needed to examine how I was using the God-bestowed intelligence that filled my consciousness throughout the day.

For example:  Was I reading scripture, and delighting in every word, but not bringing these vital truths into Christian practice? Was I consciously bringing wisdom -- intelligence used with love -- to bear on every interaction? Was I vigilant in my daily defense of the wise use of intelligence? Did I affirm throughout the day that intelligence could only be used for good, for the benefit of humanity. Did I refuse to believe that intelligence could ever be corrupted or used "against" others?

Elsewhere in her Message to The Mother Church for 1902 Eddy assures us that:

"Conscious worth satisfies the hungry heart
and nothing else can..."

To be conscious of my worth -- my right to engage in the loving use of intelligence -- was all that would satisfy my hunger for peace. My worth is not based on an irreversible history of personal mistakes, failures, choices, or accomplishments. It is not defined by how others perceive me. My worth is founded on my day-to-day practice of wisdom. This is what has value. This is practice of wisdom is something I can monitor throughout the day.

It's not surprising that this "loving use of intelligence," aligns with a conscious application of The Golden Rule: "do unto others as you would have them do unto you."  The Golden Rule is not a human choice, but a divine imperative.  It is a law that operates unspent throughout the deep collective root system of humanity. It is ever-establishing our ever-active spiritual worth -- moment-by-moment,  heart by heart.

We are worthy of this intelligent view of ourselves and others. We are worthy of the peace and joy it brings. We are worthy of being conscious of our worth,  and the worth of being conscious.  Conscious of what we know, and how we use it.  This is a place we can homestead and abide in -- forever.

offered with Love,




Kate



Wednesday, April 4, 2018

"why do I try..."


"Why do I feel I have to reach,
believe I have to rise,
when You never said I had to climb
these broken ladders..."

Sitting here at the kitchen counter surrounded by 85% less "stuff" than we owned a few months ago, in a house that is less than half the size of the home we'd lived - and loved - in for the last five years, feels like a moment of grace. Not only have we transitioned from lots to little, but we have been shown how to go forward, every step of the way.

For the last two hours, Selah's recording of  "Broken Ladders"  has been my companion. I have listened to it with a profound sense of gratitude.

Last fall, significant changes made it clear that it was time to step back and look at our choices.  Our budget, housing, expenses, donations, support for family members -- all had to be placed on the altar.

I've been here before. And in the past, I've often felt like a victim of circumstances. But this time, I was conscious.  Conscious of my right to feel God's presence and power in ways I'd never been before.  No one - and nothing - had control of our lives, but God.

We didn't know how it would all fall into place. Yet we refused to let any evidence of things "falling apart," deprive us of our right to trust Him.

Every few days another shoe would drop. But we were ready. "Yes," I would think, "this is exactly what it looks like when the next step of good is breathing itself into life."  We would not be fooled into believing anything else.

Christmas came with a deep-dive into the chapter "Recapitulation" from Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy.  A lovely advent tradition became a lifeline of spiritual clarity.

Our beloved "last house" (of the 60 I've lived in) went on the market. Realtors and potential buyers came and went.  I took calls in the car with puppies curled on my lap.  While our living room became a real estate office. And in the midst of it all our daughters' residence in a college town was suddenly sold, and we were faced with finding a solution for their needs as well.

Early this winter our daughters lovingly made adjustments to their life-plans, giving us space to catch our breath. Our church became, not just a place where we served others, but a vital place of spiritual respite and retreat. Showing up early for services wasn't a choice, but a gift of sanctuary. I needed the quiet of our auditorium, the silent fellowship of praying with other members, the peace of a place that would not change.  Church grounded my trust in what I could not see.  In that space I didn't have to imagine packing, moving, navigating a house full of memories. We could be houseless, but we would never be church-less.

There are too many stories from the last six months, where trust in God, dried tears of terror. Too many instances to share in one post. Perhaps a few of them will find themselves onto the pages of this blog in the future -- but not now. This post isn't about how it all fell into place humanly. It is about how it all fell apart for me - humanly, but fell into place spiritually.

A sense of place: housing, how I fit in the world, where I stood on a ladder of my own imagining - literally and figuratively - had always been far too important to me. As a young woman my success was all about a tireless work ethic. I knew I could work, I knew I worked hard. I would show up with more devotion and commitment than anyone else. That was my safe-place.

When my work became a life of prayer, study, and devotion to God -- I brought that same ethos to the table. I would show up every moment, of every day, with everything I had. I would prove my love for God.

I learned long ago that more spiritual thought-taking did not equal better human "demonstrations."  Praying was not a means to an end.  I was not praying to effect physical improvement, a more stable bank balance, or secure housing. Prayer was not my means for enlisting God in a human solution. Prayer is, as Mary Baker Eddy states on the first page of Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:


"God's gracious means..."

But as clear as that truth was for me, it didn't mean that when something wasn't working out humanly, I didn't take it as a referendum on my spirituality. It didn't help that I had a chorus of memories running through my head chanting, "if only you had prayed with more understanding, it would have gotten better" or testimonies that promised, "we prayed and suddenly we could pay our bills, our son got a scholarship, the house we'd dreamed of fell into our laps."  I asked myself hundreds of times each day -- "where is your trust, Kate?  That is the evidence you are seeking -- a closer relationship with God, a deeper trust."

The Christian paradox of surrender and accumulation, sacrifice and security -- called me into a deeper stillness. I could barely breathe some days. Fear of embarrassment that I'd failed my family spiritually, stung painfully.  But in the midst of it all, I was conscious of something deeper at work.

I turned to the Bible and the writings of Mary Baker Eddy for peace. Eddy suggests that if we are looking for guidance, we should follow her only so far as she followed Christ. So I looked to the gospels with a hunger that tore at my core.

And I found that human accomplishment, accrual, achievement, and acceptance were very low on Christ's metric for how to live. He loved God. He trusted God. Whatever came in the wake of that love and trust -- so be it. He didn't teach his disciples how to find affordable housing. He didn't recommend the building of barns for accumulating wealth. He didn't offer assurances of security, or encourage prayer as a means of fulfilling one's professional ambitions. So why had I spent so many years looking for those indicators as a measure of anything, when he didn't advocate them.

He didn't encourage me to shatter glass ceilings, buy a bigger purse, or fence in an acre or two for living out our golden years. He didn't endorse any version of a prosperity gospel. His was not a path of getting, but of giving.

Well, heck!  We could do that. We looked around at all that we had to give -- and it was a LOT. Downsizing gave us the gift of generosity. We had so much to give, it was everywhere -- in the garage, on shelves, under blankets. I even found that I had enough pride hiding in the shadows that I could have powered a small dictatorship.  But pride could be recycled into humility.  We gave up ambition -- threw it right into the dumpster along with admiration and approval. God had never asked for me to bring those to the altar as a measure of my love for Him.  And love for Him was all that mattered.

When I set aside these false milestones - and their arrogant insistence that I needed to "measure up," I started to hear what God really wanted from me. And you know, I was in the perfect place to find it -- right where I was.  There could not have been a richer wellspring for discovering His real treasures - humility, patience, meekness, grace.

God wanted me to be more compassionate with those who were facing the deepest human struggles. Well, I could do that. I knew how it felt for a parent to have to ask their child to make sacrifice. God wanted my humility, and I was being given so many opportunities for growth in this essential grace.   He wanted my trust in His care -- not just for me and mine, but for all. It wasn't enough that we had been able to afford college for our children.  This experience expanded the lens of my heart.  It became so important to me that there be a purposeful life-path for everyone's son and daughter.

When I thought about leaving our lovely home draped in pine boughs and fairy lights, I had to ask myself, "Why did you work so hard to make a beautiful home? Was it to impress others, or to express beauty?"  I realized that I didn't need a house to bring beauty to my community. I could do that anywhere, anytime. In my car, at the library, in line at the grocery store. There was nothing more beautiful than a kind heart, forgiving eyes, a generous hand.  Whatever kept my heart focused on God's love - I welcomed it.  If hardship was the platform for growth in grace, I was all in.  God never asked me to give evidence of His love for humanity, by presenting a humanly perfect life story.

All He ever asked for was my heart -- my simple heart. I am bringing this to the table every moment of every day. To Him that is all that really matters.

This has been one of the most liberating chapters of my life. As I look out the windows of this sweet, simple home, I can feel the heart of humanity beating within my own breast. It all feels closer, more visceral, alive. The practice of Christian fellowship and healing feels even more vital and relevant as I watch a young father walking his son to kindergarten, the construction worker hanging from scaffolding on the new building across the street.  Our neighborhood is pulsing with diversity and opportunity.  I am on my knees, rather than behind my desk. I love God, I trust God. He hasn't asked me to climb ladders -- only to be his daughter, ever-faithful to the family business.  It is enough.

offered with Love,




Kate




Wednesday, March 28, 2018

"how emptiness sings..."


"I haven’t been asked yet
to walk the hard roads,
still there’s a sense
of deep loss in my soul.
In the middle of a party,
I’ll just want to go home.

But oh,
My bow is on the strings,
and I’m beginning to learn
where to find the words
to the song that emptiness sings..."

Christa Wells' recording of  "How Emptiness Sings" touches me on two levels. One is just the sound of the song -- it makes me want to wrap my arms around myself and weep. And then there are the words -- so full of self-compassion, understanding, and patience with our humanness.

One of my favorite contemporary Christian singer-songwriters - Sara Groves, posted that she was looking forward to the release of Christa Wells' new single "Velveteen." I'd forgotten all about Christa's music. So I went looking for her, and when I found "How Emptiness Sings," it was enough.

This week I've been steeped in the Easter story. From Jesus' foretelling of the crucifixion to his disciples, to Peter and John's race to the sepulcher.  His narrative has colored everything for me.

His acceptance of God's purpose and path for him is so humbling. I have had to ask myself, "Would you be able to walk into the arms of Judas and accept his kiss? Would you stand tall before Pilate and not plead your case? Would your last words be, "Father forgive them for they know not what they do."

No matter how many challenges I have faced in my life, I have not faced this level of self-surrender. I remember once calling the man who was my mentor is Christian Science healing. I was tired. I felt bombarded, misunderstood, maligned. I expected his sympathy. But what he said was, "Are your feet bleeding yet today?"

I knew exactly what he meant. He was referring to three passages from the writings of Mary Baker Eddy:


"Prayer means that we desire to walk and will walk in the light so far as we receive it, even though with bleeding footsteps, and that waiting patiently on the Lord, we will leave our real desires to be rewarded by Him."

"The God-inspired walk calmly on though it be with bleeding footprints, and in the hereafter they will reap what they now sow. The pampered hypocrite may have a flowery pathway here..."

"If impatient of the loving rebuke, the student must stop at the foot of the grand ascent, and there remain until suffering compels the downfall of his self-conceit. Then that student must struggle up, with bleeding footprints, to the God-crowned summit of unselfish and pure aims and affections."

That simple reminder was enough to still my self-pity and complaint.  The last path I wanted to pursue, was the one traveled by the pampered hypocrite.

I think of David, so good and pure as a boy. Yes, a wee arrogant and over-confident - but for good reason. His innocence has been his freedom from the jaws of the lion, the paw of the bear, and the terror of the Philistine. But as a man, he let his self-certainty undermine him. I can't help but wonder if his faltering footsteps didn't serve to teach him the words we turn to in our hours of darkness and despair.  What Christa calls:


"the words to the song
that emptiness sings..."

It has never been self-confidence that has served me in times when my feet were raw -- if not yet bleeding -- on this journey. It has been humility, self-surrender, and mercy that have brought me the deepest peace. Those moments of:


"Abba, Father,
take away this cup from me:
nevertheless not what I will,
but what thou wilt..."

and

"Help me, O Lord my God:
O save me according to thy mercy..."


Lately, I have found myself listening for the song that emptiness sings whispering in my heart. The song that I have yet to learn the words to, because I have not yet traveled this road.  But I am willing -- and I am ready.  I don't yet know what I will need, but I do know that if I am very, very quiet I will hear a new song.

So, if you see me leaving the party, sitting by myself with my eyes closed, or facing the emptiness and scanning the horizon -- it is because I know there is something out there. There is something asking me to go farther than I have ever been before. It's just a feeling -- but I've grown to trust them. Sometimes in the middle of the party, I just want to go home and be still. My bow is waiting on the strings -- the music will come. And then the words.


offered with Love,




Kate




"the writing's on the wall..."


"for You,
I have to risk it all,
for the writing's on the wall..."

The other night Sam Smith's recording of  "The Writing's on the Wall" found its way to the top of my playlist.  About the same time that I was thinking about Jesus' night in the garden of Gethsemane. Suddenly it wasn't James Bond that Sam was singing about -- it was Jesus.

I can only imagine what it must have been like to know you were going to be arrested and crucified. Yes, he also knew that a resurrection was part of God's plan for him, but still...

I keep thinking about his spiritual preparation for this ultimate opportunity to demonstrate his love for mankind -- by modeling his unprecedented trust in God's omnipotent goodness. His willingness to give each of us a precedent-setting case of what happens when you "risk" it all for Love.

We know that he was a student of earliest scripture. As a good Hebrew boy, he was familiar with the stories in the Old Testament. He would have heard of Daniel's night in the lions' den, of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fire, of Moses' journey through a parted sea with the Children of Israel. He would have memorized the Psalms and learned from Job. He was ready.

He had been humbled, tempted, lauded, questioned, exalted, pursued, defended, and defamed. He had spent 40 days in the desert, was the honored guest at weddings and feasts, read in the temple, was pursued by a mob, and fed multitudes. He was ready.

He had seen water made wine, men turn from their self-righteous anger, lepers made clean, a bent woman straightened, money from the mouth of a fish, thousands fed, a blind man seeing, and the dead raised to life. He was ready.

Last summer a friend shared three short sentences in a talk. They were:


You belong here.
You are ready.
You are not alone.

There has not been a day - since hearing those three sentences strung together - that I have not claimed them for myself and others. The comfort of knowing that we have been sent into each moment for a holy purpose. The confidence inspired by realizing that we are prepared and ready for this experience with spiritual skills, tools, resources, experiences, and proofs. And the abiding sense that we are not alone as we stand in this moment. Divine Love is with us every step of the way. Isaiah shares this promise:


"Now thus saith the Lord, Fear not -- when thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; I will make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert..." 

And the Pslamist, David writes:


"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou are with me..."

Jesus would have known these promises from scripture. They must have been a great comfort to him. I know they have been for me. If the writing's on the wall -- and we know that we must pass through the fire of self-immolation, then the writing is also on the page, telling us how we can do navigate this passage with spiritual courage, strength, wisdom, and trust.

John relates this promise from Jesus:


"In the world ye shall have tribulation; but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world."

What love he has shown us. What gifts of compassion and understanding he has left for us. No one was awake with Jesus in the garden to take notes. Yet we know what happened there - the plea, the tears, the surrender. He, himself, must have left record of this night of gloom and glory with his followers. Perhaps he left this record as  encouragement for all who he knows will follow him in their own path of devotion to God and mankind.

In Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy says this about our own sometimes tear-strewn path in following his example:


"It is possible, — yea, it is the duty and privilege of every child, man, and woman, — to follow in some degree the example of the Master by the demonstration of Truth and Life, of health and holiness."

As hard as that may seem to imagine,  we -- every child, man, and woman -- are ready to do this. We are well-prepared. Our spiritual storehouses are well-stocked.

As Paul writes in II Corinthians:


"God is able to make all grace abound toward you; that ye, always having all sufficiency in all things, may abound to every good work.

Thanks be unto God for His unspeakable gift."


Not long ago, I found myself in a very dark place. It was unexpected and unsettling. I reminded myself over and over again: I belong here. I am ready. I am not alone. I was willing to accept that this seeming darkness was really the backdrop for a brilliant Truth to be seen more clearly. Day-by-day I searched scripture, listened in prayer, waited patiently. I looked for God's presence in my life -- in hundreds of tiny ways -- reminding me that I was not alone. When the light broke -- it was not in opposition to the darkness, but enhanced by it.

We are prepared to see the lowering cloud for what it is -- the promise of healing, reviving rain. We can run for cover, or we can stay and watch the desert blossom as the rose. Arms stretched wide, face turned up to receive His bow of promise.

We belong here.  We belong in every moment of our own awakening to spiritual life and its possibilities -- whether it be through the doors of the temple, in the silence of a sanctuary, or on the path of our own cross-bearing. We are ready.  We are well-equipped with scriptural truths, confidence-inspiring experiences, prayer-based encouragement, and his life-affirming promises. And we are not alone. We have Jesus' example -- and most vitally, we have the kingdom of God at hand, with us, within our hearts.

Yes, the writing's on the wall. But His Word is written in our hearts.


offered with Love,




Kate