"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