"I am new..."

"Now I won't deny
The worst you could say about me
But I'm not defined
by the mistakes that I've made
because God says of me..
I am new..."

It's such a gift when someone sends me a song.  Maria passed "I Am New," by Jason Grey, along recently, and as soon as I heard it,  I just knew there would be a perfect story moment for it to compliment.   And like a baseball field in Iowa (for those of you who haven't seen Field of Dreams...sorry), if you sing the song in your heart, one day the experience to go with it will come.   And it did.

So here goes.

I was walking through the grocery store the other day and I woman I didn't really recognize, but one who obviously felt that she recognized and knew me...very well...came up and started giving me the "what for" about something I'd done that she was very upset about.

It started out quite nicely actually.  "Hi, oh my gosh, it's been so long.  How are you?"  I couldn't quite remember her name...or her face, for that matter...but she seemed so genuine in her friendliness that I responded that it was nice to see her too.  Hoping that continuing the conversation would jog my memory...which is usually quite good.

But, within a few moments she was taking me to task.  And as stood there listening to her very politely-delivered rebuke, reeling a bit as I searched for a loving way to respond, I started to actually take on her feelings about me.  

Well, yes, I certainly have made mistakes.  Perhaps my choices have had an impact on her sense of community well-being.  Maybe I haven't fully cared for her feelings about the matter.   How could I have been so thoughtless... Darkness, guilt, regret start to wrap their fingers around my joy...

Then she said, "And for that matter Caroline..." 

Oh my gosh!  I was not Caroline.

As soon as I knew that I was not Caroline, all the bad feelings that had started to sprout little tendrils and curl around my peace, strangling my feelings of wholeness and innocence...just withered...curled up and disappeared from my heart and my mind.

I looked at her and smiled.  "I think you have the wrong person, I am not Caroline," I told her.  Then I put my hand in hers and said..."and neither is she."  And then I gave her a hug and continued down towards the produce section.

Perhaps it's time we let our friends, colleagues, family members, neighbors...heck, ourselves...not be who we thought we/they were.  What would our relationships be like if we let one another be defined by who we are to God...the great I AM, not who we were in the past...the sad, regrettable, long-since-gone I was, she was, they were, you were....

I love Jason Grey's reminder that we all have the right to "be new"...to be defined by that fresh, innocent perspective on the "I AM" of our being that is always one with God.

Paul wrote to the Corinthians:

"Therefore if any man be in Christ,
he is a new creature:
old things are passed away;
behold, all things are become new."

I'm taking him at his word...the Word of God...impartially, universally, lovingly extended to each of us as a promise...our own emancipation proclamation. 

Just a little story from the pasta and cereal aisle of the grocery store.

as ever...with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Maybe I was made this way...."

"Maybe I was made this way
To think and to reason,
and to question, and to pray
And I have never prayed a lot
But maybe there's a loving God..."
- Sara Groves

Is it possible that we are, who we are, for a divine reason?  That what might concern a teacher, a counselor, a family member, or a coach...an odd behavior, a strange interest, or a puzzling disinterest...is really, the very thing makes us special?

Growing up, I was like a bookworm on speed.  I lived for books.  I loved them so much that I spent every lunch period, I could, in the school library.  Books were my friends, my home-away-from-home, my other family...books were where I lived.  I had no desire to play.  When pushed out the front door for a game of kickball, I would hide a book under my sweater and disappear into a tree or behind a bush to read, until called in for dinner. 

The school librarian was always my best friend.  I cried when the middle of May approached, and I knew that summer break was bearing down on us.  I never liked holidays or breaks.  I loved school, because school meant unlimited access to books. 

And that wasn't my only oddity.  I liked to be alone.  I liked to be in the dark.  I wanted to be a nun from the first note of "Allelujah-ah-ah..." that poured out from the convent walls in "The Sound of Music," and I ached for the silence of Audrey Hepburn's cell in "A Nun's Story."  It didn't hurt that they never had to wonder what they were going to wear each day.  And that they never had to put their hair up in rollers!

I loved the night time...hearing the house breathe was one of my favorite sounds, and could most easily fall asleep if the vacumn cleaner was running...and I wasn't the one running it.  But I also loved cleaning, doing laundry, and ironing.  I was a neat freak who thrived on simplicity, beauty and sparkly lights.

I would do my chores extra fast on Saturday mornings, so that I could watch Shirley Temple movies with the express purpose of having a good cry...it felt cleansing, and healing, after a long week of facing the social horrors of being the littlest girl in my grade.

I loved writing words and watching the ink, or pencil lead, flow onto paper like beautiful music. I loved poetry and soup, blue flowers, and butter yellow cottages.  Horses, music, art of any kind, ballet...and don't get me started on quote-gathering. The sound of the sea and the weight of old quilts...any time of year.

I adored my family and still do...all of them...the ones I grew up with, the ones I have participated in nurturing and watching unfold and grow, and the ones that continue to form and evolve through friendship, camp, school, church, community, and service.  And I am devoted to my children....all of them...without measure, or hierarchy.

As a pre-teen I practiced being blind and deaf for whole days...just in case...and I was almost excited by the possibility of endless hours of darkness and quiet. And I was at my happiest reading in our bottom bunkbed with a box of red hots at my elbow, and my sister's blanket hanging over the edge to block out noise, and light, and people. 

And although I didn't sing outloud for many years (someday I'll write more about why) I could memorize the words to every song on the radio, the first time I'd heard them.  And I loved, loved, loved just lying in the quiet  -  anywhere  - enjoying the company of my own thoughts...hanging out with God...my version of prayer.  Did I say I loved being alone in the dark?  I still do.

That's me.

These are the "affections of the heart" that have been changeless for me.  These are the things that have told me who, and what, I honestly am.  Or as Mary Baker Eddy says,

"We should examine ourselves
and learn what is the affection and purpose of the heart,
for in this way only can we learn what we honestly are."

When I heard Sara Groves' song "Maybe there's a loving God," it made me cry.  I so wish I had believed as a child, teen, and young woman, that who I was, was perfectly perfect.  That I was, as Mary Poppins said,  "practically perfect in every way!!"  I wish I had really known that I was already a perfect me, especially since all along, I was only trying to discover what it meant to be me.   I wish this for every child on earth. 

It has taken me many, many years to give myself permission to love this me.  To cherish and honor her.  To smile at her in the mirror each morning, and shake my head with baffled affection, and amazement at how remarkably wonderful she is...just the way she is. 

It has taken me too long to realize that I don't need to be a "sporty girl" or someone who loves a good party...unless it includes great heart-felt conversations and time in the kitchen with the host, or the dishes.  I don't have to be less "high maintenance" when I order my meal at a restaurant...and yet, I can always "have whatever she's having." And I never need to laugh with less abandon...never, ever!!   I don't have to be anything but who He has made me to be, and has given me an affection for being.  I am that "I am," that God has moved me to be.  From the infinite well of His abundant good, He has drawn me...with loving kindness...like a precious and rare cup of cold, refreshing water.

I am beginning to trust that if I am supposed to evolve in new ways, God will move my heart in those directions.  Not out of dissatisfaction for who I am, but with a new joy, a fresh interest, an awakening affection for an, as yet, undiscovered facet of who I am. I already know this is true, because at some point He added, "beating my husband and son...soundly...at Scrabble" to my list of affections. So, here I stand, with arms wide open waiting to embrace whatever comes next.

Till then...I am going to trust that He is a loving God who has made me exactly as He wishes me to be.  I will trust that I am, as I am, for a holy purpose...and so are you.

with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"...in your name I find meaning..."

"...I'm hanging on another day
Just to see what you will throw my way
And I'm hanging on to the words you say
You said that I would...would be ok

I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart that's still beating
In the pain there's the healing
In your name I find meaning
So I'm holdin' on
I'm still holdin' on,
I'm holdin' on
I'm barely holdin' on to you..."
-     Lifehouse

The other day I felt like I was "falling apart," in much the same way that Lifehouse articulates in this lovely, plaintive song of hope, and longing, titled "Broken."  But it was also just the reminder I needed.   When I heard it, I was feeling particularly lonely in the aloneness of a moment, and it immediately brought me peace. 

I love that line, "in your name I find meaning."  And the "you" in whose name alone I "find meaning" is the great "I AM" whose presence feels as intimate to me as my own hopes and dreams, sorrows and joys...the very private thoughts I cherish in the dark silence of the night. 

When I was still a very young woman, but thought I was all grown up and more than ready to fly solo, my mother and siblings...with whom I had been living since my dad's passing...moved to another state.  In some ways one might think I would have been happy and relieved.  I'd worked two or more jobs for a few years in order to help pay for our rent, utilities, food and family expenses, and this might mean a bit of a break from those demands.  But that wasn't how I was feeling.

Yes, I was excited to be out on my own.  I'd found a Manhattan couple who'd purchased a gentleman's farm in our rural community and talked them into letting me renovate the loft of their beautiful barn into a loft apartment in exchange for rent.  And I was thrilled by the opportunity to creatively redefine the space, by their trust in my twenty-one year old chutzpah, and for my first real privacy...I'd always lived in other people's spaces and had always dreamed about my own apartment.  But there was also a sadness about living away from my mother, sisters, and brothers.

I moved my few belongings into a small storage space in the barn that was heated, had been insulated for winter, and had a tiny bathroom in the corner.  I'd cook on a hot plate and use a tiny little dorm-size refrigerator until I'd finished the renovation.  I had a twin bed pushed under the barnwood eaves and a little table with two chairs. I'd brought three small paintings I done in high school, ones that the school had had framed for an exhibit at the local library.  I used my simple cedar hope chest for storing my clothes and I'd hung my three dresses (and two waitress uniforms I needed for my second job) on a nail at the end of the room.  An antique embroidered linen pillowslip folded over a wooden dowel served as a curtain on the one small window framed by rough barnwood.  I loved way the sunrise looked through the ripply green-tinted glass each morning and vowed to make that window a centerpiece in the renovation. 

That first night after I washed my mug and bowl out in the bathroom sink, dried them with the worn blue and white checked dishtowel I'd begged my mom to let me keep with me, I brushed my teeth and climbed between the soft white sheets and under the colorful quilts that represented the entirety of my dowry.  I'd always loved vintage linens and had gathered bits and pieces over the years from my grandmother, a generous neighbor who'd shared her treasures, and a dusty antique shop in the village we'd lived in while I was in high school.

I turned off the small lamp that sat on an upturned fruit crate that served as my first bookcase and lay in the dark.  I'd grown up in a family of eight children.  I'd shared a bedroom with as many as four of my sisters, depending on the size and number of bedrooms a house had, all my life.  We'd always lived in small houses.  Houses in which our rooms were so cozy, and close to one another, that I could hear my brothers whispering in their room while I read in my bottom bunk across the hall.  I'd never, ever, heard or experienced the kind of visceral silence I was greeted by that night once I'd turned the lamp off.  It was as if someone had sucked every bit of sound out of the room.  I was aware of my heartbeat, my own thoughts, the sound of my nightgown rustling against the soft cotton of my sheets.  I was aware of the unique rhythm of my own breathing, in and out, in and out, in and out. 

This was so new to me.  New, and lonely.  Soon I was aware of more than just my breathing, and my heartbeat.  I was aware of the sound of my own crying. I was alone in the dark, I was falling apart, and I was hyper-aware of everything around me.  And more importantly, everything within me.  I discovered that if you listen closely you really can hear the sound of tears dropping from your eyelashes, rolling along your cheek and falling to the pillowcase under your face. I discovered just how much I really did miss my family.  I missed all the sounds I'd complained about throughout high school when I'd thought all I wanted was "a room of my own."  I missed my sister purring in her sleep, my mother's tapping of her fingers on the kitchen table as she enjoyed a late night cup of tea in the quiet of her own house long after midnight.  I missed the mewing of babies and the turning of more than a half dozen children in their beds while I read.

I missed them. And I was aware of missing them.  It was quiet enough that nothing distracted me from the sound of the love that was happening in my heart.  

This missing them in the silence of the dark was my first awareness of the deep intimacy we each have with our God.  In my aloneness, I discovered that I was really not alone.  There were new thoughts coming to me every moment.  I was feeling the seeping in of a new awareness of my love for my mother, appreciation for my sisters, I could feel the presence of my dreams for the future, and my hunger for meaningful love and purposeful work.  I could actually feel my desire for my sister Nancy's bony spine against mine as we slept back-to-back in the double bed we'd shared at times during childhood.

This awareness of "me", my hopes, my desires, my thoughts, my sadness and longing, was rich with being, was full of the "I AM" of conscious being...God. For me, this is what Mary Baker Eddy is talking about when in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures she refers to:

"...the conscious infinitude of existence and of all identity..."

I learned to love the silence of that small bed under the eaves, because it introduced me to myself...the self that had an inner life.  The self that was no longer being drowned out by all the hustle and bustle of being one of many voices, movements, breathing in a big family.  The self that was conscious of the infinitude of her identity and was discovering that right there, within her own conscious being, lay all the important answers she'd been looking for. 

My silent life in a drafty barn didn't last long...but I have never forgotten it in the ensuing years, as the quiet spaces started filling in with husband, children, phone calls, patients, guests, dogs, washing machines, dishwashers, computers and babies. 

And to this day, when I am feeling most alone in the world, it is not people I seek to surround myself with...even the people I love the most...it is the silence of a darkened room.  My favorite time of day, the time of day - the space - that fills me, and satisfies me most...so that I have something real to give others...are those moments just after waking, when I have not heard a sound, moved even a single finger or probed a toe seeking to feel the sheets or rustle the bedclothes. Those are the moments before I have opened my eyes to see the light of day playing on the pear colored walls of our bedroom. And it is in this timeless time that I am aware, in that profound silence, of the "great I AM" that is me, my conscious being. 

In these moments of great intimacy with my God, I am most keenly atune to the "pain" of missing loved ones...a profound love that heals.  I am most appreciative of the joys of having thoughts that are beautiful and rich with purpose...even if just to me.   I am most conscious of knowing that I am never alone...but always filled with Him...with Her...with the I AM that is the only real oneness that matters...the only I or US that all other relationships spring from.

In the silence of a my first waking thoughts, I find God...the kingdom of heaven within. And this same infinite nearness of the divine is there for each of us...all the time.

with Love, 
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS