"Jesus the Carpenter"

"If I had a hammer
I'd hammer in the morning
I'd hammer in the evening
All over this land
I'd hammer out patience
I'd hammer out justice
I'd hammer out the love between
My brothers and my sisters
All, all over this land…"
-     adaptation of Peter Seeger's classic

Okay, so we've had Joe the Plumber, Tito the Builder, and even Christine the Hairdresser…but I'm sticking with the counsel and experience of Jesus the Carpenter….whose dad, by the way, was named Joe(seph). Hence, "If I Had a Hammer."

Doubts about "Barack the Senator" becoming "Barack the President" based on a lack of experience in handling a national crisis - should his presidency be "tested" within those first few months after taking office - have plunged me deeply into the heart of prayer...and the pages of the Bible.  And in part, I've found my peace in reading the Gospel account of Jesus' own transition from humble carpenter to spiritual leader.

He too was tested within the first historic moments of "taking office". 

Let's revisit the "scene".  Jesus, at the age of thirty, arrives on the shores of the river Jordan to be baptized of John.  John sees immediately that this is "the one"…not "that one" (sorry..I couldn't resist), but the one they have been waiting for.  At first he recoils from Jesus' request to be baptized on the grounds that he, John, should be asking this clearly extraordinary spiritual thought-leader to be baptizing him.  But when Jesus urges him to "suffer it to be so now…" he acquiesces and Jesus,  "coming up out of the water. sees the Spirit descending on him like a dove and a voice from heaven saying, "This is my beloved son, in whom I am well-pleased."

Now,  before you go off on a rant about my comparison of Barack Obama (or any other candidate) to Jesus Christ,  let me explain that this is NOT what I am inferring.  I am simply saying that we can use Jesus' experience as a metaphor for contemporary choices, decisions, and, as even Mary Baker Eddy says, in speaking of her own example:  "follow me, only as I follow Christ."  We all have the footsteps of Christ Jesus' life to follow in charting our own course…and in examining the course of history.

Okay, that said,  back to my ramblings. So here is this humble thirty year old carpenter who is thrown into the spotlight by divine anointing,  and one might think that, as a spiritual thinker…regardless of your faith tradition….it can't get any better than this.  This would clearly have been the highlight of a very young man's "glorious career"…a spiritual leader divinely launched.   But what comes next is what astounds, sobers, and  inspires me. 

Right on the heels of God's proclamation that Jesus is His beloved son…and that He, God, is well pleased with him, comes this next statement:

"Then was Jesus led of the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted…"  THEN!!!

Now my dictionary says that word, "then", means "at that time, immediately, next"

So here he is, having just been anointed...in front of John the Baptist and all who might have been at the river, waiting for baptism...as the son of God.  The Spirit has descended upon him, the Holy Ghost speaks to him and he is told that God is well-pleased with him….by Him,  by God!

But then…right then…the next thing that happens...he is led into the wilderness by the Spirit to be tempted…again, my dictionary says of the word tempted: "tried, tested"…and how does he fare.  Well, we know that he reasons...calmly and rationally...with the tempter.  We know that he is neither flustered or irrational.  We know that this young well-read Hebrew student, invokes Scripture…spiritual law…authoritatively.  We know that eventually he, with calm poise and certain strength, dismisses the tempter's demand, and his right to a "voice".

He is thirty years old, he is a former carpenter in a new career…but he is ready. 

Being tested in the first few moments of taking office didn't undermine his unfaltering poise or wise execution of new duties.  Perhaps he had been inspired by the path of young David who defeated Goliath, or Solomon who was "but a child' and yet ruled fairly and faithfully.  Perhaps he had learned from his own dad, that a young carpenter can hear the voice of God and trust His hand in wisely guiding his path in all things.   Each of his Old Testament servant-leader role models had governed tribes, nations, and families with humility, grace, moral courage, and an unflinching trust in God's ability to govern their own hearts and the hearts of their constituents:

"I can of mine own self do nothing, but what I seeth the Father do"

Rather than seeing the temptations….the trying of his appointment, the testing of his ability…as a challenge, an imposition, an indication of his inexperience…perhaps we could see it as an opportunity to prove how valuable humility, innocence, and poise are in choosing servant-leaders of any age…and in every age. I believe that whoever becomes our president, will be guided by a divine hand and if tested, will not be found wanting.

Just a thought,  
Kate

photo credit:  Karlin Krishnaswami

"Thank you for hearing me..."

Downtown Hays, Kansas

"Thank you for hearing me
Thank you for hearing me
Thank you for hearling me
Thank you for hearing me…"
-     Sinead O'Connor

And thank you for hearing the difference.

On Monday afternoon I backed out of the driveway and waved a bittersweet "see you Sunday…" to my dear husband and our silly puppy….the girls were already at school. I was heading west…heading home.  As each Midwest mile slipped away behind me and the Rockies beckoned...invisibly at first from in front of me...tight bands of aching loosened from around my heart and each breath came more freely and fully.

I wasn't surprised.  Sometimes just getting on the road to somewhere I am only known--and defined by my moment by moment behavior of genuine humanity, authentic compassion, and those blessedly random opportunities to act with kindness--is the most refreshing and renewing time for me.

After enjoying a lovely dinner with a dear friend in Kansas City, I got back on the road looking forward to the next day's sidetrips into small towns like Hays, Abilene, Colby and Stratton.  There is something so reaffirming about getting off the highway in a little Midwest farming community and wandering into their downtown.  A coffeehouse or bakery on a near empty Main Street beckons and I am completely at home.  As I walk through the front door I know that I will only be judged on how considerate I am of others, how patient I am with the person behind the counter. My character will be determined by my behavior.  I will not be known for past successes or failures, but by how I behave and interact with those I come in contact with each moment....moment by moment.

As I was pondering whether to stop in a rest area to check emails (did you know that the rest areas along Route 70 in Kansas have free wifi ?!?!?) my cell phone rang.  I picked it up and answered with my usual, "This is Kate.." greeting and it was a friend from St. Louis, just calling to let me know she was thinking about me on my drive.  Then she asked the most unusual question, "Is this really you, your voice sounds so different?  You sound so clear and strong and peaceful and happy."

Hmmm…what did my voice usually sound like?  Well, I knew the answer to that question.  It often sounded, even to me, strained, concerned… uncertain, not of God…but of myself.  I realized that lately I have often looked at my self through the lens of how others might be seeing me.  I worry about whether I am judged, kindly or harshly, by my past choices, mistakes, successes or failures.  This observation by my friend gave me a lot to ponder.  I spent most of the night, as I wended my way across eastern Kansas (stopping often to check emails or nap), wondering if my voice sounded different because I was away from St. Louis. Or was it perhaps that I was already anticipating being completely free of past impressions or future expectations…living only in the moment of being good, kind, generous, patient with anyone I would meet on my travels.

When I stopped in Hays the next morning for breakfast at Café Semolina I was conscious of how much I loved just striking up a conversation with the young woman behind the counter.  She was graceful, kind to the older gentleman in line before me, and happy to serve me my tea and scone.  I learned that she had moved to Hays from Maine earlier that year to be near her parents who had relocated to Kansas for her dad's work.  She liked the weather, but missed the ocean.  We talked for a bit about things we both loved and then I found a place on the sofa by the fireplace to work.  I could hear my voice…resonant, strong, confident…echoing through my heart. 

My friend had pointed out the difference in the way my voice sounded on the phone the night before, the way someone with perfect pitch can sense when an instrument is out of tune.  By letting me know what the true tone sounded like and when she heard it, I could then identify what it felt like and where it came from and practice living out from that space. 

God's name is "I AM."  I will never find the voice of God…in myself or in others…if I am speaking or listening for messages based in "I was" or "I will be"..."What if" or "What might"...

Keeping my instrument in tune with the perfect pitch of God as I AM is now vital to me.  I want my voice to echo His…only.

My friend later shared this in an email:

"On the way to church tonight I was thinking about acoustics and comparing one's inner voice to a musical instrument. The tone quality inherent in an instrument never changes, but it sounds very different depending upon the acoustics of the room in which it is played.  In a "dead" room, a Stradivarius violin may still be lovely but in a limited way, but play it in a concert hall and WOW!  I was looking at it all wrong--your voice doesn't change in St. Louis, but as you said, you hear it differently away from here.  The other night, I heard your voice in a concert hall!"

For me, this was what I needed to hear.  The dead room was my concept of myself based on a "dead" past…or a not yet "born" future.  The "concert hall" was not a place…a road in Kansas, a camp in Colorado or a cottage by the ocean off the coast of Maine. 

The "concert hall" I was playing my instrument in that night was a consciousness so grounded in the freedom of I AM that it wasn't looking backwards or forwards, but enjoying the moment of being…in the nowness of I AM…right now! Everytime I look back at myself, or someone else, through the lens of the past...or through a conditional lens of the future...as in: "when you do this, then I will love you, be kind to you, accept you"...I am sitting in a dead room with a divinely-created Stradivarious, wasting the moment. But when I live and love in the present-tense-ness of the I AM, the only reality that God knows...I am in the Carnegie Hall of being. I have the opportunity to be living as if I've just wandered on to Main Street, Hays, Kansas and any door I walk through will be magical with promise.

I'm ready to BE...to be heard, to be kind, to be me...not just have been, or be someday...and to let everyone else BE too. But it took a road trip, and the listening heart of a friend with perfect pitch to discover what my true voice sounded like and how to practice using an "in tune" instrument. My week was full of concert hall moments...and continues to be, right here in St. Louis. Now that I have found my voice, I intend to keep it in tune and only play it in the best acoustical settings...a consciousness filled with the I AM of God, Love. 

"...Take my voice, and let me sing
Always, only, for my King.
Take my lips, and let them be
Filled with messages from Thee...

…I am Thine, and I will be
Ever, only, all for Thee."
-     F.R. Havergal

With Love and gratitude for the perfect pitch of friendship….it always detects the true tone...
Kate

"I choose You...."

"…I choose You
All my attention, affection
And all my devotion's for You
If everybody's worshipping something…
I choose You

Before I chose You,
You first chose me
I worship You,
You alone are worthy

You alone deserve it-
all of my worship
Lord I choose You…"
-Point of Grace

Someone asked me today if I had made my choice of candidates for this historic presidential race.

I spent most of the day thinking about this question, as well as why I actually feel so at peace about where my heart is on the extraordinary privilege of electing our next president with my one vote.

For me, it boils down to the simple message found in the above lyrics.  I chose Him/Her.  I choose to commit my life and my choices, my thoughts and decisions to my highest sense of what most honors my devotion to God.

When weighing my options during this election season, I've found guidance and direction in this simple, yet profound, passage of Jesus Christ's from Matthew:

"...Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand,
Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom
prepared for you from the foundation of the world:
For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat:
I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink:
I was a stranger, and ye took me in:
Naked, and ye clothed me:
I was sick, and ye visited me:
I was in prison, and ye came unto me.

Then shall the righteous answer him, saying,
Lord, when saw we thee an hungered, and fed thee?
or thirsty, and gave thee drink?
When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in?
or naked, and clothed thee?
Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?
And the King shall answer and say unto them,
Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto
one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

This is my model for true servant-leadership.  My candidate will be the man or woman who first chooses to serve the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick, the imprisoned…the widow and the fatherless, before he, or she, asks me to choose him…or her. 

Each of us will stand in the voting booth with our God and our one vote…I can't wait.

With Love,
Kate

"Abide with me...."

"Abide with me
Fast breaks the morning light
Our daystar rises
Banishing all night
Thou art our strength
O Truth that maketh free
We would unfailingly abide in Thee…"
-     W. H. Monk

Today I am thinking a lot about what it means to really abide in God, to "abide in the doctrine of Christ"….not just visit.

This timeless hymn's last verse, and I always seem to hear it in Mindy Jostyn's beautiful voice,  began to give me a glimpse…

"…I know Thy presence
every passing hour,
I know Thy peace,
for Thou alone art power;
O Love divine,
abiding constantly,
I need not plead,
Thou dost abide with me."

This hymn has long been a companion in times when I have felt like I was standing on the precipice of change…looking down into the chasm of "what if", wondering when the fall will come, if it will hurt, and then backing away as if God needed my consent to move me forward.

In those moments it is as if I forget that I am not waiting for Him to put His hand in mine so that with Him I could handle…or maybe even survive…the fall, but that He is the very chasm I am backing away from.  He is All-in-all.  There is no place, circumstance or situation I can find myself in that He is separate from.  It is my perception of the chasm as darkness and emptiness that I need to replace with the understanding of His omni-presence.  Where could I fall, but, as my grandmother used to say, "into the wideness of His lap."

One winter I faced a life-threatening health crisis.  One that left me feeling as if I was no longer on the precipice of a chasm, but already within one of those spiraling slides at the playground…only this one was a dark tunnel of pain and fear.  I could not see a circle of light at the end…only more darkness.  I was spinning out of control.  I could not find a way to stop myself.  I was gripped by the fear that without health insurance, the medication I might need for pain management so that I could stay mentally free enough to pray for myself would devastate us financially, the terror of not being able to care for my daughters…the doubt that I could face another night without losing my spiritual poise...seemed to draw me deeper and deeper into the tunnel.

Late one night as I lay on my back under a blanket of crushing pain and fear, the words from this hymn started to pierce the palpable blackness with pinpicks of the light.  And it was enough. With only the glimmer of light from those tiny pinpricks I found my lost courage cowering in a corner.  I slipped out of bed, into an old cardigan and padded my way across the cold wood floors, through pools of golden lamplight and into my office. 

The panes of glass in the French doors were frosted and the harsh edges softened, the lamplight from the city streets cast a soft beam upon the painting above my desk.  It is a painting by artist Brooks Anderson of the Collegiate Peaks, a range of 14,000 foot mountains that cradle the Arkansas Valley.  It is my heart's home.  It is where camp is located, and readers of this blog know that this is where my thoughts rest when I am lost in prayer. 

That night, lying in the dark, I had wondered if I would ever see my "home" in the valley again…if I would ever sit on the porch of my cabin, "Crows Nest" and look out at the Sleeping Indian range and listen to the laughter of campers and counselors on the lawn of Valerie Lodge.   As I stood in the deep blue pre-dawn light filling my office I realized that a beam of streetlamp light had found the spot on the painting where camp sits…in the palm of those five fingers…five avalanche chutes that fill with snow each winter and are often still traced in white when summer begins. 

I thought of Mary Baker Eddy's statement:

"The astronomer will no longer look up to the stars, -
  he will look out from them upon the universe..."

For the next few weeks this speck of paint became my home…my abiding place with God…the focus of my mental space…I looked out from the perspective I have when I am at camp…the "God with us" that is so evident when I watch teens abandon selfishness and help eachother, listen to hearts hungering for "something more", and feel the glow of their inspired journeys.  I sat on my porch looking out from the space of that painting in my office night after night while the winds of winter shook the tall sycamore trees and scattered the lamplight around me.  I used that painting to re-focus my vantage point.  I was not alone in the dark, in pain and afraid…I was sitting on the porch of Crowsnest watching God work His wonders.  I could feel His presence in their smiles, hear His voice in their laughter, see His hand in their discoveries. 

While the world slept in the hibernating cold of a long winter's "night" I was awake and alive to His promises.  I was living in a dot of paint, the slip of a sable brushstroke, a flick of light on canvas...I was abiding in summer's lanscape of healing and discovery, the space of expectation...pregnant with healing...full of the evidence of His love.

I did go back to camp that summer.  I sat on my porch and it was wonderful, glorious, beautiful…but then,  I had already been there all winter…I knew it would be.

With Love,
Kate

"My sweet Lord..."

"My sweet Lord
Hmm, my Lord
Hmm, my Lord

Now, I really want to see you
Really want to be with you
Really want to see you Lord
But it takes so long, my Lord

My sweet Lord, Hallelujah
Hmm, my lord Hallelujah
My, my, my lord Hallelujah…"
-     George Harrison "My Sweet Lord"

This time it didn't take so long.  But I am getting ahead of myself. 

On Mondays and Thursdays I am at a college for office hours.  At this college, the 30 minutes from ten to ten-thirty is spent in quiet.  Students, staff, faculty…everyone stops for thirty minutes of silent inspiration…or at least I think that is the intent.

Last term I spent that half hour studying, taking calls, praying for myself…and others.  Yes, it was quiet, it was inspiring…but somehow it wasn't very different from the rest of my day as a spiritual healer.  It was a continuation…not the interruption…of my work day, and it was not "quiet" in the way I needed.  I knew the difference. 

But this term I had the opportunity to hear a friend talk about her relationship with "quiet time" and it felt all to0 familiar…and the insights, very exciting.  She shared in our Wednesday worship meeting that she, too, had struggled within herself about how to use this space of time.  At one point colleagues had invited her to join them in their outdoor quiet circle and that week she had decided to put her quiet "work" - reading, studying, preparing for the next class - aside and go sit in silent communion with her friends.  She said that it was such a rich and inspiring time for her. 

Something about her experience resonated with me.  I wanted that "something more" again.  I wanted to not be so busy in my prayer and quietness.  With her encouragement,  the next time I was at the college I shyly joined their silent circle in the sun.  And it was glorious.  Thirty minutes of true silence.  No prayer agenda items, treatments, ToDo lists, rehearsing of quotes or citations, wrestling with "angels",  or mental arguments….just silence, just listening...no mental speaking.   When a thought would come, I would gently usher it into stillness.  I had forgotten how much I really LOVED meditative silence.   At the end of that first day I was hooked.  I couldn't wait for my own self-imposed quiet times…thirty minutes, an hour, two….back to basics.  Back to the very foundation stones of my spiritual practice.  Not praying about, or for, anything or anyone….just listening.  No mantras, statements of affirmation…just silence.

And the more I sat with my silence the better I became at watching thoughts….some benign, and some not so good…wandering  in, trying to get a rise out of me, giving up, and leaving for lack of engagement.

So, that brings us to this morning.  It was a gorgeous fall day in Elsah.  The air was cool, the sun was bright…but not hot.  I made my way to the concrete circle in the middle of the lawn right as the Chapel bells rang at the top of the hour.  I sat on the brick pavers, wrapped my paisley pashmina around my shoulders to ward of any chill that might distract, leaned back against the high concrete curbing and closed my eyes. 

I let the sun and the silence penetrate deeply.  I opened my eyes briefly as three other women joined the circle but quickly returned to the stillness of a space that was full in its emptiness.

As I sat there listening, I heard a man at right at my left ear say, "Excuse me…" in the warmest, kindest, richest voice.  It was so close that I almost felt His breath move the stray hairs near my ear. From somewhere deep inside I immediately responded with "Speak Lord, for Thy servant heareth…"  But there was nothing more.  I wondered for the briefest moment if perhaps I was mistaken and someone had actually come by the office, seen me outside in the circle, and come over to gently ask for help.  I opened my eyes briefly, but there were only the three other women in the circle…no men. 

It was then that I truly knew that it was God's voice I had heard.  You see, God's voice to me has always been a woman's voice.  But today, had I heard a woman's voice I might have assumed it was one of the other women in the circle speaking.  This voice was so clearly not a woman's and so obviously His….and I was so grateful.

It was only then that I pondered what God had actually said.  "Excuse me…" in the loveliest way.  Gently inserting His voice...and presence...into my reverie.  It was like my small daughter's gentle tug at the hem of my jacket after church as I stood in the lobby talking to friends, or my mother's loving "excuse me" at my bedroom door when as a child I would have stayed up too late reading and she wanted me to know that she was still up and I might want to turn out the light and get some rest…

It was a gentle reminder of His presence…and it was wonderful…
Kate

"In mercy, in goodness...."

"In mercy, in goodness, how great is our King;
Our tribute, thanksgiving, with glad hearts we bring.
Thou art the Renewer, the Ancient of Days,
Who givest, for mourning, the garment of praise..."
-     William P. MacKenzie

I think I must have been a pollster in a former life.  And before you "mute" this post because it talks about reincarnation, or get your knickers in a twist, I do not believe in past lives…I do believe in eternal life.   I believe in the seamlessness of being which death neither interrupts nor sidetracks.  That said, I will go back to my original statement…I think I must have been a pollster….

It's not that I love polls.   I love polling.  I love asking a broad spectrum of people the same question and watching patterns emerge.  Sometimes these patterns support a thesis, sometimes they are arrestingly contrary to what I assumed, and often they indicate what works…and doesn't work…in our relationships with one another, our schools, our places of commerce, our businesses, and in our communities of faith.

Over the years, especially since launching my website and this blog, I have had the privilege of talking with many people who have left their faith traditions to explore other worship communities or to go solo in their journey towards a deeper relationship with the inner unseen…the spiritual.

One question, of the many that I pepper my new friends with is, "While you were 'away' from your former faith tradition, what did you miss the most?"  There have been many answers, but the one that surfaces over and over again is:

The hymns, songs, chants…choir…the music about God.   Responses overwhelmingly support the important role that music plays in the spiritual lives of children…men and women.

I get this. 

Readers of this blog know that I left my own childhood faith at 19 after the sudden passing of my father.  At first I thought it was because I was angry with God…"how could You, a loving Parent Yourself, so thoroughly let down a good and kind woman like my mom…a woman who now has to raise eight children with only a teenager (me) to help her?", I fired off in an angry prayer.  But I quickly acknowledged that I was praying, so I still had some faith, and hadn't completely given up on God.  So secondly,  I thought I must be angry, hurt and frightened by the way my parents' church had retreated from our family following dad's passing.  But even that yielded with the realization that the church members really didn't know how to behave when facing a widow with eight young children in their midst…there was really no model in their culture for responding and that if they had known how to do it better, I was absolutely certain that they would have.  

Hmmm…that left me with only one option in considering the cause for my rather tangential journey -one that took me away from my childhood faith tradition - and it was, and could only be, God...since He is the only, omnipotent Cause and Creator.  He had created me to be a thinker who asks a lot of questions.  Someone who loves research and reason, therefore I deduced, my path needed to include a broader exploration of spiritual ideas in order to harvest out what worked for me. 

So, for over a decade I explored many different churches, religions, belief systems and faiths.  I learned so much about humanity and how much we have in common.  I also learned that each path towards a greater understanding of God is perfect for the person who is led to choose that path, at that moment.  The destination, and how we treat eachother along the way, is all that matters. 

And even though my path always felt like hunger and longing, it was rich and full of new landscapes to explore and new cultures to assimilate.  I loved all that I discovered as a Buddhist, a protestant, a Rastafarian…but for me, there was a song that kept calling me home…calling me back to the familiar and well-tested, the proven and foundational in my life.  Quite literally.  It was a song…a hymn that continually poked at my heart when I prayed, or walked past a Christian Science Reading Room, or sought comfort in a moment of fear. 

While I was in high school Larry Groce released an album (yes, Virginia there really were vinyl albums with square cardboard covers once…those aren't just props in a Pottery Barn catalog) titled, Peace, and Joy, and Power, and on it was the song, "In mercy, in goodness". It was a radical departure from the "church music" I was used to.  It was all folk.  Guitar, flute…rich vocals, gentle messages.  And I loved it.  I couldn't get enough of it.  Playing it on our old portable record player with the maroon fake leather finish made me feel closer to my God, the one who made sense to me, more than anything else in my church…or my life. 

When I left my daily practice of Christian Science I somehow thought I couldn't listen to it anymore.  This worked for a while.  I was okay with the gospel choir at the Baptist church I attended with my friend Benita.  I like meditating with a recording of Tibetan monks at the "reformed" temple I visited in LA.  I played tapes by contemporary Christian artists, swayed with "born agains," and moved rhythmically to a Rastafarian beat with my Jamaican friends as we prayed together, but when I was alone it was "In mercy, in goodness, how great is our King…" that played through my heart and made me weep with longing for something I couldn't put my finger on.

And to make matters worse, whenever I moved…which was a lot…I always ended up living near a Christian Science Reading Room.  On the way to the market or to the dance studio I would pass plate glass windows filled with books and imagine that somewhere in the back of a quiet room was a cassette player with a copy of "Peace, and Joy, and Power" just waiting to be played.  And I wanted to listen so badly.  I wanted to walk boldly through the door and right past the woman at the desk and find that tape player and sit in a big comfy chair and just drink it all in.  But I couldn't.

I would certainly think about it.  I would imagine myself opening the door with the little bell attached to the inside.  I would say hello to the Librarian and….well, that was where I would stop.  You see, I was a school teacher and principal during the day…a respectable profession, but a few evenings a week and on weekends, I was a freelance sommelier…a wine expert.  My expertise was in the French reds and the exciting, new world of Californian wines...just beginning to blossoming in the 1970s.  I consulted with high-end restaurants (that couldn't justify a full-time sommelier) on a per diem basis and wine had become my culture, beautiful wineries and crystal stemware defined my world, my perfectly-tuned palate was "a gift". And I was afraid…afraid that if I walked into a Reading Room I could never be sure that the person behind the desk wouldn't be able to detect wine on my breath and then what…what if they knew my family.  What if I brought shame on my mother, a wonderful woman who was still very active in her church community.   So, I would walk on.

This went on month after month, year after year…in one neighborhood, city, state after another. 

It's a long story…most some of it's chapters are buried in the archives of this blog in stories that have already been told.  This post isn't about those stories of how I finally found my way back into my childhood faith community, it is about the power of a spiritual song, a hymn, a musical prayer…to penetrate our fears of rejection or disappointment, reach deeply past hurt, and tenderly touch the heart of one who longs to feel fellowship in grace.

The first thing I asked for, when I did find my way back, was…"can we sing 'In mercy, in good, how great is our King'…"  Really.  My family looked perplexed, but no one hesitated.  And I will never forget how good it felt to sing it with my family and a few friends that first day.  The joy and warmth I felt as the words poured out of our hearts, over and around me and those I loved…wrapping us in a Comforter of fellowship…was priceless. 

Is there a hymn, a song of praise…a spiritual lullaby you've missed singing lately…

…then sing it!  Don't let anything stop you.

Mary Baker Eddy tells us, in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures that:

"Whatever inspires with wisdom, Truth, or Love —
be it song, sermon, or Science — blesses the human
family with crumbs of comfort from Christ's table,
feeding the hungry and giving living waters to the thirsty."

The song you are singing, may just be what someone else is longing to hear.

And if you happen to be one of those generously wonderful and dear person(s)-behind-the-desk at a Reading Room in the heartland…or in a big city…don't hesitate to get up, go around to the other side of the desk, open the door and talk to the person who doesn't seem to have the courage to come in.  It might just be all the encouragement they need.  And who knows…you may just have someone new to sing hymns of praise with!

With Love,
Kate

"September grass is the sweetest kind..."

"Well, the sun's not so hot
in the sky today
And you know,
I can see summertime slipping on
Slippin' away
A few more geese are gone,
a few more leaves turning red
But the grass is as soft
as a feather in a featherbed…"

- James Taylor "September Grass"

Today was one of those September Grass days.  The sun wasn't so hot, the air was cool, and the sky was as blue as a robin's egg. 

I was thinking about this all day in light of a comment Suzette shared in our worship circle last night.  Suzette is from Maine.  Ahh… Well not so quick, she and her children have recently relocated to St. Louis.  She explained that some folks have questioned why she would have left a wonderful home in a beautiful coastal village for a Midwestern city. 

Suzette went on to share that she and her family had felt divinely guided along each step of this relocation, and how they had experienced prayer-based consensus regarding their motives…and the logistics…of their move.

Then she told a story about a friend who, when living in a prairie state, learned to look at the wide blue western sky as his "ocean"….and how on a drive through suburban St. Louis that afternoon she had realized that her new city was just as "beautiful" as her previous location.

I loved this story.  I have often lost this chord of deep satisfaction with the current geographical details of where we live…usually after a trip home to Colorado…and bemoaned the fact that I am "here" and not "there".   So, this afternoon I decided to go in search of my own beautiful St. Louis.  Jeff's schedule included helping coach the girls' soccer team and I chose to tag along. 

Once there, I grabbed my CrazyCreek ground chair, my car quilt and my books and headed to a sun-drenched patch of grass under the wide canopy of a huge oak tree.  I scooched myself into a V-shaped space between the knees of two large roots and leaned my head against the warm bark of her trunk. 

The air was cool enough that I needed to tuck my quilt around my knees and wrap my large scarf around my shoulders but it was glorious.  Dappled sunlight fell through the leaves and onto the pages of my book.  Its warmth sank deeper and deeper through the layers of scarf and quilt until I felt it to the core of my bones.  I closed my eyes and let the golden late-afternoon light bathe my face in a flush of sunset pink.

The sounds of coaches, my husband, daughters, and their friends softly reminded me of all that I am blessed with.  The grass between my fingers was so soft to the touch, that I couldn't  help but recall Mary Baker Eddy's statement:

"Love, redolent with unselfishness, bathes all in beauty and light.
The grass beneath our feet silently exclaims, "The meek shall
inherit the earth." The modest arbutus sends her sweet breath
to heaven. The great rock givesshadow and shelter. The sunlight
glints from the church-dome, glances into the prison-cell, glides
into the sick-chamber, brightens the flower, beautifies the
landscape, blesses the earth."

I felt like I was in the holiest of sanctuaries.  Right here in the middle of St. Louis.  Trees, grass, sky, air, roots, shadow, shelter…the sounds of my family and friends…those things are right here.  Right where God has sent me to be…today. 

I am loving St. Louis, and I am loving autumn.  Something in me begins to quiet when I can feel the sun on my face through cooler, crisper air.  There is a gentling to my inner wrestling…the voice is more kind,  more full of mercy and encouragement.   It is almost as if this inner voice knows that we are heading towards Thanksgiving and a time of harvest…the time for gathering the substance of a tare-scattered growing season.  It is almost as if there is foreknowledge that we are, indeed, swelling towards a season of Christ-birthing in our lives.  Whatever it is, I am grateful to have discovered it right here in the Midwest this year.

"Delicious autumn!
My very soul is wedded to it,
And if I were a bird
I would fly about the earth
Seeking the successive autumns."
- George Eliot

Kate

Photo credit: Dwight Oyer 2003